from the south and we made very slow progress on the port tack.
By the evening we were becalmed and the mainsail was flapping about as we rolled. We handed all sail. About midnight there was a slight breeze again and I hoisted the main. As I did so, the boom dropped out of the gooseneck, and I found that the bronze fitting on the boom had fractured. The gooseneck was frozen with rust and the bronze fitting had been bending, but, as we were close-hauled, we had not noticed it. Now it had broken and, as we were still within easy reach of a port, it was just as well to have it repaired. We should have checked and oiled the goosenecks before leaving. We turned in for the rest of the night, and early next morning set off for Westernport, a few miles down the coast and up a long arm of the sea.
The wind strengthened and we ran up the long channel against the tide, followed by the two yachts that we had seen leave the Heads before us. We tied up to a wharf at a small harbour called Cowes, leaving an anchor out to hold us off the wharf if the wind shifted. This caused great distress to the captain of a steam ferry which brought holiday-makers over to Cowes. Although he hadn’t asked me to move it, he came up to me complaining angrily, as if I had already refused. I was only too anxious to move it when I found that there was a chance of the ferry fouling the line. We walked up through the village, a steep little hill, and there was a cold fresh wind blowing, which made the cotton frocks and the shirtsleeves of the Christmas visitors look out of season. At the top we found a garage and were able to get the boom fitting repaired, but it was late when we got back to the ship and, as the wind was blowing strongly down the narrow channel, we decided to leave on the tide next morning.
We had just started dinner, when there was a loud crash against the bow, and something started to scrape down the side of the ship.
‘Heavens, what on earth’s that?’ said Beryl.
‘Sounds as if we’ve got a visitor.’
We all scrambled up on deck as quickly as possible, including Pwe, who hates being left absolutely alone below. One of the yachts which had been tied up ahead of us had broken its stern-line and had swung round, putting its bowsprit through the pilings of the wharf, and breaking it off. We fended her off Tzu Hang, and while I jumped on board to look for another line, John climbed up on the wharf to get her bowline. He towed her back to her position, and we made her fast again with the best of a bad lot of line that I found in the cockpit. The wind was really blowing up and it looked as if we might have to move away from the wharf.
We settled down to dinner again, but it was a dreary Christmas Eve without Clio. Last Christmas there had been an inappropriate tree in the boat and decorations and presents and all the litter of Christmas. And now, not only were we missing the person who had made it all necessary, but we ought to have been at sea and not stuck in Westernport. John had an innate understanding of people’s feelings and the good sense not to intrude upon them. He was neither unnaturally hearty nor over-sympathetic. In fact he was just himself. When Beryl offered him some brandy butter to go with his plum pudding, he said rather gloomily, ‘Brandy butter, made with margarine and rum.’ We all began to feel better.
Before the plum pudding was finished, there was another bump against the bow, and we found that the same yacht had joined us again. The owners arrived while we were disentangling her. They hoisted the mainsail and sailed her round into the sheltered water behind the angle of the pier, where they anchored. An hour later Tzu Hang began to bump against the pilings. It was raining and as black as a night can be. The lights shone on a wet deserted wharf, and the sounds of a dance band came across from the hotel.
We untangled ourselves from the network of lines and hawsers, and pushed off into the night, groping for a nine-fathom patch, with Beryl trying to take the bearings of the wharf lights on the compass and John swinging the lead-line. We could not go where the other yacht had gone as there was insufficient water, and in the end we dropped the anchor in twelve fathoms, with forty fathoms of chain, and hoped that we’d be able to get it up again in the morning.
All Christmas Day the wind blew strongly down the channel, and we stayed at anchor, very busy making everything still more secure for the journey ahead, and it was not until Boxing Day morning that we set about getting the anchor in again, in time to sail with the tide. For some time we couldn’t break it out, but at last it came away, covered with thick blue clay. We unshackled it and let the chain go into the chain locker, after marking the end, and we lashed the anchor down, and fixed a ventilator over the chain navel. We expected to be well battened down for much of the way, and hoped that the ventilator would give us sufficient fresh air in the forecabin.
Meanwhile we were motoring up the channel, and in spite of a very rough short sea, with the wind against the tide, we were making good progress. By midday we were passing the lighthouse at the entrance to the loch, and we could see little coloured specks of holiday visitors all along the cliff-top. We kept under power until we were far enough out to clear Seal Rocks on the port tack, on our course for the south.
‘I wonder how many rocks there are in the world called “Seal Rocks”?’ said John.
‘Let’s hope the next “Seal Rocks” will be called “Los Lobos”,’ said Beryl, ‘that’s what they call them in South America.’
We went up and down, up and down, crunch and splash, crunch and splash, but gradually we drew clear, and then we switched off the engine. We would test it from time to time, but we would use it next, or so we hoped, to enter Port Stanley in the Falkland Islands, 6,700 sea-miles away. Up went the staysail, and Tzu Hang began to sail. Next the main and then the storm-jib, and we lay over and hissed away to the south. We cleared Seal Rocks easily, and Tzu Hang felt like a horse held in at the beginning of a long race; she seemed to snatch at her bridle, the foam flecks flying; I felt her great reserve of strength and power; she flung the wave tops behind her like fences. ‘Let us go, let us go,’ she seemed to say. Who could doubt that she would bring us safely home?
Beryl was at the wheel. She was wearing a yellow oilskin jumper with a hood attached and yellow oilskin trousers, and they were wet and shining with spray and from a brief shower that had passed over us; a wisp of wet hair escaped from under the hood and clung to her cheek, which was flushed with the wind, and she was radiant with delight at being off on the long trip at last. From now on she would not worry or think very much about her daughter. For the time being all her energies and thoughts would be directed to the ship and the two of us. Now that we were off she could neither write to nor hear from England, nor could she bring any further influence to bear on Clio’s future, but she knew that she, more than anyone, could make this trip a success and she was going to do it.
John and I were both wearing green plastic oilskins and trousers of a strong material which we had found in New Zealand. They were called tractor suits and had stainless steel press buttons which never failed us. They had a short cape just to give a double thickness over the shoulders, but when on watch at night and in the higher latitudes, we usually wore the coats over our yellow oilskin jumpers, so that we had the advantage of the oilskin hood. John almost invariably wore a British Columbian Indian sweater, knitted from raw wool, and a knitted hat of the same material, with a round bobble on top; and I wore a red knitted sock. Both of them could be pulled down over the ears, and were often worn like this, in spite of the moronic look that they gave us. For many days to come we were not going to think very seriously about looks.
After setting the mainsail and storm-jib, John and I came aft to where Beryl had already set the mizzen, and we swigged it up a few inches. Then John took the wheel, for it was his watch. Beryl went down below, to lie in her bunk and get some rest before tea. I went below also to check the course on the chart and make the entries in the log, and from the cockpit came a great burst of song: ‘Stand up and fight boy, when you hear the bell,’ the words came wind-torn into the cabin. We were going to hear a lot about that bell when the going was good.