Across the Atlantic

By Jim Stephenson

As printed in the RUDDER May 1964

“I say, Old Chap, are you winning?”

The question was put to me by the boatyard owner where I was fitting-out my little twenty six foot sloop. It was his way of asking about my rate of progress

I looked up from the deck where I was making rigging adjustments and saw him smiling down at me. He was well wearing heavy, mud spattered corduroy trousers and a well worn tweed jacket with collar turned up against the cod raw wind. It was beginning to drizzle again and the fine mist made little beads on his mustache. Summer had ended and the weather had been thoroughly miserable all week with a cold wind driving a fine mist across the River Hamble.

“Glad you came over,” I said. “Gives me an excuse to quit. Come aboard and I’ll make a pot of tea.”

Inside the cabin it was snug and warm as we sipped our steaming brew; outside, the wind made faint, sad, restless sounds it he rigging. My friend lit his pipe. After looking around at the work I had done, he admired , “By Jove, you are winning, indeed!”

I had come to England in the summer of 1962 to fulfill an old dream. For many years I had dreamed of sailing my own little ship alone across the wide and sometimes wild Atlantic.

My plan was to buy my little ship in England, sail across the English Channel and Bay of Biscay to Spain, then on to Portugal where I hoped to find the “Trades” which would carry us to the Canary Islands and across the Atlantic to the West Indies.

All seemed so simple in the planning stage but as I boarded the Queen Mary with a one way ticket to Southampton I had the distinct feeling that I was acting the part of a complete idiot. After all, my experience was limited to a few outings across the bay on sunny afternoons in a homemade Blue Jay day sailer, and now I had the temerity to pit this vast store of knowledge against the Atlantic Ocean.; If this was not a case of the rabbit spiting in the hound dogs face, by what name shall we call it?

As I watched the Statue of Liberty fade into the haze of the dying day I wondered what madness it is that induces a man to turn his back on reason and go running off on such a ridiculous journey. The only smart thing I had done as to tell no one what I planned to do. Better to act first, I thought, for I was sure the slightest discouragement or doubt expressed by my friends would have dissuaded me. As far as they knew I was off to England for a holiday. And so much the better.

On the third night out from New York, during an embarrassing hiatus in the conversation at dinner, I mentioned my intentions to my dining companions and every time we met there after I got the impression I was being secretly pitied. And when we had docked at Southampton there seemed to be a little too much tenderness in our farewells.

But if my shipboard friends had treated me as if I were slightly insane, the yacht broker I called on receive me as if I were a completely normal human being on a perfectly rational and reasonable mission. He was a sailing man himself and I suppose if you have the insanity already you are unable to detect it in others. When I told him what I had in mind, how much money I had, and the type boat I was interested in, he sat down at his desk and started going through his files muttering to himself as he studied each card, completely ignoring me.

His secretary was an extremely pretty girl and after a rather awkward beginning I was on the verge of getting a conversation going when brought back to my original purpose by the broker’s announcement that he n=might have just the boat I was seeking. I read the description under the photograph: 26 foot LOA, 20 foot LWL, 7 ½ foot beam, 4 foot draft. Her planking was one inch mahogany, cooper fastened to steam-bent oak timbers. She was ten years old, having been built for a British yachtsman who wanted a boat small enough for single-handed work yet capable of making passages across the Channel to the French coast in comfort and safety. He had given her the French name —the dream. When I saw her I knew she would surely be the boat to make my dreams come true.

Le Reve was lying at a boatyard about ten miles from Southampton on the River Hamble at the little village of Bursledon.

The little boat had been hauled for the winter and placed under a shed. When I saw her for the first time and had a full view of her graceful and powerful underbody lines it was a case of love at first sight. I made an offer slightly below the asking price with the understanding that the offer was made subject to a complete survey by Lloyds Registry of Shipping.

When the offer was accepted I went into an orbit of sheer delight and didn’t re-enter the earth’s atmosphere for days. Within a week’s time the survey had been completed by Lloyds and I was the owner of, to me, the most beautiful little ship in all the world.

After leaving the broker’s office I wandered around Southampton in a kind of sleep-walking trance without the faintest idea where I was going. What I wanted more than anything was to off somewhere and die. What an idiot I was! Here I was on the other side of the world with a tiny sail boat I had never even sailed and I expected somehow to fit her out for a voyage across the ocean with tools I didn’t even have and then navigate her to Florida when I never even been out of sight of land in an sail boat. I remembered a bit of celestial navigation from my Air Force days but I had never tried to take a sight from the deck of a small boat pitching in a seeway. Sheer madness!

The months that followed were sometimes agony, sometimes elation depending on how well the outfitting of Le Reve went. There was a tremendous amount of work to be done. The cockpit which was not water tight had to be rebuilt so as to be self draining. The decks had to be re-canvassed. She had a ten year accumulation of paint on her topsides which had to be removed to the bare wood, then a new paint job applied starting with the primer coat. All the caulking was dead and had to be ripped out of the seams which then had to be re-caulked and stopped with new compound.

The work was punctuated by moments of despair, when it seemed there would be no end to it, when I felt that I had surely passed on to the great Beyond and this was the eternal punishment for my wild and wicked life—to spend an eternity sanding and scraping.

But now as the owner of the yard and I sipped our tea in Le Reve’s cabin most of the fitting out work was done. And none too soon, either for summer was turning to fall and I had no wish to become involved in the autumn gales which sweep across the Channel and the Bay of Biscay, churning up frightful seas and making things quite unbearable for the small boat sailor.

My friend knocked out his pipe, climbed up the companionway to the cockpit and looked across the little harbor to the bridge which spanned the Hamble. The low heavy overcoat was making an early twilight and the lights on the bridge wore little halos.

“Might get a bit of a nor-easter tonight” he said as he scanned the darkening sky. Then pulling Le Reve a little closer to the quay he leaped ashore and disappeared in the shadow of the old boatshed, leaving me with a sense of sadness that I would soon be leaving England. For in this little rain soaked harbor I had found the friendliest people in all the world, albeit, I am bound to say, the worst weather.

The next day I paid the yard bill, caught up the remaining loose ends and the following day Le Reve and I were off. The weather forecast was not good but I was sure if I waited for fine weather I should never leave. As we motored down the Hamble to the Solent I looked back and waved the last goodbye to my friends who had gathered at the old boat shed to see me off. How friendly and helpful everyone at the yard had been! How could I ever thank them enough. Then a bend in the river cut them off from view and a chapter in my life came to an end.

The voyage almost ended on the third night out from Plymouth. This bit from the log tells the story:

“What a nightmare we had last night! Never was there a time when we had less than five ships in sight. We are smack in the middle of the busy shipping lane between Ushant and Cape Finisterre and I feel like a small rabbit in the path of thundering elephants. Once I was sure we had had it! I could see both the red and the green lights of a huge monster bearing straight down upon us. I frantically lit up the sails with a flashlight in the hope that we could be seen, but the ship came on till it was so close I could hear the propeller churning the water and smell the diesel oil. Then, at the very last minute, he saw us and swung sharply passing us close on the starboard hand, leaving me weak and limp with relief.”

By far the hardest job of single handed voyaging is keeping watch at night. In spite of the ever-present danger of being run down by ships, your mind does crazy things to you when you are exhausted. It tells you that those ships you see out there in the night are the least ten miles away and couldn’t possible get to you in less than fifteen minuets. So it would quite alright to lie down for just a minute or two. Once you are on the bunk it takes less than a minute to fall asleep and when you wake up an hour later your mind tells you that since you haven’t been hit yet the chances are that you will not be. And the strange thing is you believe it and go back to sleep.

Shortly before leaving England I had the pleasure of meeting Humphry Barton, one of England’s top yachtsmen who has sailed the Atlantic several times in small boats. We were seated across from ach other at a dinner party and I’m afraid I monopolized his time with questions.

One of the things that he told me was that in all probability I would have my worst times in the Bay of Biscay. He said that if I got across that notoriously bad stretch of water without at least one gale I would be lucky.

Again from the log: “Early this morning before dawn the wind freshened from the southwest and soon Le Reve was being pressed too hard. The eastern sky became the color of blood so I took the proverbial sailor’s warning and reefed the main which solved the problem for a while but soon something else had to be done for Le Reve was completely overpowered.

I changed down to the storm jib and now we lie hove-to with a deep reef in the main and the storm jib backed to weather just as Humphrey Barton said we should. The seas are tremendous as they roll down upon us and I marvel at the way Le Reve rises to let them pass under us. Occasionally she will be caught in an awkward position as a huge one rolls down on us and she is unable to lift over it. When this happens the sea crashes against her shoulder and sweeps completely over the boat. The noise is terrifying.

Two days later the gale still blew and my log notes: “I can only guess our position at 45° -50N, 6° -10W. The only thing I can be sure of is we are in the Bay of Biscay and it is ROUGH. Wind still makes mournful sounds in the rigging and the seas are bigger than any I have ever seen. Chart shows 2600 fathoms—15,600 feet. On, bury me deep. Hove-to in this way. Le Reve lies about forty five degrees to the wind making a square drift at about two knots. I have never ridden on the back of an elephant but Le Reve’s motion puts me in mind of a ponderous pachyderm. She moves with slow jogging strides. Sometimes she takes two quick little steps then back to the ponderous jog. She seems utterly exhausted. Now and then an unusually big sea will knock her down and you think your elephant is going to lie down for good, but she gets back up and plods on. Le Reve, you are the most wonderful boat in all the world.

“ 12:00 Noon. A little while ago the sun came out for a moment and we were able to get a sight. Another just now establishes out position; 44° -35N, 6° -20W. The wind is beginning to abate. The gale is over. We are sailing again under working jib and reefed main. Our first bad storm in a small boat is behind us and I am elated. Also, I am ravenously hungry. The seas are smaller now and Le Reve, no longer a plodding ele-phant, puts her shoulder down and drives ahead. Now and then she slings a handful of cold spray smack in my face. I believe this girl likes me.

“ 18:00 – Dinner is being served, sir. We are having French wine. Oxtail soup, spaghetti Bolognese, green peas and fruit cocktail. See how quickly the sea has changed it’s mood and become soft and gentle as a woman’s caress. Le Reve is sailing herself and I go to the companion-way to check the compass.”

As I look to the west I am filled to the brim with the beauty of the sunset. Tall cumulo-nimbus with their bases under the horizon tower in the western sky. Shafts of light raying out across the enflamed sky are reflected in the softly heaving breast of the sea. The thinnest sliver of a moon appears for a moment low in the sky like a timid child, then drops under the horizon. Day becomes night and the stars are cold and remote. Le Reve and I are alone on the face of the planet spinning through the night and I am filled with a sense of awe and wonder—a moment of awareness caught for an instant in time and space.

As Le Reve and I sailed southward toward the Canary Islands the air began to have the feel of the South. Even in the early morning before the sun came up the air was soft and warm.

Voyaging in a small sailing boat is a wondrous thing but the greatest thrill of all comes with the landfalls when you squint your eyes and anxiously search the distant horizon for the thin pencil line which slowly grows bolder and becomes fixed. Then with a wave of happy relief you shout “Land Ho!”

Las Palmas is the perfect place for a little sailing ship to wait out the hurricane season in the Caribbean. The storm season lasts from July to the end of October and it would not be prudent to attempt the Atlantic passage during these months when tropical storms are brewing.

Le Reve and I grew impatient as we waited in Las Palmas for the end of October when we would accept the challenge of the wide and wonderful Atlantic. Swinging back and forth to her anchor, my little ship seemed to say, “Come on let’s go!” and I felt a wave of excitement as I stood on the beach and looked out over the vast sea and thought about the 2,700 salty miles that lay between us and the Barbados.

On Saturday October 27 we could contain our impatience no longer. With my heart pounding in my ears I hoisted the sails and Le Reve in a gesture of happy excitement put her shoulder down and slung a dollop of spray across the deck. We were off on the greatest adventure I could imagine and I wondered if I had bit off more than I could chew.

As Gran Canaria fell astern I felt a great thrill considering the challenge that lay ahead. There were so many unknowns. What if I should get sick? Had I enough food and water for unforeseen calms which might prolong the voyage? Could I cope with the storms that might arise? I put these thoughts aside and inhaled deeply the beauty of the moment.

Huge swells rolled on us from stern and just at the right moment Le Reve would lift herself and let them pass under occasionally a big sea would break right aft and give the impression of a giant white-gloved hand reaching over a huge wall of water. The log line snaked its way over the backs of the seas behind us and now and then the rotor could be seen spinning out its message to the counter on the rail as we reeled off the miles winging our way westward. There were days when the weather was incredibly beautiful—soft pastel-blue sky with fluffy cotton-candy cumulus clouds floating overhead like a flock of sheep and the sea in her happiest mood with long easy swells. As the seas rolled past on either side of the little ship they remind you of a field of happy dogs frolicking along beside you as you stroll across a wide and softly rolling meadow. But it was not always thus. Here is an entry from the log:

“Sunday, November 18, 10:00 AM Several rain showers have overtaken us this morning thoroughly dousing us then moving on. They are not squall type showers with gusty winds, however, but happy “April Showers” types with steady winds, harmless as kittens. I don oilskins but do not wear a hat for I rather enjoy the cool wet caress on my balding head.

“ 5:00 PM Sea is rough and confused. Extremely black and angry clouds. Those harmless kittens have turned into snarling tigers. Wind falls dead calm. I’ve never seen such confused seas. They crash together and leap straight up. They seem to be babbling to each other in confusion. No wind so I furl the sails and go below just as the rain begins to fall in torrents.

“Monday, November 19

3:00AM Rain beats against the coach roof like a million hammers. The night is so black you can’t see your hand in front of your face.”

“6:00AM Rain has stopped and wind is back from northeast. I have set the sails and we are under way again. Looks like we will have more trouble from those bad actors today.”

“ 5:00PM Hove-to for supper. Irish stew, coffee, rice pudding. I am abysmally tired. Surely exhaustion is the greatest hazard to the success of this voyage. I must try to get some rest before going back out on deck.”

As the weeks went by and we got nearer to the West Indies the squalls hit us more frequently and with greater violence. It was impossible to stay dry and everything below became a soggy shambles. I was terribly disappointed and discouraged for it was not at all what I had expected trade wind sailing would be. Where wee the blue skies with the soft cotton-candy cumulus? And where was the steady, dependable wind? Loneliness was my constant companion and I longed for the sight of land.

Then one day the most wonderful thing happened! The afternoon sun line indicated we were far enough westward to make the rest of the plots on the chart which showed the island of Barbados. Up to now, I had used plotting sheets which were only a type of graph paper with no personality. But now I could watch the little dots on the chart move closer and close toward land as I made the plots each day. This was a big morale booster. I was as excited as a child at Christmas time when he watches the calendar.

Finally on the fortieth day after leaving the Canaries the little x on the chart at noon showed we had only eighty five miles to go! That meant if my navigation was accurate we could expect to be in Barbados on the morrow. Ph, what a miracle! It would be good to see land again.

On Friday, December 7 th at 3:30 AM I could se the lights of Barbados. It was the happiest day of my life. My dream had come true. I had sailed my own little ship alone across the wide Atlantic.

As we sailed into Carlisle Bay I was thinking how satisfying it was to make a proper landfall after sailing over 2,700 miles. All the careful measuring of the sun’s angular distance above the horizon, all the meticulous checking of time, all the neat little columns of figures finally had directed the little ship to the exact same spot on the face of the earth where I had aimed so any days ago.

I am afraid I was feeling a bit proud of myself when Le Reve, reading my vain thoughts, hit me with a handful of cold spray. “Alright, sweetheart,” I said to her. “You have put me neatly in my place. For without you where would I be?”

So here’s to you Le Reve, the most wonderful little ship in all the world.

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