TOM CUNLIFFE

TOM CUNLIFFE THE BRILLIANCE OF BRILLIANT

A rollercoaster voyage on the schooner Brilliant with philosopher, seaman and friend George Moffett

ILLUSTRATION CLAUDIA MYATT

Ifirst met the schooner Brilliant back in 1983 in Mystic Seaport, Connecticut, USA. She was 51 years old and was working as a sail-training vessel. The following morning, I was aboard racing round the cans. This was long enough ago for her skipper to have done time as a Grand Banks schoonerman. He was a hard case and we eclipsed the opposition, mainly through the tireless efforts of George Moffett, the skipper’s number two, who had the hands switching fisherman staysails the size of a pub car park at each tack to keep those vital topsails pulling to leeward of the fore gaff. When I stopped sweating after this workout, Moffett and I began one of those saltwater friendships that holds for a lifetime.

In 1931, Olin Stephens, then only 22 years old, was commissioned by Walter Barnum to draft a yacht capable of being rolled over in a hurricane and coming up intact. Equally demanding was the statement that every piece of material, whether wood or metal, be literally perfect for the use intended.

Brilliant was launched in the depths of the depression by Nevins on City Island, a stone’s throw from Manhattan. Barnum knew what he wanted and added that the yacht be as fast, weatherly and handsome as possible. Nevins didn’t let him down. Nor did Stephens, but after crossing the Atlantic in under 16 days, she was soon commandeered by the US Coastguard for war service before being bought by Briggs Cunningham, a man of many parts who I once watched racing a sports car against Stirling Moss at Oulton Park in the 1950s. He gave her to Mystic Seaport Museum in 1953.

The next time I shipped out in Brilliant was in the autumn of 2000. Now under Captain Moffett, she had just won the transatlantic Tall Ships’ Race and was homeward bound. I was signed on as ‘pilot and watchkeeper’. First impressions are important, and as I strolled down the dock in Gosport I saw that George had not let things slip. No ‘gold-plater’ in Saint-Tropez could beat the perfection of her varnish, unblemished after 4,000 stormy miles. Her pre-war bronze winches shone like the sun while her gold-leaf cove line looked fresh from the painters.

Brilliant’s race crew had paid off. A fresh team flew in from the States that night, augmented by a Brit or two, and we left in the morning, bound for Cowes. The weather served up just what nobody wants with a green crew. Some of the deckhands had never sailed before and hardly any had operated a big schooner. Christine the mate rose to the challenge with a briefing I wished some of my Yachtmaster Instructors could have heard, and away we went into a rising force seven with driving rain and visibility you could cut with a blunt saw.

My job was to keep Brilliant in deep water while George and Christine somehow managed the willing hands into setting a

remarkable spread of canvas. As soon as the gaff foresail and boomed staysail were sheeted home off Southsea, the boat overtook her engine, carrying a touch of lee helm. Next, Christine invited Theo, a strong lad from the Isle of Wight, to join a lighterweight American girl and try their strength on the main halyard. They did the ship proud and, as the last inches of luff were cranked up, someone hit the sheet and Brilliant took off at eight knots, a wall of water swishing aft down the side decks. All trace of lee helm was swept away as I experienced the remarkable balance shifts that are part of the schooner-rig package. While a couple of novices filled their wellies out in the ‘Green Room’ on the lowslung bowsprit, the number two jib was let out of its cage and the log swung onto the thick side of nine.

Brilliant was now tracking as if on tramlines but we were rapidly running out of Solent. How Moffett and his mate were going to tack her was still a mystery as I slipped them the wink. As though setting field placings for a scratch game of baseball at a Sunday-school treat, they deployed their awestruck crew. I spun the wheel. Brilliant’s head swung steadily through the wind as the backstays were shifted and the jib sheet was thrown off the winch. All that was needed now was to heave in the new sheet. The cranking seemed endless with the winchman’s eyes popping, before the longed-for cry of, “That’s well” rang out and he subsided into the scuppers.

Full-and-bye once again, we thundered away towards Gilkicker. We couldn’t see the fort in the driving mist, but it had been there the previous day so we let her rip. Nine knots and a half eats the life out of a foul neap tide and a couple more tacks brought us into Cowes with our blood fizzing.

By the time we swung merrily home together from the Island Sailing Club, the Americans had organised a sort of ‘swear box’ for the Brits, who had to pay up every time they took the ship’s name in vain by using “brilliant” to describe excellence. In my case, being charged a pound for so innocuous a crime made a refreshing departure from the usual heavy hit on behalf of the lifeboat every time I revert to dockland vocabulary. Happily, reciprocation was not difficult. Although strong language was rarely heard from the Yankees, when it came, its colour and creativity did credit to the seafarer’s ancient calling.

Two mornings later we were in Weymouth looking to a dawn start for rounding Portland Bill inside the race. The wind was forecast southeast six, veering southwest and strengthening. More rain was in the air as we slipped our lines, with me pointing out that even near slack water a southeaster can shove the tide rip right up to the rocks if it’s blowing hard enough.

“She can take it,” was George’s confident reply. So we set course to try our luck off the Bill.

Half a mile short of the lighthouse we ran into the overfalls, with big square stoppers lining up ahead as we motor-sailed onwards at seven knots. I looked forward, reassured myself that the watch had clipped on and uttered the ancient sailor’s prayer,

“For what we are about to receive…”

The low cliffs of the Bill were a quarter-mile to leeward as we smashed into the first of the race. I’d been worse than apprehensive, but I needn’t have worried. Brilliant didn’t even slow down. The seas swishing aft broke against hatches and burst skywards, reminding me of a Northumbrian promenade in an easterly gale and me, a kid, leaping between them, but there was no escaping this avalanche. We hardly pitched as we bored through it, submerging the whole length of the deck, but in no time it was all over and we were squaring away for Devon. For good measure, the wind now breezed up to a full 40 knots, forcing us to drop the main, double-reef, then re-hoist it in a madhouse of buffeting Dacron and flying spray.

I glanced at Christine while all this was going on. She and Moffett were directing three youngsters at the forward end of the boom as I cracked my biceps passing the clew lashing. The five of them were so relaxed they could have been discussing the agenda for the next parish council meeting. Meanwhile, a young lady at the wheel who would have left Julia Roberts trembling for her job, kept the schooner firmly to her business with a natural touch that many a racing helm would have envied. So cool were the whole lot of them that I started to see how the Yankees held onto the America’s Cup for so long.

Lyme Bay’s gone in a forenoon watch at 10 knots with a bit extra thrown in for Old Glory, and by early afternoon we were off Berry

Head. A quick beer, a session in the excellent drying room at Dart

Marina, then away into the night again with a schooner’s breeze under Cassiopeia, bound for

Ireland and home. George Moffett died 10 years ago, still a young man in his mid-60s. Philosopher, seaman extraordinary, and my friend, he was, simply, unique.