Trevor Wilson - Sailing Alone Across the Atlantic: A Pensioners Tale

E ven with a double-reefed sail Ozama sped through the darkness as if celebrating having found the Trades. Sailing at six knots she slid gracefully down the side of each following sea, her tan Chinese sail silhouetted against the black starry sky. The wind was from the northeast, force five, and we were on a broad reach. After wallowing aimlessly in a windless sea for several days I was ecstatic with our new-found speed. However this mood of jubilation was to be short-lived, for without any warning the yachts rudder fell off. The thought of being adrift and alone in the middle of the Atlantic on board a yacht without a rudder is not my idea of a good time.

The junk-rigged yacht (a Trident 24), which I had bought just over five months ago in Barcelona, was on passage to Norfolk, Virginia, via Rodney Bay in St Lucia. Id sailed southwards from Porto Santo in the Madeira Islands on Christmas Day hoping to find the Trades at about 25 degrees north.

Before these winds were found however, several days of total calm had prevailed. With the sea about as flat as a proverbial mill pond, I decided to heave myself to the masthead in a bosuns chair and attempt to fix the tri-light that had failed. Just as I had reached the truck of the masthead after lots of arm-ache I heard a noise similar to someone blowing across the rim of a beer bottle. Looking down I saw a huge, glistening whale lying almost motionless along the portside. A mixture of what looked and smelt like oil and water gushed like an intermittent fountain from the blowhole on top of the creatures head. Although it had taken over half an hour to haul myself up the mast, I lowered myself to the deck as quickly as the gantline would run through my hands. Somewhere (it might have been on a television programme) Id heard about the Song of the Whale. Whatever induced me to carry out my next action will puzzle me for the rest of my days. Leaning over the portside and cupping my hands around my mouth I dipped my head into the water and made a screeching, wallowing noise that as far as I could remember resembled the Song of the Whale. To my utter amazement this huge creature (it was over fifteen metres long) sounded and momentarily disappeared from sight, only to reappear heading vertically skywards as it propelled itself out of the water like a Polaris missile! On re-entering the water, its fluke which must have been four metres across slapped hard down on the surface, causing the yacht to heel violently to starboard. My throat immediately became dry with fear. The calm water surrounding the hull became disturbed as the whale swam beneath the keel.

What had come over me to do such a stupid thing I asked myself as I suddenly remembered reading about a whale that sank a yacht somewhere off the Galapagos Islands? Looking at the life raft in the cockpit I devised a hurried plan of escape. My imagination ran riot, thinking that an irate whale might suddenly send the keel crashing through the bottom boards. To my utter relief this huge creature appeared on the surface about a hundred yards to port.

That was one of the moments that I remember best of a voyage that had its creation over forty years before.