THE INSECT by Phil Gordon

We had left Beveridge Reef, that invisible atoll in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, with the prospect of a modest trade wind wafting us gently but firmly towards Tonga. Blue sky, blue sea with small, very small, white-caps, flying fish and dolphins was what we had in mind. By the second day it was clear that our wish was not to be granted – the weather was deteriorating rapidly and before long it was blowing 35 knots with driving rain and a considerably increased sea state. Was this really the South Pacific, that ocean that we had sailed 10,000 miles to experience?

The companionway door was closed to prevent the rain driving into the saloon, but the sliding hatch could be left open so I was able to stand in the dry with my head and shoulders outside and view the scene. And what a magnificent scene it was, exciting even. The seas directly on our stern were large and steep with frothy crests. As each one bore down on us it appeared certain that it would crash down on the counter. But no, every time Deliverance would lift her elegant bum and the sea would pass harmlessly underneath giving us a short burst of speed. Time and time again I watched this exhilarating performance.

Jill’s watch and a time for me to catch up on some sleep. I rigged the lee cloth and climbed into bed. Jill was able to keep watch sitting on the chart table, from where she could see the compass and look out through the windows on the wild weather. I had not been stretched out for long when she announced that a strand of wire in the aft starboard lower was broken. “Are you sure?” – “I’m sure”. I lay there for a while

Deliverance approaching the Marquesas.

Photo Mike Whibley

contemplating this. Going out there was not an attractive prospect, but nor was losing the mast and in that event the recriminations did not bear thinking about. I crawled out of bed, pulled on my oilies and launched myself into the outside world.

On hands and knees I crept along the side deck, then peered at and felt the offending shroud. No problems. I crawled back to the cockpit, took my oilies off and headed back down below to bed. Not many minutes had passed before Jill stated, “Either there is a broken wire or there is an insect holding on to the bottom of the shroud”. Now there was food for thought. I would much rather snuggle down in bed than crawl around the deck again ... but an insect! I lay there wondering just what kind of insect might hold on in 35 knots, driving rain and the occasional deluge of salt water. Even David Attenborough would be hard pressed to come up with such a creature.

Oilies on again and back to the recalcitrant bit of rigging for another look. This time I found it – the broken wire, not the insect. On the tight turn where the wire wraps around the thimble there were one, possibly two, broken strands. Two out of seven is not good. Back to the cockpit for a plan of campaign. I pulled a stout length of line from the lazarette, struggled into my safety harness and made my way forward. Climbing up the rope ratlines in rough weather is not easy – as each ratline takes one’s weight, the two supporting shrouds move closer together making the foothold slack and very wobbly, and with every foot gained in height there is a corresponding increase in the already violent motion. The plan was to tie a bowline immediately above the crosstrees and lead the line down to a winch on deck, thus taking the strain off the damaged shroud.

Having reached the crosstrees, all I had to do was tie a bowline and descend. To tie a bowline one normally needs two hands, but here I was 20 feet above the deck needing both hands just to maintain the status quo. I wrapped one leg and one arm around the mast, sort of giving me one free hand. Could I tie a bowline? No, I could not. Many years ago I was a climbing instructor. I recall standing at the top of a gritstone cliff telling the novice at the bottom how to tie a bowline. “Make a loop. No, other way round. No, loop on the inside”. Just how many ways are there of making a loop in a bit of rope? “The rabbit comes out of its hole, no, out, not in. Round the tree, not that tree, other way round the bloody tree”. I felt like that novice. Whilst cruising one must tie a bowline at least once a day, usually several times. That means that over the last three years I have tied that ubiquitous knot a thousand times, maybe double that. Gripping on up there, the Pacific Ocean doing its best to shake me off, I was intellectually incapable of achieving that simple task. Much bad language and the knot was tied. Jill caught the flailing rope which was duly wrapped around a winch and the strain eased from the shroud. In fact in my enthusiasm on the winch I started to bend the mast. I hadn’t realised our winches were that powerful.

I checked to establish that the rest of the rig was insect free, at deck level at least. Then down below to dry off and return to bed. Hang on, think about this, my off-watch time was over. I looked at my bed longingly. “Go on Phil, get your head down, I’m all right here”. Jill can be a gem at times.