A Lonely Log

I

AFTER years of waiting and reading all the books that bore on single-handed cruising, I found in the spring of 1925 that, by the greatest economy, I might be able to get to sea. The preceding fall the Half Moon had been purchased, so I took her over to Vancouver in April, where she was changed from a sloop to a ketch rig, fitted out with new rigging, standing and running, and a suit of No. 8 army-duck sails, a wheel in the place of a tiller, and the cockpit decked into a three-by-five-foot opening, engines overhauled, boat pulled out and copper-painted. Without having incurred any useless expense, I found that if I did not want the sheriff for a shipmate I had better get to sea. So on the twenty-third of April I wired my people and told my friends in Vancouver I was leaving on the twentysixth with Portsmouth, England, as the objective. Up to this date I had kept my own counsel, as opposition was expected. One kind friend said he would like to send me to the Mental Home at New Westminster, but evidently relented, as he presented me with a sea anchor to help me on the way. The Press gave a ‘Cheerio,’and with many a hearty handshake and wishes for good luck, armed with my mascots, a red butterfly and a piece of heather, I left Vancouver on the twenty-sixth of April for Mayne Island, my home port.

During my stay in Vancouver I lay at Mr. Thompson’s boathouse, at the entrance to Stanley Park. He helped me in every way he could, and I shall always feel grateful to him for his kindness. At Mayne the deck was painted and a few supplies taken in and goodbyes said, and I left on the thirtieth for Victoria, where I took in my water and gas and was assisted by Harold Payne and my son George, who both put in a lot of good work finishing getting ready for sea. On May 2, with a kindly send-off from the people on the wharf, I left for the William Head quarantine station, where I anchored for the night, leaving next morning and proceeding down the Straits of San Juan under sail, anchoring that night in Callum Bay. Next morning to Neah Bay to send off a wire and farewell letters, and fill up with gas and water, soft bread, and a few vegetables. Neah is a fishing station, and later in the year has a large fleet of trollers for salmon operating at the mouth of the Straits. Leaving Neah, I passed Cape Flattery at 2 P.M. on the fourth of May, 1925. There was a good breeze from the north, and by midnight I had made an offing of thirty miles, which increased to fifty by daylight.

I sighted the Canadian Rover on the fifth, bound in. This was the last ship I sighted for the next forty days.

During the afternoon the wind and sea increased, which enabled me to become acquainted with the Half Moon. She was a fine little sea boat and carried her sail well; not a racer as to speed, but then she was loaded down a little too much by the bow. This, of course, I could remedy as I used my water. During the night, whilst lying in my bunk, I woke with a feeling of pressure and found that the battens, holding some cases of groceries, books, and clothing, had given way, and the cases had worked over to the lee side where my bunk was. At first I tried to buck the load off with my back, but it was no good. Turning over, I found I could get an arm out, and gradually work the stuff so that I could wriggle out of the bottom of the bunk, after about twenty minutes’ work. It was not a very pleasant experience, as, if some of the heavier cases had jammed, they would have held me tight.

My accommodation was rather limited, as the boat was only twenty feet on the water line. I stowed nothing before the mast, which took off seven feet; then a cabin six feet long by seven feet wide, having a bunk on either side. Between the bunks on the floor were stowed water and gasoline in cases, the usual oil container. The same cargo filled in the starboard bunk, on top of cases of groceries, flour, books, and clothes, leaving the port bunk closed in, except for two feet at the lower end, so that you had to crawl in from the bottom, before the flywheel on the engine.

Three feet by one and a half was my saloon, dining and recreation hall; then came four feet, with engine and a gangway on the starboard side to hatch; on the port side, oil stove for cooking, sextant, and books. Abaft this on deck was a small cockpit, with just room in the aft end for an armchair and leg room forward, and this was where I steered from.

Our course, which was the track recommended to strike the northeast trade winds, took us from two to six hundred miles from the shore. As the sailing vessels were few and far between, we did not expect much company. The weather for the next fortnight was what we log as ‘o. c. q. r.,’ being overcast, cloudy, squally, rainy, with fresh and strong breezes, keeping us busy. On the twelfth I found that I had two stowaways in the shape of ants. They must have come off the vegetables at Neah Bay. They at first would not eat sugar, but after three days tackled it. They always appeared for dinner and supper, but were evidently not early risers, as they missed breakfast. They were christened Jack and Jill, and I was confirmed in my diagnosis of their sex by noticing that Jill was by far the most inquisitive, covering double the distance that Jack traveled. I believe that after a time they followed me, for if I went into the cabin they would appear there. They were with me over sixty days. Jack I saw on the fore part of the cabin hatch one day when I was reefing, and no doubt he got. washed over, and Jill disappeared shortly after.

On the fifteenth, I found that of the three lantern glasses two had been broken, so I lashed the lantern and never took it down. It left me without a light on deck, but the few ropes I had to handle I got to know by feel, and my reef points I had marked with one whipping on the first, two on the second, and three on the third, so I had no trouble with them in the dark.

On the sixteenth of May I tried the sea anchor. The boat lay to it, but often in the trough of the sea, and I passed a very uncomfortable night. After that I always lay to with the peak of my mainsail, the jaws of the gaff, about a foot above the boom. My sail had a square head, only about thirty degrees peak, so that it was snug, but there was a bag of loose canvas at the foot which might have been filled by a sea, so I had to put in a diagonal reef to handle it.

The Half Moon, with this sail, lay to like a duck, dry and easy. Sometimes after hard sailing from wind and sea, when I was getting worn out, I would lay to for a rest. When it was dangerous to leave her sailing herself, from the wind being too far aft, I would heave her to under this sail. Having no weights on the ends, she would ride very easily — a change from being hunted by combers, from endless helming, and from continued looking back to see what was coming. To leave this behind and lay to, slipping into the cabin for a square meal and rest, was like stepping into paradise.

Many people have asked how a boat sails herself. In the first place, a long straight keel is necessary, a good draft of water, and about one-third beam to her length. Such a boat, in any moderate weather, can be trimmed by the sails and helm to keep her course within half a point from close haul to wind, two points from the quarter, the head sheets being trimmed a little finer than the aft ones, so that if she comes to they will pay her off. I used at first to keep my hand on the wheel when setting her on her course, and very often, quite unconsciously, gave her a little helm. After a time I would trim her as I thought suitable on her course, then sit down and watch for a couple of minutes, then give her, if necessary, a pull of the sheet or a spoke of the helm and let her try again. In this way, very often, she was on her course in ten minutes, though occasionally it would take half an hour. My rudder, which was of Norwegian pattern, was so balanced that it stayed where put, but I always put a twiddling line on it at night, as I found that in the dark, working in the cockpit, it might be pushed over without my knowing it, and spoil the trim.

II

May 19.—Latitude 40.10 north and longitude 130.10 west; the wind was on the quarter, and a heavy swell. I had just finished breakfast and was washing up, facing to windward, when a big roller came along. Lifting the stern of the boat, it swung the boom over to windward and caught me on the back of the head at the base of the skull The thought flashed through me that, if I slacked my knees, I should fall inboard. This was the last I remember. Some time after, I came to, lying in a heap in the cockpit. All I could see was a blue haze, and I was stiff with cold. One arm that I had been lying on was quite numb. Gradually I got it to work and, feeling my way, managed to crawl down into my bunk, remaining there till evening, when I got on deck and roughly set her on her course by the sun. I could not see the compass.

For the next five days, though I took all the medicine in the boat, I suffered from severe headache and could get no action from my inside. My sight was slim; only after a time could I make out east and south on the compass. The other points seemed too complicated. On the fifth day I heated a little soup and put in four heaping teaspoons of curry powder, and swallowed it. Then I lay down on my bunk with blankets over me, and in a few minutes I began to sweat; in a couple of hours I began to feel ever so much better. Continuing this treatment in a milder form for a couple of days pulled me round, though I had a nauseous headache whenever I had to face the sun, and a lump on the back of the head about half the size of a Bartlett pear. As I lay, I thought how much clearer the compass might be marked. Mine was by a good maker and has north denoted by a spearhead made with little scrolls. The easterly points are fairly legible, but the westerly half is a collection of straight strokes which are hard to separate in a dim light. West is double V—no double U about it. On the twentyfifth, I was able to find my position, which was a hundred miles farther to the west than I ought to have been, but I had kept her rather offshore while I was in this fix, not able to take sights or sometimes see the compass.

May 28. — The water is now getting warmer, and to-day, with a light breeze, we sailed through fields of Portuguese men-of-war, lying in long swathes like mown hay as far as one could see, the swathes about fifteen feet broad with thirty feet between of clear water. There must have been myriads of them, and all drawn up in this order with the top of their sails dropped. No collision, though there was a slight swell, and the line of the swathe not six inches out. As I broke through them they peaked their sails, evidently with the idea of re-forming. I could only guess that they had probably gathered for the purpose of mating. The other day I passed a lot of yellow seaweed about the size of a man’s hand, the fingers having a small crablike animal enveloped in each tip. As I passed, these would detach themselves and swim for the boat. I paid no more attention to them until I got into harbor, when I found they were barnacles and that my quarters were covered with them. As we sailed by them at three knots, these infants would make up their minds a living was in sight, and go for it. If we are descended from them, as the scientists say, we certainly have degenerated, as we have no such qualities at a like age.

May 31. — San Francisco lay about two hundred and fifty miles to the east. We were rather farther out to sea than we should have been, but we had made the westing whilst I was laid up.

The weather all through the trip was abnormal. The summer of 1925 was a very hot one on the Pacific coast, and it made the summer winds much stronger and more irregular on the sea. The Sechart whaling station on Vancouver Island closed prematurely on the first of August — catch, one whale; the reasons stated that there were heavy storms and fogs. On the fifth of June I struck the northeast trade and ran on till the tenth, when I found that my strength was hardly sufficient to set the sails, and had no appetite and constant headache. Going south, I was facing the sun all day, which made me quite giddy, so I determined to make land. The question was whether to go to the Mexican coast or to British Columbia. I decided on the latter, though it meant, of course, a much longer passage, but then 1 should be back in my home port. The turn was made at latitude 27.30 north, longitude 130.30 west, a point about a thousand miles west of Guaymas, Mexico, Of Guaymas I had many pleasant memories, as we were there in H. M. S. Scout in 1866, during the French occupation of Mexico.

June 15. — A large whale, swimming on the surface of the water with just his nose showing, passed about thirty feet across the bows. He seemed to be about sixty feet long and paid no attention, though I seized two enamel platesand knocked them together, chipping off the enamel. The boat gave three or four big dives as he passed.

June 19. — Misty morning. Reset sail, had a good look around, and went to get breakfast, which I had just finished when I heard a steam whistle and there, a hundred yards off, was a big steamer, the Mauna Ala, Captain Hall. He hailed me to know where I was bound and if I wanted anything. I replied, ’No.’ In fact I was so taken aback, as I had not seen a man or vessel for forty-six days, that I even forgot to ask for a paper or some fruit. Wishing me good luck and saying he would report me, he steamed away. Good luck to him for stopping. He made me about eight hundred miles southwest of San Francisco.

June 20. — I felt better and began to eat, and I did not have to face the sun all day.

June 22. — I was washing up after supper, with my hands in the water, when I saw a shark about nine feet long swim slowly by, a couple of feet from my hands. It did not take me long to retire. Unlashing the boat hook, I waited a short time, when he came by in the same place. Aiming for the back of the fore fin, I drove at him with all my might and was brought up short, as if I had driven at a hard dirt bank. The shark turned sharp round and crossed, going off on top of the water, splashing for all he was worth for about sixty yards, and then disappeared, leaving me with the skin rubbed off the palms of my hands from the boat-hook staff.

III

June 25-30. — Very stormy weather with a very close atmosphere, making only thirty miles on course in five days. On the evening of the twenty-ninth, I had been watching the ocean for two hours. There was a sea from the north, the direction of the wind; and from the west, or a little to the southward of it, a cross sea — running, I should say, twenty miles an hour in a well-defined stream — came hissing along. Three times this sea shot across the cockpit, the after part luckily clearing me, and going so fast that it did not leave more than half a bucket in the cockpit, though one sea was certainly eighteen inches in depth as it crossed. I had started to go below, and was halfway down the ladder, when a sea struck the boat on the port beam, driving her a distance of thirty yards to leeward, leaving a sheet of foamlike wake on the weather beam. Everything on the port side was fired across the cabin and hit the starboard side. A big navigation book went into a space about its own thickness over a tank on the opposite side and eighteen inches higher than where it started. I think if the sea had hit the deck house it would have cut it off at the deck.

This was the same day and time of the Santa Barbara earthquake, June 29, 5.40 P.M. Half Moon time about one hour earlier, about 4.40. For half a minute after, there was a calm and no sea, the boat on even keel and perfectly still; then the racket began again, blowing and plunging, so I got my supper and cleared up for the night, which meant putting everything in its place so that I could put my hand on it in the dark. Then a look at the barometer, and I crawled into my bunk and was asleep in a couple of minutes. My only change from deck to bunk was to take off my oilskins. Otherwise I turned in all standing, boots and all, during the trip. As the lawyers say, ‘Time is the essence of the agreement.’ The Half Moon, though a good boat, now and then required the agreement to be carried out without any loss of seconds on the part of the crew.

Daily routine: shake out reefs and reset sails and have a good look round the horizon for ships; pump out, clean lantern and stove, and serve out allowance of water; 6 A.M., cook breakfast; 6.30, breakfast; 7.00, wash up and clean cabin; 8.00, wind watches and take sights; forenoon, make repairs; 11.30, start dinner and get sextant; 12.00, noon sight , then dinner and work out reckoning and repair gear or read; 6.00, supper; sunset, in one reef of mainsail, pump out, see that all gear is clear and ready for the night, trim sails, read; to bed at nine, having a look at compass every two hours during the night.

Provisions for the trip were as follows (asterisk denotes ‘all expended’): —

My provisions lasted well. I was overstocked with biscuit, jam, and bacon; short on flour, potatoes, tomatoes, and lime juice.

My tomato cans bulged from the motion, and the last eighteen tins of milk, when opened, would pour a little thin yellow liquid and seemed to be solid in the middle, so I chucked them over. Thinking about it since, I believe they were churned into butter, which I never thought of at the time. I had one quart of Jamaica rum. Some time after my accident I took a small glass, but it made me so noisy that I reduced the ration to a teaspoonful and had half a gill left when the trip was finished.

The engine was not used at all, so there were fifty gallons of gasoline on the boat when I returned. My cooking was done on a one-burner Perfection stove, which was screwed to the locker abreast the engine. A small wire was run round the standard on two sides, about eight inches up; this held a plate to heat. On the top plate, which was round and perforated with holes, three pins about six inches long, with a shoulder in the middle, were used. I put on my pan or kettle and dropped the pins in round it so that it was well secured.

For breakfast: light lamp, put on cast-iron frying pan, and in it a tin kettle with a pint of water. Then mix bread: six heaping dessert spoons of flour, half a teaspoon baking powder, and stir into a stiff batter. By this time the kettle has the chill off and the frying pan is hot. Take off kettle, grease fry-pan, put in batter, with the lid over, turning it once. In ten minutes there is a nice round of bread. Take out bread, grease pan, then take off pan and put alongside stove, on kettle. The frying pan is hot enough to cook bacon or eggs.

I put great faith in the cast-iron frypan; it was easily cleaned and, through the thickness of the metal, it gave a lasting and even heat. My breakfast was always ready in half an hour from the time of lighting the stove. Dinner and supper were much the same, but varied with regard to meat. I had hot bread at every meal; one pint of tea I found ample.

The Half Moon was built by Erickson Brothers of North Vancouver in 1919. (Length twenty-five feet over all; twenty feet at water line; eightfoot-four beam; five-foot draft. Clinker built.) Her lines were those of a Norwegian pilot boat. A splendid sea boat, but not fast in moderate breezes. Her build did not give her much stowage, as her bilge rose quickly, so that I was cramped for room with all the stores in, especially as I had nothing before the mast or very little abaft the cabin, so as to make her easy in the sea. Taking sights required some management; armed with sextant, watch, and notebook, if I could see from inside the square of the after hatch all was well. It kept my body braced. Sometimes I had to go forward or aft; then it was a case of catching the sun, holding on with one hand, then trying to get a peep at the watch and afterward write down time and altitude. In the middle of the operation she would give a roll or spray, and you had to secure yourself and instruments. I lost two legs of my sextant, but the watch was in good shape, a Vanguard movement Waltham, kindly lent me by Mrs. Wilkinson of Cobble Hill. Only one day whilst on the voyage could I see the horizon, so there was a good deal of snap-shooting.

I will here describe my ablutions. I had two one-pound baking-powder tins, and inside each a silk handkerchief. Dropping a few drops of olive oil on one, I would wipe myself over. As my skin was always more or less briny, this kept it in good order and clean.

Sailing on, by the eighth of July we had reached 40.35 north latitude and 137.2 west longitude, a point where you can generally fetch the Straits of Juan de Fuca, the prevailing winds being northwest, of a force three to five (Beaufort scale). My experience was that they were to the north, blowing with a force of five to seven, which made it hard sailing for a small craft, combined with a swell and current from the north. The only course was to keep her going with all the sail she could carry, generally with two or three reefs down, which meant the decks awash, and, as she struck a sea, a shower bath for the helmsman.

IV

July 17. — Latitude 43.36 north, longitude 129.45 west. I woke to hear an ominous wash of water and my bed felt wet. Exploring, I found four inches of water on the cabin floor and everything more or less damp along the sides as it ran up as she rolled. I started pumping, and after two and a half hours I could see the keel, and at the same time I felt that I had had all I wanted of this sort of exercise. So I got some breakfast and pumped out again, which took a quarter of an hour. As I had been only half an hour at breakfast, to keep the water down would mean twelve hours a day pumping. As we were some two hundred and fifty miles from land, this did not seem good. After some seeking, I found a small stream was running in from the shaft aperture. The packing from the outside packing box had evidently worn out from the continued motion. There was no inside box, so that all that could be done was to caulk around the shaft very gingerly, as I was afraid of splitting the shaft log. This stopped the leak, and the boat was pumped out dry. My cabin and bed remained damp for the rest of the trip, as it was too wet on deck to dry anything. I tried drying a coat at the mizzenmasthead, but even there the spray got it. The damp bed made me perspire when I lay on it, and the pounding against the sea, as my pillow was against the bow, hurt my ears, how much I did not realize until the lighthouse keeper at Destruction Island hailed me and I could not hear a word he said. My only luxury was to light the oil stove and make a tent over it with my oilskin and dry it out.

A sailor’s life is either a king’s or a dog’s. A king’s when, with all sails set, you slip along enjoying the most glorious air in the world and sunsets and sunrises and starry nights that appeal to all that is good in the human. Or when, in a storm, you sail up the side of a big wave capped by a lot of combers, and, as you get to the top, a little splash, and she is sinking gently down the other side. It is like steeplechasing, only your chases are longer and your fences have an agreeable variation and come to you, and if you enter you have to run. On the other side you have the dog’s life, and I am having a bit of it now. Crawling up of a night from one’s bed along the deck to the forecastle to take reef in the staysail sounds simple, but it means sitting down on the back of a bucking horse to take your reef in, often a bucket of water in your lap and a fair chance of being hydraulicked into the briny by some wayward comber. There was only a couple of minutes’ work, but it would often take twenty, as you had to drop everything and hold on.

Darwin, in his voyage round the world in the Beagle, called the ocean ‘a tedious waste, a desert of water.’ Not so to the sailor; it is his battleground, where he fights continually with the weather. No ship has been built that can disregard it, and a careless move in the game may mean loss of life or vessel. In fine weather you have to polish your weapons and prepare for storms. In storms you go well armed for the fight and you can probably hold your own.

July26. — As the sun rose in Eastern Oregon, it silhouetted the Cascade Mountains into the sky, above a bank of mist which hid the land. A little later, as the shadows grew shorter, I could recognize the peaks of the Cascades, Three Sisters, Diamond, and Cowhorn — old friends, as I ran stock in Silver Lake, Oregon, for six years. To-day is the eightieth day we have been at sea, and we have seen only one vessel during that time. In the forenoon the mist cleared off and I sighted land, my noon sights putting me fifteen miles west and two north of Cape Foul Weather on the Oregon coast. It was rather a temptation to go into Newport, where there is a big summer camp, as we farmed in the Willamette Valley after leaving Eastern Oregon and I should probably have come across old neighbors. It was our custom, after the grain was shocked and the contract for the threshing let, to put the family in a spring wagon with a camp outfit and drive down to the coast. The sands are fine going as the tide goes out. So, from my previous travels, I was able to identify the beaches. My game now was to beat up north fairly close to the shore and head out to sea about six for the night, and at 2 A.M. lay for the shore again.

By the first of August I was off Grays Harbour — a perfect morning. At one in the afternoon, in first reef; two, in second; three, in third; four, hove to well offshore, with the sea getting up. As we stood along the coast next day near Cape Elizabeth, about thirty feet on the lee bow, a round rock, about six feet in diameter, appeared out of the water. I had to stand on, as I had no room to wear and too much swell to be certain of tacking. My trouble was that I had not expected to have to sail this coast and had on board only a chart eighty miles to the inch. Next day I sighted Destruction Island, and the keeper sent a boat off telling me I was right amongst the rocks. This I found out afterward, as I could not hear a word he said, and he reported that I would not answer — which was the truth.

On the seventh of August, with a stiff breeze and a heavy swell, I was watching the shore about two miles off when I heard a sudden roar, and there on the weather bow, about forty yards off, was a chunk of rock about twenty feet square and fourteen feet high that appeared out of the water, which was cascading down its sides. I put the helm up and wore, standing back as near as I could the way I had come. This bit of the coast is called the ‘Bone Yard of the Pacific’ and I believe it deserves its name.

On the ninth of August, off La Push, a small harbor thirty miles south of Cape Flattery. As I had only two gallons of water left, I hailed a fisherman, and he gave me a tow in. I did not like to start my own engine, as it might start the leak again. We got in about. 4 P.M. and anchored. I cleaned myself a bit, and landed on some sand. From the sand a sidewalk ran up the street. As I walked up it, two ladies came along and I sidled to the right, and just as they came near I went off the sidewalk to the left, my legs taking charge. I saw them laughing.

I could not get a wire off that night, as it was Sunday, but struck a Good Samaritan in the wife of the Indian Agent, who set before me salmon, eggs, bacon, tomatoes, corn, and potatoes, apple pie, peaches, berries, cheese, honey and butter, hot cakes and coffee. I felt rather embarrassed, not knowing what to eat first. She would not take any payment, saying, ‘Wait till a young man comes along and I’ll take it out of him.’

Next morning at 6 A.M. a face appeared in the hatchway. It was my faithful son George, who had journeyed as far as Neah Bay to look for me, when my wire was intercepted, and he came on down in a fish boat to La Push. We were towed back to Neah Bay by Margaret, Captain Christenson, and arrived at 5 P.M., where we met the Dominion Government lighthouse tender S.S. Behring, Captain Ewans, which Colonel Wilby had told George could tow us back to Victoria if we came in. Leaving that night, we arrived in Victoria at 4 A.M., August 11. Landing, we were welcomed by a government official (caretaker of the Government Liquor Store), and so up town to bed. George had steered all the way from La Push.

When I landed, my ankles were swollen and my weight had dropped from 222 pounds to 182 pounds. I was deaf and a bit weak, all, I think, due to my having to lie on damp bedding. My hands were covered with calluses. A month at George’s home on Mayne Island, with good cooking and playing with my grandchildren, set me up again, although I am still a bit deaf. The time at sea was ninety-seven days actually outside the heads in the open sea; this, they tell me, is a world’s record for a single-hander. If so, I am well rewarded for rather a tough trip, as I was seventy-seven years of age and six foot four in height, neither of which facts is convenient for traveling, but I have to thank my parents, who endowed me with a good constitution.

Calling the distance traveled, at a conservative estimate, about five thousand miles, and the time at sea ninety-seven days, this would work out about fifty and a half miles a day. This does not seem much, especially as I had only two days’ calm, but I lost quite a bit when laid up, heaving to, and with bad weather, currents, and so forth, on the return journey, which was a dead beat for sixty days, except about eight hours’ fair wind off the mouth of the Columbia River. I am afraid my yarn is rather a wet one and very egotistical, but what else can you expect from a single-hander ? They are all cranks, anyhow.