A Voyage For Madmen (25 page)

Routes Around New Zealand

At dusk, which came early as dark clouds obscured the sun in the west, Knox-Johnston began to do what he could to prepare for the weather. He got out his sea anchor and heavy warps, ready to stream astern if he needed to slow down. He worried that the two now useless plywood wind vanes could cause damage in heavy seas, so he threw them overboard. He lowered the mainsail and lashed it tightly to its boom. The wind was still light, the sea quiet, and
Suhaili
sailed slowly and comfortably on into the strait under reefed mizzen and storm jib.

It was time again for the radio weather report. The announcer – no doubt in a warm studio with a cup of coffee or tea at hand – calmly read out the details of the coming storm. The system's cold front was 80 miles away, moving east at 40 knots: its leading edge would reach him in two hours. Winds of 40 to 50 knots were forecast, increasing to storm force of 55 knots and higher the next day. Heavy rain and poor visibility would come with the storm. Again, he heard the announcer read out the message from Bruce Maxwell, and he wished he'd never heard it because then he would have been through Foveaux Strait and into the open sea by the time the storm hit.

He thought of Maxwell at this moment probably drinking a beer in a hotel bar ashore, and Knox-Johnston wondered if he'd be drinking with him in twenty-four hours' time. He even began hoping he might, and then he felt ashamed of his thoughts. He went to work.

He made himself a cup of coffee, put some brandy in it, and pored over his charts, and the Admiralty pilot book and light list for the area, fixing in his mind what would soon lie around him in the dark, and what lights to look for to keep track of his
position through the night – if he was lucky enough to see them in the coming storm. He had to keep two dead-reckoning plots going in his head, allowing for the greatest and least possible set of the tides in the strait.

Then he stood in the companionway hatch, half in and half out, smoking a cigarette as
Suhaili
sailed through the dropping dark. As the weather bulked and packed in astern, he saw at last a flicker of light ahead, which he identified as the light on Centre Island, 25 miles northwest of Bluff. Then the light disappeared as rain began to pelt down, and the dark closed in around him.

With the rain came a shift of wind, into the west, astern, and it began to strengthen. Knox-Johnston wanted to go as slowly as possible so he streamed his sea anchor and big blue polypropylene warp. This also helped steer the boat, keeping its stern to the waves and rising wind, while the storm jib sheeted flat on the bowsprit kept the bow pointed downwind. The rain quickly obscured everything beyond the dim outline of the boat. He couldn't see anything beyond the bow, but he remained standing in the companionway, partly sheltered, ready for anything.

By 0230 the wind had risen to gale force. The shrieking howl in the rigging was augmented by the surflike noise of waves that rose and broke astern, a tumbling froth sweeping the decks. But after the first edge of the front had passed, the rain had lightened and there were holes in the clouds through which Knox-Johnston could now see stars. He went on deck and stood on the self-steering gear's tubing, holding tight to the rigging as the boat rolled heavily from side to side, and peered into the dark. He knew, as sailors come to, not to stare hard but to let the faintest suggestion of form and light in at the periphery of his gaze. He was hoping to spot Centre Island light again. He didn't know if he had passed it or was bearing down it. The island was surrounded by rocks. The wind was driving rain and spray from astern over the boat, drumming into his back hard enough to make it feel like hail, so he could see nothing behind him. He looked forward and to port and starboard and hoped.

After half an hour he noticed a periodic whitening in the
clouds to the north. It matched the pattern of Centre Island light. It seemed close, so he relashed the tiller a little to port to point the bow far enough away, he hoped, to clear the rocks southeast of the lighthouse. He stayed hanging in the rigging for another hour, hands growing numb, watching for the breakers, knowing that if he saw them at all it would probably be too late. Finally he decided he must be past the rocks and went below to make himself Irish coffee and smoke a cigarette.

Soon it began to grow light outside, but daylight, when it came, offered little help in fixing his position. Visibility was about a mile, and all he could see was rough water. He feared he would sail down the strait past Bluff without seeing it, so he adjusted the tiller again, putting the boat back on a course to close the land.

Staring into the misty grey cloud-swept air he constantly saw phantom apparitions of land. But at 0730, one of these resolved into an unmovable shape, dead ahead. It was the sailor's most exquisitely fashioned nightmare: land, a lee shore in a storm, and
Suhaili
was being swept fast towards it. The wind at his back was now so strong that Knox-Johnston seriously wondered if the mast or sails could bear the strain, but he had no choice. He had to set the mainsail and try to claw away to windward. As he raised the mainsail, he could feel
Suhaili
shuddering and burying her decks under the strain. He set her on a course that he hoped would clear the looming land, and then he began to haul in the big blue warp and sea anchor, which were holding the boat back, keeping him pinned near the shore. These had tangled together into a vast, thick, 720-foot-long braid, impossible to untangle, dragging heavily astern as
Suhaili
, driven by the gale, tried to leap and pull ahead. Desperation and determination helped him pull the tangle aboard. By the time he got this heap of line into the cockpit, the cliff to leeward appeared much closer. He could even see the spume from waves breaking at its foot. But it came to an abrupt end in a headland further down the coast, and Knox-Johnston wondered if this was, in fact, Bluff.

Suhaili
drove through the big seas and water exploded over her with every wave. But with the warp and sea anchor aboard, she began to haul away from the land, and beating to windward, she held her course nicely. Knox-Johnston's back and arms were aching, his hands red and throbbing. He went below to make himself coffee. The motion inside the cabin precluded any possibility of boiling water, but he had taken the precaution of filling his thermos with hot water during the night. As he held a hot mug in his raw hands and smoked a cigarette, he was aware of a feeling of euphoria. He and his boat were being subjected to their most supreme test, and so far they were getting through it.

When he went back on deck a few minutes later he noticed that the seas were down, although the wind was still fully galeforce. He realised he must be in the lee of Stewart Island, and closing with land. Soon, indeed, land appeared close to starboard, and he tacked and headed north.

A ferry rolled heavily out of the mist ahead. It altered course and steamed over to
Suhaili
, coming close enough for Knox-Johnston to shout above the noise of the wind to the crew. They knew who he was and told him that Bluff lay 9 miles north.

At 1030, Bluff appeared ahead, identifiable by its lighthouse. But out of the protecting lee of Stewart Island,
Suhaili
was once again exposed to the full force of the storm, and now the tide had turned and was setting hard east through the strait. Although Knox-Johnston tried beating to windward again,
Suhaili
was swept away like flotsam. He started to reef the sails to slow down, but the mainsail halyard chose this moment to jam at the top of the mast and the best he could do was raise the boom and tie it and the flapping sail to the mast. He streamed his tangle of warps once more and headed off downwind. The storm continued all day, blowing at force 10 (48 to 55 knots) until early afternoon. By dusk he was clear of Foveaux Strait. There would be no going back now. Still hopeful of meeting Bruce Maxwell, he adjusted the tiller until
Suhaili
was now being blown northeast, paralleling the coast. He went
below and slept until daylight the next morning. The storm was over.

That evening he sailed around Tairoa Heads into Otago Harbour, 130 miles northeast of Foveaux Strait. The ‘harbour' turned out to be an inlet sided with green hills and sand dunes, not the industrial port he had expected where he might have attracted attention and sent word to Maxwell. He blew his foghorn off the signal station but got no response. As he sailed slowly back out of the channel, the wind turned light and flukey around the headland cliff, and while he was trying to tack away from the rocks ashore,
Suhaili
stopped moving – she had run softly aground.

The bottom appeared to be sand, and the tide was ebbing. Knox-Johnston went below and brought an anchor back on deck. He tied a line to it, stripped off and jumped overboard. He walked along the bottom towards deeper water – away from the shore rocks – and continued walking when the bottom deepened and the water rose above his head, bouncing up for air every few seconds. Finally he sank the anchor into the soft bottom and swam back to the boat. It was his first view of
Suhaili
from a distance in five months: she looked dirty and rust-streaked. She began to heel over as the tide dropped.

A man called down to him from the cliffs above. He said he would send help, but Knox-Johnston was emphatic that he didn't want help – it would disqualify him – he would get himself off when the tide came back in. He asked about Bruce Maxwell and the man on the cliff said he'd try to find him.

A few minutes later a small motorboat and a crayfishing boat came by. The men aboard all knew who Knox-Johnston was and told him that Bruce Maxwell had been rushing up and down the coast looking for him. He lit a cigarette and sat on the cabin roof talking to them, enjoying the novelty of their company and the first stillness he had felt in 159 days. The Kiwi boats had radio-telephones and soon they heard that Bruce had
been found and was on his way. While they talked, Knox-Johnston hauled himself up his mainmast and freed the jammed halyard. It grew dark. The tide turned and began to flood. At 2300 the keel began to bump on the bottom; he winched in the anchor line and
Suhaili
was soon floating free. There was no more water in the bilge than usual; she appeared unharmed by the grounding. The crayfishermen motored off to try to find Maxwell, and Knox-Johnston went below to make a quick supper. Soon there was a shout.

‘What the hell are you doing here?' said Bruce Maxwell.

The first thing he had to tell Knox-Johnston was that one of the
Sunday Times
' rules – no material assistance of any kind – had been taken to mean no mail. Where it had stretched its rules to allow the involvement of any sailor, known or unknown, in its race, and allowed them to proceed to sea without any inspection of their boats or equipment, the
Sunday Times
had finally found something to be stringent about. Knox-Johnston was outraged. Sailors have always hungered for news from home, and he would have happily disqualified himself on the spot if Maxwell had any mail to give him. The reporter, knowing this, had brought none.

Instead, he told him that his family was well, that Bill King was out of the race, that there were three new competitors: Carozzo, Tetley, and Crowhurst. None of them posed much threat, but Maxwell told him that Moitessier was fast closing the gap between them, and if they both maintained their present average speeds the race would end in a photo finish.

Maxwell left to find a phone and call London, intending to come right back, but the wind rose and Knox-Johnston, tenuously anchored, with rocks to leeward, decided not to wait for him. He raised his sails, tacked out over his anchor, hauling it aboard when he felt he was clear of the rocks. He shouted good-bye to the crayfishermen and headed for the open sea.

He wanted to get a move on. The Frenchman was coming.

W
ITH FRESH NEWS
of Robin Knox-Johnston, the
Sunday Times'
navigation experts predicted a ‘neck-and-neck' finish between him and Bernard Moitessier.