FOUR SAIL

Is it yacht 'Clarissa' that has a mind
of her own?

It was to be the maiden voyage. The four of us, me, David and his Wife Donna who had their own boat, and John a relative novice.

The tide would be turning in our favour at about 0530 hours, so we had agreed to be under way by five to catch the turning tide in the Solent a half hour’s motor down Southampton Water. We had met up the night before on ‘Clarissa’ and unusually had turned in about ten for an early start. 

Clarissa was a Contessa 32, a fine sleek craft and I was the proud new owner. I thought I had seen the last of yachts but when a friend mentioned a Rose Waterson who’s husband had just died unexpectedly leaving his estate in a mess and a boat she didn’t know what to do with, my curiosity was ignited. When I found out it was a Contessa my fate was sealed. The boat is a classic, overbuilt GRP hull with varnished wooden topsides and teak side decks. It was the perfect compromise between a traditional wooden sailing yacht and a sturdy sea going craft without all the insecurity and sluggishness of a leaky wooden hull. Apparently it was its owner’s pride and joy until a few years previously when poor health had made it impossible for him to maintain it in the state that it deserved. His widow was not so much concerned about the value only that it should find a caring new owner, who could take on the costs of repair and upkeep.

Over the winter, and under several tarpaulins I had managed to replace the rotted woodwork, revarnish the topsides, oil the decking, and get the brightwork gleaming. I had the standing rigging surveyed and spent several weekends stitching sails and re-splicing the sheets.The interior was in generally good order, but everything needed washing, cleaning and sorting. With the current voyage in mind I had bought new charts and pilots, the onboard VHS ship to shore was adequate, but all the flares were out of date so new ones bought. 

Leaving the mouth of Southampton water we would head west on the tide taking us past Hurst point into Christchurch bay towards Poole, spending the night alongside the Quay before returning the following day. By the time we had reached the Solent we were heartily sick of the donkey, so we turned it off and in a gentle southerly breeze we hoisted the mainsail and immediately felt the lift in our spirits. The Genoa headsail was unreefed to a half giving us a good four knots without too much heel so we could enjoy the breakfast that Donna and John had magic-ed up in the very limited galley. A feeling of utter bliss crept over me, the gentle slap of waves on Clarissa’s hull, the growing warmth of the sun, the smell of salt water, fresh coffee and a full English, what could possibly go wrong.

I had serviced the steering myself and found nothing mechanically wrong, but as soon as the Needles came into view the auto pilot started playing up. It’s a device which keeps us on a set course, it’s easily disconnected, and so it was. I took the wheel and immediately felt the resistance as if something was fouling the rudder. David was sent to look over the stern to see what it might be, but what he could see of the rudder appeared normal. The steering remained awkward and any movement to starboard was resisted. To add to our problems the wind appeared to be backing so we were heading into the wind and almost stalled. With David we tried to turn the wheel to starboard but the fear of breaking the gear entirely made us relent and accept that we had to tack to port until we could solve the problem. As soon as we had set the sails in the new direction we began picking up speed although not in the direction we wanted. It would be slow progress to Poole if we had to tack all the way there. If we could get inshore a sea breeze might help but that would be impossible if we couldn’t tack to starboard, all we would be doing would be going round in circles.

We were averaging five knots heading almost due south with the Needles to port when I cried I was coming about. I tried again to turn the wheel to starboard to head towards Poole, but after a quarter turn the resistance became too much and the wheel then swung back to the same course. 

‘Have we decided not to go to Poole?’ John asked. His experience of sailing was such that the issues with the steering gear must have appeared normal. 

I handed the helm over to David who I could see was testing the resistance every few minutes. I went below to examine the morse cables, pulleys and such, to see what might be fouling them. I could see nothing then shouted up for David to turn the wheel to starboard, there was very little movement, then to port, and that had no problems. The thought crossed my mind we should call the coast guard but we weren’t in serious danger yet. 

Back in the cockpit Donna could see my concern.

‘Maybe we should carry on as we are?’ was Donna’s suggestion, ‘The tides in our favour at least.’

I gave her a smile. She was right, her observation was a subtle hint that we should go with the flow, literally. 

Turning away to the west now, even if we could, would mean punching tide. Everything would be against us, my stubbornness had to give way. Sailing will teach you that you can’t always do what you’ve set out to do, and you just have to do what you can and enjoy it. Exchange your plans for options. I sat down with some resignation and looked wistfully at the wheel David was holding and all the trouble it was causing, wishing it would turn to starboard just a bit. Then I noticed the dead ahead indicator was positioned at about ninety degrees.

‘You’ve turned to starboard,’ I pointed out.

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘the wind has backed and I’m keeping off the island. But it won’t go any further.’

It was some relief and meant we could keep off the shoreline along Freshwater Bay, Soon we would have to round St Catherines Point and that would be tricky if we couldn’t find out what was wrong. I was cheered a bit by the little amount the wheel had turned, it gave me hope that we might at least find an anchorage where we could get help. Stuck with a faulty rudder and a bizarre wind that seemed to change direction every hour or so we did what we could to enjoy the ride feeling almost like passengers.

We had lunch as we passed St. Catherines Point. David was having more success with the wheel than I had when we started. The fault had shifted enough so that rounding the southernmost point of the Isle of Wight was easy although we were much closer to the lighthouse than we would have liked in case a problem took us onto the rocks.

‘I’ve never actually seen the lighthouse,’ I said, braving it out, ‘I’ve seen its light many times.’

‘Those crossings from Cherbourg?’ David asked.

‘Yes, well it’s what you head for, then depending on which way the tides flowing, you choose which way round the diamond is home.’

Soon the wind had shifted again to the south so it was on our starboard bow, and the tide still in our favour. 

‘Four knots through the water,’ David announced then looked at his GPS, nearly eight knots over the ground. This is about the fastest we’ve been.’

The speed kept increasing, the wind pushing us slightly north and hugging the shoreline passed Ventnor. Then the cleat holding the foresail reefing gave way and the Genoa opened up fully, billowing out like a sack and heeling us alarmingly. I wound in the sheet and as I did so I could feel the boat respond. Suddenly it was if she had lifted her skirts and was sprinting like a young girl. 

‘Twelve knots. This is sailing!’ David was hanging on to the wheel gauging the twists and turns as Clarissa bounded from one crest to the next. The experience was exhilarating but I couldn’t enjoy it without wondering how safe we were and whether we were heading for more gear failure. I knew we should be taking it calmly, even motoring, not stressing the boat, just in case. I looked around at the faces, all with big smiles, it was a risk but I wasn’t going to spoil it.

With the Genoa fully out and running along the port side, we had hardly seen Shanklin come and go. Only when we rounded Bembridge and the wind was on our starboard quarter did we let out the Genoa so it billowed ahead of us almost like a spinnaker. The tide soon slackened and it occurred to us we could motor into Bembridge and spend the night there. Turning the wheel to port my worst fears were realised. It was if the rudder had been stopped by an underwater obstruction, or something floating ahead of us that we’d missed. I had turned it about a quarter then it had jammed and swung back violently. David spotted it and we both turned to look over the stern to see what we might have hit. There was nothing. Donna and John had been talking and hadn’t noticed anything, the boat had not faltered or shook, and was now sailing normally.

‘Take the wheel David, I’ll go below to see if there are any problems.’

I half expected to be paddling inches deep in water. I wandered up and down the length of the boat but there was nothing. Lifting a sole plate there was no more than a dribble of water in the bilges and quite normal.

On deck I looked at David and shrugged my shoulders. We said nothing and watched the buoyed entrance to Bembridge pass as we headed north up the Solent towards Portsmouth. The thought that we were heading home was a comfort, these were our home waters and help, should we need it, is never far away. 

Progress was steady as the tide was slack but a tentative turn of the wheel towards port as we could see Ryde was met with no resistance. I looked at David and shook my head, a hour or two previously when we wanted to turn into Bembridge, port was impossible. 

I had thought it more than several times that day, and I was thinking it again, what had I bought? Was this why Clarissa had been stowed away in a boatyard, neglected? I could hear the boatwright’s opinion,

‘It’s a design problem on these. Occasionally you get one where the body twists and fouls the rudder stock. Nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do. Best put it in your garden and let the kids play in it.’

 I felt sick, not sea-sick.

The tide pushed us home, up through the familiar Solent past Ryde and the forts. I now had no idea what the next problem with the steering might be. Making our way up Southampton water and home we needed to edge north. The tide was running westward and in our favour again but pushing us too much to the west and Cowes. David attempted to turn northwards but I could see the wheel was reluctant to any turn to starboard. It was what I had feared. With the wind on our beam again and the tide in our favour we were making a good rate but bringing the point at which we would have to turn northwards closer with it the inevitable steering problem and then the request for help and a tow in to the nearest port, in this case Cowes. 

East Cowes came into view, and across the water, West Cowes. We delayed the moment for as long as possible but half way between the two both David and I took hold of the wheel and prepared to wrench it to starboard come what may. Standing each side we took our grip as Donna hauled in the mainsail sheet ready to come about. The boom swung over our heads and the wheel turned almost by itself. We both grabbed hold making sure it didn’t return and to hold its course northwards. The headsail was let out and we began to move, almost for the first time in a direction we wanted.

Donna suggested a celebration was due, for though she had not said much she had seen and understood everything that was going on. We cast a glimpse over the stern as if to see whatever had been fouling the rudder or its cables had come loose or fallen off, but we knew there would be nothing. Rounding Bramble bank towards Calshot we sailed as much as we could before several container ships made it advisable to turn on the donkey and motor home with the steering easy and well balanced as if the problems were all in our imagination.

I sent some photos to Rose Waterson of the trip we hadn’t intended to make, explaining we had set out for Poole. I jokingly added that the boat seemed to have other ideas. Her reply was quite peculiar. She wrote that her husband had attempted to round the island five or six times but had never succeeded. Even as he lay in his hospital bed he had talked about Clarissa and asked her to make sure she was ready for another trip round the island. Rose had to tell him that unfortunately it was not a trip he was ever going to make. The reply he whispered had puzzled her, until now. He had answered, 

‘Oh, yes I will Rose. I may not be standing in the cockpit, but it’ll be my hand upon the wheel.’