Seize The Day

INTRODUCTION

CARPE DIEM, - SEIZE THE DAY.- Horace 65-8 BC.- Odes

Seize the Day, before it’s too late. There’s a wonderful world out there waiting to be explored. Today, many forty and fifty-year-olds look with dismay at their future prospects – perhaps it would be better to seize the day and enjoy twenty active years of happy freedom in charge of their own destiny. If you are healthy and enjoy travel – go for it. As Chekhov wrote ‘Life does not come again’ Most of us are lucky enough to now have an extra ten years to enjoy life. In 1982, in our late forties we sold the house and cars, cashed insurance policies; invested two thirds, then spent the remaining £30,000 on our boat to sail away. We haven’t regretted it for a single day.

We have never looked upon ourselves as real sailors, but here we are, Peter and I, twenty years later, on the verge of completing a 60,000 mile circumnavigation by ourselves, in our own boat. There has been so much more to sailing-around-the-world than just sailing. In spite of being an ordinary couple with no introductions to auspicious personages, no rally guide to pave the way, and little money, we have been welcomed into grand houses and native huts, enjoyed the world and relished our freedom.

This book is a brief account of the preparations, the voyaging, and the remote Pacific Islands where, in previous times, the only visitors were missionaries, government officials, traders or slavers. Heavy tropical cloud cover makes navigation using sun sights impossible and traditional sailors shunned the perils of swirling currents and hidden coral reefs. Thanks to advances in electronic navigation, we were among the privileged first visitors to arrive just as friends and be welcomed into island life. It also tells of robbery, shipwreck and the self-discovery of ourselves and our relationship.

Why did we go? Like many others we wanted to escape to a wilderness, a frontier, to test ourselves and live with nature before we died. Life was passing us by as we rushed to work. Our three children had left home and it was time to change down. Perhaps we would blue-water-cruise one day). Suddenly fate pushed us into a decision when a car accident made us realise our time was running out, if we were going to fulfil our dream of returning to the South Pacific, now was the time to seize the day.

A three-year circumnavigation was planned. The kids encouraged us: ‘The sooner you go the sooner you will be back’. None of us realised that once ‘we had drunk the milk of paradise’ it would take twenty years to return.

Now we have a home beside Milford Haven estuary and spend our summers in the Mediterranean slowly sailing west until we cross our outward track at Ibiza. But for the first seven years, the compass of this book, we had no other home than our boat and no other income than the interest on our house sale money, we managed not to eat into our capital, but the stock market did! Then, while in Asia, we cheated a bit, as six years were spent on land while Peter took the opportunity to take up three two-year contracts with his previous American employers, in Taiwan, Singapore and later in Shanghai, where we lived the expatriate life and refilled our cruising kitty and retirement coffers. In these places too we seized the day and were able to explore much of Asia and I found easy friendships with local ladies as well as expatriate wives. The Company included home-leave flights that enabled me to visit family and be there when grand-children arrived. In fact that is one of the astounding spin-offs, never dreamed of when planning our voyage – we have now flown around the world and visited Australia and the USA, more times than I can remember.

As a child who wasn’t clever or beautiful, I knew that it was up to me to make the first efforts towards friendship in each of the eleven schools I attended during WW2. Those experiences have stood me in good stead when rowing ashore alone to remote islands, armed with the knowledge that they don’t eat women (we are unclean), and hoping the islanders think the same way. Sometimes the question is asked ‘but where is your husband?’ To which I usually reply that he has maintenance work to do on Clypeus, but really, he is a shy man who doesn’t enjoy making new friends.

The sea has always charmed and fascinated me. My mother often told the story of her screaming baby sitting in the water’s edge when an angry matron strode up and admonished her: ‘How dare you frighten that poor child by putting her in the sea.’ My mother abjectly replied ‘I’m not putting her in, I’m trying to get her out.’

I love the sea. I love being on it, in it, under it and writing about it. Snorkelling in the aquamarine water of a lagoon is my idea of heaven, the warm water caressing and cleansing my body and my soul. I love being on shore and watching the breakers crash against cliffs; or waves sweeping the beach clean, the froth rolling back like suds in a car wash; or paddling with wavelets plopping on my toes. I love being on the ocean when the sun sparkles on each faceted deep blue ripple, like undulating sapphires.

The forces of nature give a kind of security as there is no purpose in fighting them. You have to endure and have patience until they are in accord with your plans, as when having to linger in frustrating calms, or when the wind billows the sails so that our boat skims through the sea surface and fill ours hearts with joy and the thrill of speed. I love being behind the wheel in light airs, barefoot and scantily clad with the spinnaker flying, encouraging our staid old boat to pick up her skirts and dance for me. The power of a gale excites me when clutching the wheel, feet braced on deck, trying to control our skid down an angry breaking wave. Peter enjoys the solitude, being in charge of his own destiny and the challenge of keeping all our life support systems functioning efficiently as if in a slow spaceship.

There is a peace and trust in a higher being during heavy weather when we furl the sails, close the hatches and cower in the cabin. I’m not sure I could accept fate so easily if I was younger and hadn’t had the joy of children and grandchildren.

I feel privileged to have had the opportunity to sail to remote corners of our planet and meet people still unaffected by material wealth, television or tourists. To enjoy the simple life, close to nature, eating the food available to the local community. I like entering a new country by the back door of a commercial harbour, rather than the crush of bodies waiting behind the white line for the airport Immigration officer’s silent curt nod, the grim inspection of passports and faces, his power in stamping and handing back your identity. We have to anchor, row ashore, scour the shoreline for Harbour Control, Police, Immigration and Customs office, to present ourselves and our papers. Perhaps stopping for an ice cream or beer between offices, then walking to buy fresh bread, fruit and vegetables from the real people. It isn’t always a good experience but we are usually welcomed with courtesy and friendliness. Now, efficient clean marinas greet blue-water sailors, but we were lucky enough to cruise at a time when we were part of the general shipping world, before electricity, radio or TV sullied the waters and clouded national characteristics.

I enjoy cruising yachtsmen and women. I admire their courage, determination and resourcefulness. Most are humble, knowing they could be zapped at any time. Nature is capricious and the sea pitiless.

Some of the joys of growing old are that you haven’t got to worry about dying young, nor, as a traveller, are you a threatening person. A young man arriving at a lonely island is approached with caution - he may be after food, a woman, possessions or even your land, and a young woman could have come to seduce your man, take your child or even just eat more than her fair share of food.

There is so much more to a voyage around the world than just sailing. We discovered that the poorer the people, the more generous they are. We didn’t think it would happen to us, but we did meet people who considered it an honour to welcome a guest from a foreign land. Seize The Day tells of the first seven years of our circumnavigation and affords some glimpses of island life we were privileged to share. This book is dedicated to islanders everywhere.

The more I have, the more I want

The more I want, the less I have,

The less I have, the less I want

The less I want, the more I have.

Babylonian Philosophy

Shirley Billing

Burton Ferry

April 2012

CHAPTER ONE - CLYPEUS

I sit in the cockpit, freezing cold and scared stiff. My ears pricked, listening out for the slightest noise. The cold damp fog wraps itself around me like a soggy blanket. Is that sound of a gourmet licking his lips actually waves slurping against the rocks off Cap Barfleur? Is that thump, thump, thump, my heart beating, or the throb of the engine of one of the four hundred merchant ships that pass this way every day and could mow us down without trace?

A couple of hours ago Peter, my husband and captain, (assuming I have the title of Admiral) sank, exhausted, onto the saloon settee after wrestling unsuccessfully with a seized-up engine, groaning as he dropped, If the echo sounder shows less than thirty feet, head north.

Did we really sell up our home and cars, abandon our family and friends; give up our careers to do this? We must be mad. What insane, romantic, idea of cruising around the world in our own boat, addled our brains and dumped me here, in fog in the English Channel, the world’s busiest shipping lane, at midnight, with no wind and no engine?

Head north! I can’t head anywhere. We’re completely at the mercy of the tide as the limp sails hang, dripping onto the deck of our home, our all. We haven’t even reached our fitting-out destination yet. Crisis has followed crisis since we left St. Katherine’s Dock and sailed down the Thames into the cold, stormy, North Sea.

Most of the blue water sailing books we had read, gave the impression that the voyagers jumped into their boats, waved a cheery goodbye, and sailed off into the sunset. They hadn’t prepared us for the trauma of selling up and the heart-rending good-byes to family and friends. So far, in spite of our brave faces, we aren’t doing very well.

‘It’s all my fault’, I thought. ‘Will we ever be able to buy ourselves back into a comfortable home and find new jobs without severe loss of face and money?’ I recalled when we made our life-changing decision. We were a typical, almost fifty, ‘empty nest’ couple faced with what were we going to do with the rest of our lives now that our three children Paul, Noel and Andrea, had left home.

I remembered gliding along under a billowing spinnaker, barefoot and scantily clad. I thought of the sun-soaked islands, pale blue skies and deep-blue sea of last year’s Greek flotilla charter, and the happy times sailing to France for summer holidays and weekend racing in the Solent.

Those were the only times we really talked to each other. Other times Peter was totally absorbed in his job. At home communications to me were on a ‘need to know’ basis. I no longer said much to him because he didn’t listen anyway. What were we going to achieve working for the next fifteen years? A bigger pension? If we sold up and invested half the money for an income, surely we could manage to sail away? Who would suffer if we pushed off?

Peter trudged up the stairs after working another sixteen-hour day. We had married young (he was 22 and I was 19) while he was still studying. At 25, when he qualified as an Electrical Engineer, he was whipped straight into National Service. We settled in Leicester where he successfully climbed the design/engineering/management ladder. In the sixties his Company sent him to Australia to start up electronics production. Two happy years were spent in Sydney with the three children. We returned to England on the liner Ellenis. The six-week voyage took us to New Zealand, Tahiti, Acapulco and New York. In Tahiti we had said Wouldn’t it be wonderful to come back in our own boat in our own time? It was beyond our dreams - and means - to think it might ever happen.

My imagination raced. Next day I plotted and planned as the snowflakes fell.

The car slid on the black ice and landed upside down in the ditch

Suddenly Fate pushed us into a decision. Peter was late, very late home from a meeting in Leeds. At 11 p.m. the doorbell rang, before me was a white and shaken husband being held up on either side by kindly policemen. He had driven the 400 miles to his meeting and back in continuous snow. About two miles from home the car slid on black ice and landed upside down in a ditch.

As I tucked him into bed he said, The car doors wouldn’t open, they were trapped by the ditch. I crawled out through the tailgate. His teeth chattered as he warmed his hands around a mug of hot soup,

What if it had caught fire? I shuddered at the appalling thoughts that kept crowding in, sat on the bed, took a deep breath and said: What do you think about selling the house, buying a bigger boat and sailing ourselves around the world?"

Yes.

What do you mean yes? You never say yes, it’s always perhaps or maybe.

This time it’s yes. I’ve had enough, I won’t survive driving 30,000 miles a year in America, Europe, and here, he sighed. Remembering on which side of the road I should be doesn’t come automatically any more.

Well, you’ll have to hang on a bit longer. I reckon it’ll take about three years to get it organized. I thought just going cruising wouldn’t be sufficient challenge for you, or a good enough excuse to stop working, but I’d love to sail around the world. We could visit Paul in New Orleans and my parents in Australia on the way.

What about my father? He won’t think much of me giving up?

You’re not giving up - you’re just taking a sensible break. Let’s ‘seize the day’. We will be back in three or four years.

I love you, he said as he snuggled under the covers, the day’s traumas almost forgotten as we started dreaming about our voyage. At that moment our lives and our relationship changed again. Now we had an exciting future to work towards together.

It took us over two years to prepare. First, on the constantly revised lists, was to have medical check-ups, so that it wouldn’t be a crushing disappointment if one of us wasn’t well enough to take off into the wild blue yonder. A couple of minor operations were fitted in. Each weekend we drove to look at boats for sale. In those days, pre radar, Global Positioning Systems, electric anchor winches, roller reefing, computers, e mail or mobile phones, we had the audacity to say we wanted a double bed! One yacht broker said ‘Good gracious. Are you Swedish then?’

We both attended first aid classes and the emergency nurses at Reading Hospital taught me how to give pain-killing injections into grapefruit. We discussed with our doctor the medicines to take and what to do if one of us died on board. He said basically there isn’t much you can do. Keep notes of the illness or accident - you will have to prove you didn’t commit a murder. It will be a major problem lifting the body out of the cabin.

We read everything about sailing and ocean voyaging that we could find. Our guest room filled up with wet-weather-gear, engine and rigging spares, shackles, ropes, charts, books and non-perishable ‘best buy’ stores.

I achieved my Yacht Masters Certificate- which gives me the confidence to argue or make suggestions in the sailing man’s world.

After looking at many boats mostly above our £30,000 budget, we eventually found an Endurance 35’ for £23,000. Yes. I’m sure, this is IT. I whispered, grinning and seeing excitement shining in Peter’s eyes as we walked towards a gleaming white ketch, her triangular metal steps on the gold anodized masts sparkled in the sunlight. Our spirits lifted. Clypeus floated against a pontoon in Brighton Marina, her graceful clipper bow and fine lines immediately attracted us. She looked solid and seaworthy for a ferro-cement hull. The finish was almost as good as a fibre-glass boat.

A bare-footed young man in white shorts and shirt welcomed our Broker and us, on board. The owner introduced himself as Reg and began to show us around, deck first. She certainly looked strong with substantial equipment and rigging.

We followed him down into the cabin. Sun streamed in through the windows on to red velvet cushions and curtains. It looked cosy, like a real home. Excitement mounting, I went down two steps, peeped in the bathroom and closet opposite, then forward into the first bedroom cabin with a double bunk. I could live in this very happily. There will be plenty of storage room in the V berth forward, or for visitors, I hummed.

I think the engine is worn out though, Peter warned, but at this price, we could afford a new one. His smile stretched from ear to ear.

This was the closest to our specification within our budget that we had found. It had most of our requirements: a deep keel, so she would right herself if capsized; two masts, in case one broke; a small cockpit, so that she wouldn’t become unstable if it filled with sea water; a deck saloon to enable us to look out of windows and not feel we were living below the water; and at least two cabins, so that we could get away from each other - to sulk if necessary! No other boat we had inspected had given us that special flutter of excitement. I looked in the bathroom, opened the cupboards built into the side of the hull, noticed the shower and the Lavac toilet which, I noted, needed a new bowl.’

Peter squeezed into the tiny bathroom with me and looked in the capacious cupboard under the sink that contained a gas cylinder for heating water. That will have to come out, he muttered. We’re not having a gas bottle below. Five minutes on board and plans for modifications were already under way. Excitement mounting, we sat on the saloon settee asking pertinent questions about the water capacity? - 125 gallons. Fuel capacity? - 100 gallons.

How many sails and what condition are they in?

Five sails. All OK.

Why are you selling?

"We’ve been chartering out of Portugal. It’s been great, but we’re going to have a baby and my wife wants a proper home. Still, it was good while it lasted. I sailed back from Portugal with a friend last November in a storm and Clypeus handled the Bay of Biscay very well."

When can we go for a trial sail? Tomorrow?

Er, yes tomorrow. OK.

We conferred with the Broker. Please make a firm offer for us at the price asked, subject to survey. We’ll give you a cheque for the 10% deposit now.

Right. Are you sure you want to do this now? Don’t you want to think about it overnight?

No, Peter held my hand as we grinned at each other. We have looked at so many boats and none of them has been as close to our ideal as this.

‘She’s not perfect,’ I thought, ‘but she’s as near perfect as we are going to get within our budget, and with enough left over for new equipment.’

OK. Our broker turned to Reg. My clients wish to make a firm offer. They will give you the deposit now. Do you have the boat papers?" He asked Reg.

Yes, here they are.

And do you agree to sell at the present asking price?

Clypeus being surveyed

It was Reg’s turn to gulp, err yes. OK.

Right, said the Broker, I will hold both the deposit and the boat papers until the sale is completed. He put them in his brief case and firmly locked it.

We were all a bit shocked. It had happened so fast. On the drive back to Emsworth, our broker asked Do you usually make decisions as quickly as that?No, Peter replied we usually take months, except when we know it is right for us, and that boat, er what’s its name again? Is right for us.

"It’s Clypeus" I said, I chatted to Reg about how difficult it was to remember. He said to try and remember ‘cycle-clips and added "Clypeus is" the Greek entomological word for part of the hard carapace of a beetle.

A capricious boat at first, it took time to adjust to her ways, but gradually we adapted and she became a docile lady - always heavy for her size - a matron amongst filpperty-gibbet fibre-glass yachts.

Andrea came with us for our first weekend on board. The batteries were flat, so no engine, lights or pumped water, only the paraffin lamp and hand-pumped filtered drinking water. The gas ran out as I was cooking supper, and the toilet wouldn’t work. Apart from those minor inconveniences, it was fine!

On our first sail as owners, we flew with the tide down Portsmouth Harbour and then slowly, slowly, tacked back to our mooring. Clypeus did have a steering problem, she would not stay on course without the wheel being constantly trimmed.

A few weeks later, sailing back to Emsworth from Newtown Creek, I stayed in bed as Peter wanted to try sailing single-handed. I heard the engine start and, listening to the slap of waves against the hull, realised we had chugged out into the Solent. Dozing, I heard the pitter-patter of his footsteps along the deck to the bow and the thump of a sail being dumped on deck. After a few minutes a muffled oath, then thump thump as he raced towards the stern. I waited warm and snug. Then pitter-patter again, like a seagull on a flat roof, and the sounds of a foresail being hanked on. Another expletive and thump thump back to the stern. It became very amusing, pitter-patter, nautical noises, a shouted oath as he tried to control her wayward motion. Eventually I stopped giggling and was crawling out of our bunk to help when he called out. Shirley for God’s sake come and steer this pig of a boat while I get the sails up. I emerged and took the wheel, hiding my grin. Modifications to the rudder became a priority.

We made our wills, and our son Noel was given power of attorney. I did feel very guilty taking off. It’s all very well for children to leave home and travel, but when parents sell the family house and wander out of reach, it is hard on the young ones. No ‘phoning home’ for them. Both sets of parents were still healthy and happy in their own homes and wished us well. Our younger sisters gave us the assurance that they would care for the oldies.

Just push off! they said.

Gradually the boat filled and the house emptied. Silent bookshelves looked down reproachfully as we sat eating our dinner on the carpet, after the new owners of our dining suite had taken it away. All was quiet now that the television and sound system had gone. Every spare hour was spent preparing ourselves and our boat. Family and friends came for weekends on board and sailed with us to Cowes, Bembridge or Newtown Creek.

The new owners of our house took possession in October 1982. Enough furniture for a small apartment was put into storage. We moved on board for the winter to make sure we could stand living together in a space smaller than one of our previous bathrooms, without telephone, hot water, refrigerator, ice or television. Paul and Andrea sailed with us to St. Katherine’s Dock, by Tower Bridge in London so we could make full use of the comprehensive Cruising Association library.

Those six months when we had left one life but still hadn’t really started the other were traumatic. We didn’t realise how we would miss having a social position, and be classed as ‘of no fixed abode’. Giving up our jobs was a relief, but the thought of no more salary cheques was disquieting. Leaving family and friends made a hole in our hearts. I had a minor identity crisis: a friend suggested my blonde hair be cut; long hair would be a problem at sea. But I couldn’t. If I gave up my hair as well, who would I be? Many cruising wives lose confidence at the beginning of their adventure. Family and home and the way they cared for them is their CV, and now nobody realises what they had achieved. For men, usually the boat is a measure of their success, and the adventure and mastering new skills is a satisfying reward for their years of labour.

Friends came for dinner many evenings and most weekends to see our floating home. I was determined to show that we wouldn’t be camping all the time. Cosy dinners by candlelight with the glow of the flickering oil lamp enhancing the soft shadows on the red velvet upholstery. Clypeus’ cabin felt like a country cottage in the calm marina. One cheeky visitor asked When are you going to have her thatched?

Some friends were envious, others thought us mad, and told us so. We did have doubts: could we actually live in such a small space? I worried about our emotional suitability for this life of ‘forsaking all others’. We would only have each other for company for months on end, not being able to go for a walk when quarrelling. We are opposites: Peter is a shy, patient, methodical engineer. I’m an impatient, energetic, outgoing, people person. Before we left, we made a pact that, no matter how angry we were with each other, our ‘happy hour’ each evening would be a social time to talk and share thoughts, even if we reverted to ‘not speaking’ again afterwards. (We’ve never had to call our pact. Not because we haven’t quarreled, but because both of us realise that if we let bad feeling fester, the results could be disastrous.)

The London Boat Show was especially exciting, for once we bought things instead of ‘just looking’: a new Perkins 4108 diesel engine, electronic equipment and an extra set of sails, triple stitched.

Many hours were spent in the Cruising Association library planning our route to coincide with the most suitable weather patterns using Ocean Passages for the World. Our forward-address list was sent off to family and we would only be a small part of their busy lives but I knew keeping the ties strong would be very important to us.

THE FIRST PLANNED ITINERARY OF CLYPEUS’s ROUTE AROUND THE WORLD.

May-June 1983 - Leave Guernsey for France, Spain, Portugal.

July-Sept. - Gibraltar, Balearics, Gibraltar

October - Canary Islands

Nov-Dec - Cross Atlantic to English Harbour, Antigua.

Jan-March 1984- Cruise Caribbean and on to Panama

March - Transit Panama Canal

Mar-April Galapagos Islands, then the longest hop across the

Pacific to Marquesa Islands

Jun-Jul -Tahiti to be there for Bastille Day Celebrations - two

weeks of dancing and singing and competitions.

December - Bay of Islands, New Zealand

Mar 1985 - Sydney, East coast Australia and round The Top End.

S. Africa, Cape Verde Is, Azores and home by Sept.1986

Aahh! The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men, gang aft a-gley.

Our scheme didn’t ‘gang’ even to our first scheduled port. Our plan was to leave London in March, finish fitting out in Guernsey, and then in June head down to Spain, Portugal and the Mediterranean and get some long voyages under our belts before venturing across the Atlantic. However it didn’t quite happen that way.

CHAPTER TWO St Katherine’s Dock, London

Lat 51°.30′ Long 00°.00′

March - Oct 1983

We set sail too early. Common sense should have prevailed and delayed our start for another month. But, we wanted to go, go, go. All the new gear should be waiting for us in Guernsey.

We motored out into the Thames from St Katherine’s Dock

Early on 19th March 1983, the day of our Sailaway Party in St. Katherine’s Dock, the Vicar of All Hallows by the Tower came on board and gave a short service blessing our boat, our family, and our voyage, as he had done for Sir Francis Chichester. It was sincere and made us feel we had taken every possible precaution, ‘including celestial insurance’, Peter said.

Clypeus looked spanking smart, dressed overall with flags. Friends flowed on and off, marvelling that we were putting our lives into such a small container. After a lunch party in the Yacht Club our families stepped on board to join us for the first couple of miles. At high tide we waited for the lock gates to open. The Harbour Master brought a cable from my father in Australia, which I read out to those standing looking down at us:-

Farewell down the Thames

"Peter and Shirley have now set their sails,

To cruise round the world but dodging the gales

After farewells to friends in old London Town,

They’ll be seeing their ‘Aussie Mates’

Who are all upside down."

In the feeble spring sunshine we motored out into the Thames under popping streamers and a chorus of Rule Britannia and Land of Hope and Glory. The love and affection voiced as they sang, floated across the water and comforted us in the cold and lonely days ahead. At Greenwich Pier we said our family good-byes and, except for Andrea, they caught a water taxi back up river to Tower Bridge.

Motoring down river the unusually shaped bastions of the, then unfinished, Thames Barrier reminded us of Sydney Opera House. Would we ever see it? It too was unfinished when we left Australia in 1968.

Anchoring just below the Barrier, we had supper and turned in early, still wrapped in our rosy glow. On Sunday morning a cold north easterly wind blew up the grey deserted river. Derelict abandoned warehouse ruins etched a black and bleak horizon against the ominous clouds. As the grey dawn lightened, we motored on and anchored for lunch off Shellhaven. I forgot to pull in the trailing log, which tells us how far we have gone and our speed through the water. Re-starting, Peter shouted Anchor’s off the bottom, as I put the engine into gear the propeller shaft whined and ‘twang’. Yes, the log cable had caught around the propeller and snapped it off. Damn! Already one expensive piece of equipment destroyed, and I’d thrown money down the drain.

Late afternoon, in rain and howling squalls, we anchored in Queenborough and managed to row Andrea ashore to start her train journey back to Bristol where