The Pacific Crossing: The De-brief

The first few days trundled along merrily, much like our other ocean passages.  We looked out for whales and dolphins, fished and caught a Mahi Mahi, and stargazed at night.  We had finally got into a routine of our watches and began to “live” on the boat rather than just survive like we had on passages before. We both became in tune with the buzz and hum of our friend the autopilot that told us it was working away.

Non-sailors may not understand the importance of an autopilot.  These days, there is virtually no cruising boat that doesn’t have some type of self-steerage.  Ocean sailors do not steer hand on the wheel for thousands of miles.  This may sound like “cheating” but there are in fact lots of other things that you must do while your autopilot is working.  You have to watch and correct for wind angle changes, check the boat is heading at the right compass course, and watch out for anything that you might hit – whales, other boats, fishing nets, logs etc.  So you are actually working pretty hard, not just sitting along for the ride.

Toodles has the top of the range type of autopilot:  a hydraulic ram that pushes the rudder this way and that via a metal collar around the rudder post.  This type of autopilot is particularly good as it is completely independent from the primary steering, and therefore a back up if the steering was to fail.  Another important point regarding this autopilot is that the metal collar that the hydraulic ram is attached to, is also the thing that connects the rudder to the boat.

It was about 9pm on the sixth day, with 2,000 miles to go.  Of course it was dark, that’s the only time that bad things happen. I was sleeping in the back cabin when I heard a bang.  My first thought went straight to autopilot. I could no longer hear it’s sweet hum.  I called up to Gary “Have you still got the autopilot?” “No” was his quick reply.  I instantly thought, there is no way I am hand steering 2,000 miles; it has got to be able to be fixed.  I took the helm while Gary went below and into the back mechanics of the boat.  When he came up he said “It’s f*cked”  “What do you mean?” I ask  “Proper F*cked” was his only reply. 

I eventually got out of him that metal collar that the autopilot was fixed to had broken into pieces, and the ram had also broken off the metal collar.  It could not be fixed.  It could not be pieced back together with anything that we had on board.  There was no way you could reattach the hydraulic ram to the rudder post.  So, as Gary put it, it was proper f*cked. 

At that stage, with the knowledge that the rudder was now compromised, Gary calmly checked our grab bags in preparation for a possible abandonment of the boat.  You might think that this was a bit drastic, but in fact it wasn’t.  Firstly, if the rudder fell out, while falling out it may tear a hole in the boat and sink the boat.  Secondly, even if the boat lost its rudder (ie the only way to steer a boat) without causing damage, there are limited options when you are that far from land. One of the main options being to abandon the boat if you couldn’t regain some type of steerage through the help of passing boats.

We took measures to secure the rudder to the boat the best we could and improved those measures as new ideas came to us over the next few days. The constant fear that the rudder may fall out at any moment never ceased to haunt me.

So began the two hour watches.  It is extremely difficult to hand steer for any longer than this.  You are contending with big waves and swell that push the boat around, wind changes, only stars and clouds as reference points to steer a course to, and on some really cloudy nights with no moon, nothing much more than a number on the compass.  You are also constantly moving the wheel, which is often under significant load, and just that is exhausting.  So for the next six days we were steering for two hours, then sleeping for two hours.  Doing anything other than sleeping or steering was rare.  Having the choice of brushing your teeth, going to the bathroom or even eating came second to sleep most of the time. 

Keeping awake at the helm was a mission.  I tried singing silently to myself, standing up and jumping up and down, then resorted to pinching or hitting myself to keep awake.  Gary found that he fell asleep literally on his feet a couple of times, wheel in hand and only waking to the sounds of the sails flapping. The two hours sleep was never enough.  One night I couldn’t rouse Gary for his shift.  He slept on deck, with his feet in easy reach.  I tried yelling at him, but he wouldn’t wake.  I pulled his toes, hit his legs, picked up his leg and dropped it - nothing.  I continued yelling at him every 5 minutes for the next half an hour, and finally resorted to grabbing his foot by the big toe, lifting up his leg and shaking it until he finally woke.

At about day nine my body shut down from exhaustion. It no longer wanted food.  If I attempted to eat something I would gag and if I managed to force it down I was then rewarded with an urgent trip to the bathroom and stomach cramps.  This result was impossible as it took me away from the helm and meant Gary had less sleep.  So I basically gave up eating, managing on not much more than a few mouthfuls of porridge a day. 

In the early hours of day thirteen, about half an hour before my watch ended, I just lost steering.  I was turning the wheel one way and there was no resistance, nothing, nada.  I woke Gary by the same toe shaking method.  “The steering’s gone” I told him.  It took him a good minute to even comprehend what I was telling him.  He finally got up, turned the wheel himself and agreed, yes, the steering was in fact gone.  Thankfully, the rudder was still there.  Gary again went below and came back telling me that the steering cable was f*cked.  The wire cable that connects the wheels to the rudder had snapped in two.  We left the sails up to steady the boat, and sat for a few very dark moments, contemplating what the hell we were going to do.  I was numb at this point.  We both sat silently as fear, exhaustion and then finally that all encompassing need to survive set in.  We did some trouble shooting on how we could fix the cable, then made a phone call to my fix-anything-father, in the middle of his night I must add, to confirm our plan. 

First, we put out a drogue on a bridle, a long rope trailing out the back of the boat to help with steering. 

Then, on went the emergency tiller.  I was imagining an “L” shaped thing that I could use like the tiller on my sailing dinghy.  No such luck.  The emergency tiller is a metal “T” that fits into a hole in the deck, directly onto the rudder.  The top of the “T” is the handle that you push and pull this way and that.  Now, lets get this straight, it can in no way be called a tiller.  It is impossible to use for any length of time or steer the boat in any sensible direction.  The emergency tiller really only helps to stabilise the rudder so that someone can put their hands near moving parts to fix them.  It took all Gary’s strength to push and pull the tiller.  However, it was not Gary who needed to use the tiller, it was me while he was below fixing the cable.  If it took all Gary’s strength to use, just imagine how it was for me. 

While I began fighting away on the tiller, Gary’s bravado set in.  “Don’t worry Honey, I’m an engineer and I can fix anything!” he announced.  I had no faith in this statement.  I had not much hope at all. As the time ticked away while Gary was attempting a fix, I became more frantic. It quickly became apparent that the emergency tiller was not going to save us.  We were in the middle of the ocean, hadn’t seen any other boats for days, we had no way of getting the boat anywhere, we might loose everything we have, and I there was an actual possibility that I might have to get into the life raft should my worst fears develop.  I will never forget that sense of absolute terror, but then the overwhelming determination just to cope, just to do whatever it takes to save ourselves, and Toodles. 

After nearly 4 hours, Gary announced he nearly had it fixed.  My hope sored.  I looked towards one of the wheels and saw it start to twitch as I moved the tiller.  With the realisation that we might actually be able to get some steering back, I broke down and cried.  This was another unforgettable moment for me, and why I will be forever grateful to have married an engineer.  I finally let go of the emergency tiller and realised I had lost all feeling in my hands.  After five days, I regained feeling in half my right hand and most of my left.  Now, ten days later, I still have no feeling in my left palm. 

Gary’s fix was a massive improvement, but still far from being back to normal.  The cable was loose and so you had to move the wheel a long way before the rudder would respond.  After about an hour, the cable fell off the track and I had to go back to using the emergency tiller while Gary fixed the cable again. This time he made the cable tighter, but even still, the cable was far from normal and difficult to steer the boat in the ocean swells.  Because the cable was loose, the rudder was able to move about 7 degrees without any turn of the wheel, meaning the boat would swerve all over the place.  We continued to tighten the cable over the next few days, finally getting it to a stage that we were able to control the boat under sail.

Days and days passed with exhaustion building.  In anything other than mild conditions, we had to stand to steer because the wheel needed to be turned so much.  So imagine, no food, no sleep, and now the need to stand for two hours at a time, using a lot of energy to turn the wheel in exaggerated movements.  Everything hurt. Our shoulders, obviously, but other things like wrists, elbows, hips, knees and feet, all ached.  Our mouths filled with ulcers and our skin burnt in the unrelenting sun.

When we finally got within motoring distance we turned on the engine to test it out.  After only a few minutes, we realised it was not going to work.  The thrust of the propeller over the rudder exaggerated the play in the rudder. This meant that the boat always wanted to turn and was literally impossible to drive straight. To add to this, when the boat started to turn it wanted to keep on turning, and turn in a tighter and tighter circle. The increased water resistance made the helm so heavy that it was very difficult to turned back.

We sailed on for a few more days, getting closer and closer towards the Marquesas.  Finally, just over a day out and with the possibility of arriving in daylight the following day, we could not stand it anymore.  Gary tightened the cable again and we switched the engine back on.  Using the engine was risky as it increased the pressure on the rudder, and therefore the risk that it might fail.  We decided it was a necessary evil and pushed on.

At first it took all my power to be able to steer generally in the right direction.  Gary then tightened the cable one last time, as much as he dared, finally returning the steering to somewhere in the realm of normality.  Turns out that steering with the engine on in ocean swells is pretty difficult, even when the steering is nearly normal. 

We didn’t see land until early afternoon on the day we arrived.  Out of the haze came a fuzzy silhouette of land.  The island was covered in a misty cloud and we couldn’t see the green of the peaks until we were sailing up the coastline.  I asked Gary what he was most looking forward to about arriving.  “A really good sleep” he told me “you know, one where you wake up with drool on the pillow”. We pulled into harbour and managed to manoeuvre around the very crowded anchorage without hitting any other boats. After the anchor was down, phone calls home were made, and a few stiff drinks were had, we went to bed for that really good sleep.