THE GIG by Humphrey Barton

(It’s easy to forget that, together with his sailing skills and impressive number of ocean passages, our Founder was also an outstanding writer. The following account first appeared in The Sea and Me, a collection of fifteen true stories published in 1952. It is reproduced here with the permission of Hum’s son Peter and daughter Pat, both OCC members of very long standing. The former explained that, ‘my Dad spent the first year or two of World War Two with the Royal Engineers in the Orkneys, and when he asked to be moved to somewhere more interesting he was sent to the Shetlands!’

I would also like to thank Past Vice Commodore George Curtis, who spotted The Gig in The Marine Quarterly and drew it to my attention – and who points out that, had this voyage turned out differently, our Club would not exist!)

No one likes to tell the world of their mistakes and it is with some doubt and hesitation that I begin this yarn. I hope, however, that it may be a warning to people who contemplate coastwise cruising in unsuitable craft. Time and experience, trial and error, have evolved the correct proportions of any boat, yacht or ship. If any one dimension be reduced or exaggerated to excess then that craft will almost certainly prove to be unseaworthy in certain conditions. I have cruised many thousands of miles in all sorts of small craft and have only rarely found myself in danger from the sea itself. An open boat properly handled will survive quite severe conditions, but even if she is correctly proportioned there is a definite limit to what she will stand. How closely we approached that limit I leave you to judge for yourself.

The first time I saw Foula was from the bridge of an 800-ton cargo steamer bound from Stromness in the Orkneys to Lerwick in the Shetlands. It was getting dusk and we had just left Fair Isle a mile or two to starboard, and were rolling heavily to a long swell, when I sighted away to the northwest a small high island, jet black against a pale violet sky. I could not for the life of me think of any island that lay right out there in the Atlantic, so mysterious and so lonely. Finally I asked the captain. ‘That is Foula,’ he replied. ‘It lies 26 miles west of Scalloway and it is the most western of the Shetlands.’

This sounded interesting, so I looked it up in the North Sea Pilot and discovered that it is quite a small island, only three miles long by two miles broad, and that it has five distinct mountain peaks. The highest is the Sneug, which rises to 1373ft (418m) and descends casually to a cliff which falls a sheer 1200ft (366m) on the west side of the island. I decided then and there that one day I would visit Foula. I wanted to stand on the edge of that tremendous cliff and look down into the sea. (When it came to the point, I found it better to lie and not stand.)

In Shetland I learnt more about Foula. It is pronounced ‘Fool-er’ like ‘cooler.’ The population was then (1943) about 80, of whom more than 50 were aged over 50. The people are crofters but spend much of their time fishing and fowling. The great skua breeds on the island as do many other seabirds. The island even has its own peculiar mouse, found nowhere else in the kingdom. All this on a two by three island!

The first thing to be done, of course, was to find a sailing boat and then to train a 49

crew. I searched Lerwick harbour for a suitable craft and soon found a Naval gig. She was lying on a quay, half full of rainwater, utterly neglected and simply filthy. I learned that the Navy owned her and I at once asked if she might be lent to the Royal Engineers for training purposes. The suggestion was not approved. However, I was determined to have that gig. She was a really lovely boat, double-skin carvel and most beautifully built, two-masted, with dipping lugs of almost equal size.

A few days later the Navy, most fortunately, required a mobile crane of ours. The rest was simple, and the gig was lent, complete with all her gear and without any more fuss. I was so pleased that I threw in the crane driver for luck. We set to at once and fitted her out. There were plenty of volunteers. Not one had ever been in a sailing boat before, but they learned very quickly.

The boat had an amazing turn of speed off the wind – I believe that they can do 10 knots under ideal conditions. We lost three masts in quick succession until it dawned on me that the Navy never sit these boats up, and that shrouds are essential if the crew are kept up to windward. We fitted one shroud to each mast and shifted it over to the other side every time we tacked. What with dipping both lugsails round the masts, fleeting both shrouds and shifting the foresail sheet block across, it might be thought that turning to windward up narrow channels would be a little difficult; but in point of fact the crew became so adept that it was all quite simple. Eventually they became so quick that when it breezed up and a reduction of sail became necessary, they could shift the tack tackles and sheet blocks on to the reef cringles whilst the gig was in stays, and by the time we were sailing full on the other tack both reefs in both sails were down except for rolling up the foot and tying the points.

Having sailed several times round Bressay, the island off Lerwick, and having visited every island and rock within ten miles, we sailed to the Out Skerries one weekend. They are a small group of inhabited islands 25 miles north-northeast of Lerwick. It was an uneventful trip except for the fact that we arrived back only just before a heavy gale from the southwest. The Shetlands seem to lie rather close to the track of the frequent depressions that come rushing in from the Atlantic, and the wind can increase very rapidly.

Having exhausted the Lerwick district as a cruising ground and still thinking of lonely Foula, we sailed the gig south round Sumburgh Head to Scalloway. The distance was 50 miles and the passage took two whole days as the wind was light and variable. We came back from Scalloway by road in about 15 minutes, the distance across the island being less than six miles.

Our new base offered great possibilities. Within a 5 mile radius of Scalloway there were nearly 30 islands for us to explore. In bad weather we could sail in sheltered water under the lee of the islands when conditions outside were impossible. In strong westerly winds the spume from the swell breaking on the outer islands would drift into the inner waters and we would sail through a layer of froth that covered acres of sea. Sometimes we would slip out between the islands and for an hour or two ride the great seas outside. And nearly always we could see the peaks of Foula rising temptingly in the west. ‘When are we going to Foula?’ the crew would ask. But I was waiting for the right weather. There was no great hurry and we were gaining valuable experience all the time. It came at last – a perfect Saturday morning and an excellent weather forecast. There were three volunteers – Captain E H Davies, Regimental Sergeant Major T Colclough and Corporal Lowe. All Sappers, all young, keen and by now thoroughly experienced in handling the boat. There should have been two more, but unfortunately they were on leave.

There was very little wind when we left Scalloway at about midday. We rowed and drifted down to Hamna Voe and landed at the quaint little pier to wait for a wind.

Some of us wandered to the summit of the little island. In the clear northern air Foula looked absurdly close, but it was still about 21 miles distant. All around us were scattered the little brown islands, pounded by the sea into every conceivable shape. To the northeast, Scalloway lay tucked neatly round the head of the bay with blue peat smoke rising straight up from its chimneys and the heather-covered mountains rolling away into the distance. Half a dozen bright-varnished Norwegian fishing boats swung idly to their moorings on a glassy sea. The cool northern sunlight was lighting up the whole magnificent seascape in the most delicate pastel shades, producing an effect never seen in southern waters. At our feet lay our beautiful gig, her long, lean hull and short varnished spars perfectly reflected in the clear, calm water.

We did not have to wait long for a wind. It came in gently from the south, little dark patches on the turquoise sea. We pushed off at once. The tide was running to the south (at an unknown speed) and we just kept Foula fine on the port bow. The wind soon freshened to a 10 knot breeze, and on a broad reach we covered the 20-odd miles in less than four hours. It was all just too easy. We sailed into the tiny harbour of Ham Voe and tied up to a small stone quay. This is the only harbour in the island and, despite the fact that it lies on the east side, the westerly swell finds its way in during bad weather when every boat has to be hauled out up the rough beach at the head of the Voe.

We were followed into the harbour by a small sailing boat that had been fishing off the island. One of the crew was the husband of Mrs Smith, the schoolmistress, and he took us up to their house. Nothing was too much trouble for these kind people. We were lent the ‘Proprietor’s House’ for the night. The house did not appear to have been lived in for some time and things seemed rather damp and musty, but we soon had a peat fire going and made ourselves comfortable.

During the night it blew hard from southwest and next morning was dull and damp with the Sneug lost in grey, ragged cloud. We climbed it and were nearly lost ourselves. Descending on the west side we emerged from the driving white mist of the clouds, got our bearings, climbed another slight rise and found ourselves, suddenly, on the edge of the stupendous cliff, the highest in the British Isles. From such a height the sea did not look particularly rough and the crew presaged a good passage back, but I knew from the broken water at the base of the cliff that there was a fairly heavy sea running, and my heart sank within me.

Having dropped a few rocks over the edge – they took ten seconds to reach the bottom – we returned to Ham Voe by way of the north end of the island and had lunch.

I found it very difficult to decide what to do. The wind had certainly moderated considerably, but I did not altogether like the look of the weather. Prudence demanded that we should stay, but we were short of food and I hated to sponge off the islanders, who were themselves short of many items. We were all due back the following morning and there might be all sorts of trouble if we failed to turn up. The crew did not understand my hesitation – they had complete confidence in myself and the boat, bless ’em. Weakly I decided to go. Never have I done a more foolish thing. Fortunately, I had sense enough to lower the foremast and shift the mainmast to the centre step. This gave us 143ft2 (13∙3m2) of sail nearly in the middle of the boat – a very snug rig. The harbour was so sheltered that the crew were astonished and obviously thought my caution excessive. They changed their minds later.

Gigs sailing close-hauled, in photos thought to have been taken in the early 20th century

We left at about 1500 and, steering east-by-south, soon lost sight of the island in the fine driving rain. As we lost the shelter of the land the sea increased, but it was well abaft the beam and the gig was running cleanly at 5 or 6 knots with wind and sea on the starboard quarter. For about an hour all went well, and I was beginning to think that we might yet make a good passage, when quite suddenly we found ourselves among heavy breaking seas. I bore right away at once, but a few minutes later a big sea broke alongside. It poured in over the port gunwale, a foaming torrent of roaring white water. It filled my seaboots and it was icy cold, cold as the touch of death. The crew were dazed by the suddenness of it all. ‘Bail,’ I yelled. ‘Bail like hell!’ And bail they did.

I confess I felt sick with fright. I realised only too well what a mess we were in. But the boat was still afloat. She certainly had a lot of water in her, but it was far less than I expected. When a sea breaks aboard it looks much worse than it really is, as it is mostly froth.

I brought the boat on the wind and we soon bailed her clear. And there we lay, close-hauled, starboard tack and heading about south, riding a sea that was running most dangerously high. No one on the mainland knew we were at sea. No shipping in sight, and no prospect of seeing any. In fact not the slightest hope of assistance should the worst come to the worst. It all looked pretty grim to me, but I doubt whether the others ever realised how serious the position was.

By taking a careful look to windward when on the crest of each sea one could, I found, get a fair idea of what was coming. Many a bad sea could be avoided by bearing away in ample time. Others we missed by hardening sheet and sailing the gig as close as she would go. But it was the most anxious work. Time and time again it seemed that nothing could save us. Several more seas broke aboard, but fortunately never two in quick succession, and the crew were always able to bail her clear before another fell upon us.

How high the seas were running it was difficult to estimate, but we were all agreed that they were much higher than our mast. Height itself does not matter, of course – it is in the breaking crest that lies the danger, and far too many were curling over and bursting into a mass of white roaring water that fairly numbed one to the marrow.

I considered the possibility of returning to Foula, but the risk of missing the island altogether was too great. I realised that the sea was largely caused by a very strong weather-going tide running south against a heavy swell. The North Sea Pilot gives the strength of the tide as 2 knots. The people of Foula had said 4–6 knots but, knowing how common it is for the strength of a tide to be exaggerated, I regret to say that I had not altogether believed them. I S Holbourn in his book The Isle of Foula, which I read later, says that the tide off the Hoevdi Grund, an extensive rocky bank which lay just to the southwest of us, runs at 9–10 knots at springs. The 16,000 ton liner Oceanic was lost there in 1914.

I hoped that we were far enough to the eastward to miss that shoal, but even so things looked bleak beyond words. We could not continue indefinitely to lie more or less hove-to heading south. We must at all costs get in somewhere before dark. I could have kicked myself for getting into such a mess.

For three hours we rode those seas. I hope I never have a worse three hours. But I had made my plans by then – a somewhat desperate plan, but it seemed our only hope. The seas were not quite so vicious and I guessed that the tide must be on the turn. ‘We will run for Walls,’ I told the crew. ‘It lies dead to leeward of us and is nearer than Scalloway. I have not been there, but I know all about it and I am sure it is the best place for us. Now when I bear away pay out the anchor warp astern. Give me the end now and I will pass it under the horse.’

I waited my chance and then bore right away. The crew paid out the 25 fathoms of 2½in manila*. A great sea came rolling up astern. It was on the verge of breaking. Rapidly it overtook us. We soared to the summit. Gunwales amidships nearly awash. Crest spattering spray all over the boat. Going like a surfboard. Drag warp bar-tight. But it held the boat square to the sea. Time and time again that rope saved us from broaching-to.

Like an arrow the gig ran northeast, a mere speck on a great heaving ocean. Ahead lay a dead lee shore with only one possible refuge, and that a mere hole in the rocks. I had only a vague idea as to our position, for our compass was a miserable prismatic, and I had no parallel rulers – not that I could have used them in such conditions. If my navigation was at fault... But I dared not think about it. In any case, I had plenty to think about in steering the boat. Although the rudder was a good deep one, extending well below the hull, we found that frequently when on the crest of a great comber the blade was out of the water. Then the tiller just went sloppy in one’s hand and the

* This equates to 150ft (46m) of 63mm diameter manila. When wet, as it undoubtedly was, this would have been a nightmare to handle.

rudder became quite useless at the most critical moment. It was on those occasions that the drag rope acted as a brake and steadied her.

Owing to the great length of the boat in proportion to her beam and depth, our freeboard amidships when perched on a crest was perilously slight. We had already jettisoned everything of little value and we had concentrated the few remaining weights in the middle of the boat so as to make the ends as buoyant as possible. We pulled up the centreplate after which there was nothing more we could do except run northeast, bail when necessary, and trust in the Lord.

From about 1900 we ran square before wind and sea. It had become a race against time. We must get in before dark, for I knew that we would not last long when darkness fell. Fortunately, it would not be dark until about 2300. The crew were all seasick by this time and the corporal had received a stunning blow from the mainsheet block which more or less put him out of the picture.

I have forgotten how many seas came aboard. One burst alongside with such fury that some of the crew momentarily disappeared from my sight. But Davies and Colclough always had her bailed clear before we took another aboard. They were a dauntless pair. By keeping a close lookout astern I found that I could avoid many a bad sea by altering course as necessary, but I had only a brief moment, when on the crest, for that glance astern. Some of the seas we evaded could have overwhelmed us with the greatest of ease.

Visibility improved slightly and at about 2100 we sighted land ahead, distant six to seven miles. It was a great moment, but all we got was an occasional fleeting glimpse of a bleak and rocky coast. The little harbour of Walls lies behind a small island named Vaila and at the head of Vaila Voe. There are two entrances to the Voe – Wester Sound and Easter Sound. Both are narrow, and as Wester Sound appeared from the chart to have several nasty rocks right in the fairway, I chose the other one. But the difficulty would be to identify it, as I knew that from seaward the island would look as if it were all part of the mainland of Shetland. Fortunately I remembered that there was a coastguard lookout hut on the clifftop just eastward of Easter Sound.

Gradually the distance lessened. Soon we could see flashes of white against the dark cliffs when the rollers burst on the rocks below and the spray flew halfway up the cliffs. We appeared to be heading for certain destruction. There was not a break to be seen in those cliffs.

We ran on until we were about three miles from the coast, and then lowered the sail so that I could get a better view of the land. Hanging on to the mast, my sodden oilskins flapping around me, I strained my eyes to identify something. It was difficult, as the land was in sight for only a second or two when on the crest of a sea. At last I spotted a small speck on the hillside. But was it the coastguard hut or just an outcrop of rock? I waited for the next sea. It seemed to take an age to come along. I climbed up on the thwart. Up went the gig again, this was a bigger sea than the last. There was the land again, miles of it – miles of unbroken cliff. Where was my speck? There it was, dead ahead now. Was it a hut? Yes. No. Yes, it was a hut. I was almost certain it was a hut. But supposing it was another hut... There just could not be more than one hut on such a desolate coast. I climbed down from my perch, and was about to tell the crew I had sighted the hut and that we had nothing more to worry about when I saw the father and mother of all seas coming up astern.

The dramatic illustration, drawn by J Chancellor, which accompanied the story in The Sea and Me

‘Hang on, chaps,’ I shouted as I scrambled aft to the tiller. But I was only halfway there when it burst over the stern with a shattering roar. Colclough was steering, and he disappeared from sight. I thought for a moment that it was the end. But no, the gig was still afloat, although she had the devil of a lot of water in her. The crew bailed her clear. I kept the hut fine on the starboard bow – when I could see it – and hoped for the best.

The swell got even greater as we closed with the land. Contrary to general belief we never lost the wind when in the troughs, but I did observe a distinct downdraft every time we were thrown skywards by a sea. I suppose that a big swell must displace by its movement a certain amount of air. And what a monstrous swell it was – never had I seen a bigger one, not even on the west coast of Ireland. We could not have been a mile from the land when, at last, we identified Easter Sound. It appeared to be a mere gap in the cliffs, and the whole place seemed to be a mass of seething white water. It looked hopeless. But there was nothing to be done except run on and hope for the best. It was getting dusk and would be dark in less than an hour.

We lashed the foremast and the furled foresail down to the thwarts to increase our

buoyancy if, as I fully expected, we were swamped. ‘Stick to the boat if she fills up,’ I told the crew. ‘The coastguards have almost certainly sighted us by now, and if we capsize they’ll send something out from Walls to pick us up.’ Later I learnt that the coastguards did not, in fact, sight us until we were actually entering the Sound. The gig was a mere speck in such a sea and would have been visible only when on the crests.

Soon we could hear the roar of the sea on the rocks. Gradually it became louder and louder, and by the time we had reached the entrance it was a thunderous din that fairly put the fear of God into one. The seas were hurling themselves onto the rocks and halfway up the cliffs. I steered for the centre of the opening. A great sea came thundering up astern, picked us up, and hurled us ahead. I thought it would take us right in, but we slid over its back and dropped into a trough so deep that we almost lost sight of the cliffs, close as they were. I glanced astern. An enormous sea was coming along, a great mass of unstable water, and it was on the verge of breaking. The crest was spattering spray. Up went the gig. Up and up she went, gathering speed until we were on the crest, going like smoke, gunwales awash. A fleeting glimpse of Gruting Voe ahead. We were looking right down into it. Then, quite suddenly, we found ourselves in the smooth waters of the Voe. ‘We’ve made it, chaps,’ I said.

We swung sharply to port and groped our way up Vaila Sound in the gathering darkness. It was quite dark when we tied up to a sturdy motor fishing vessel at Walls. A tousled head appeared from a hatch. ‘Where are you from?’ asked the man. ‘Foula,’ I replied. He laughed his disbelief.

Someone shone a torch and I saw the name of his ship. It seemed to strike a familiar chord. ‘Ah,’ I exclaimed. ‘The Smiths told us this morning that they were expecting you today. What are you waiting for?’ and I laughed – it seemed to be my turn.

His face was a study. Almost worth the experience we had been through.

If you enjoy reading Flying Fish you may also enjoy The Marine Quarterly. It describes itself at https://www.themarinequarterly.com/ as ‘112 pages of intelligent sea reading ... published in a useful pocket size, printed on hefty paper, illustrated with woodcuts and line drawings ... greeted with appreciative remarks from readers all over the world’. An annual subscription will currently set you back £44.00.

Founder Member Ian Nicolson reviewed an early issue of The Marine Quarterly in Flying Fish 2011/1. This can be accessed – together with a great deal of other good reading – at https://oceancruisingclub.org/Flying-Fish-Archive.

There’s no thrill in easy sailing when the skies are clear and blue, there’s no joy in merely doing things which anyone can do. But there is some satisfaction that is mighty sweet to take, when you reach a destination that you never thought you’d make. Edgar Guest