The Brendan Voyage (23 page)

The final time the bull killer whale rose beside
Brendan,
the fin was just twenty yards away. It stood above the water as tall as any of us. We heard the full hiss of the creature’s nostrils and watched the small cloud of mist which drifted on the boat so we could actually smell the animal’s stale air. Then the great back dipped. There was a flash of the black-and-white flanks where the water sucked back from the massive body pushing through the sea; and the ripples came across and lapped gently against the leather hull. The killer whale had slid right under the boat, all eight or ten tons of him, curious, intelligent, and completely in control. There was nothing we could do. I looked round. We were all absolutely silent. Somehow we had all gathered together near the main shelter. I saw George clip his safety line on the steering frame. If the boat was tipped up, one man at least would stay with her.

We held our breath, absolutely silent, for what seemed like an age.

Whoosh! The great black fin came sliding up out of the water on the opposite side of
Brendan,
the great lungs emptied, and the killer whale began turning ponderously back toward his pack. We, too, all let out our breaths, and Edan with one heart-felt gasp muttered, “Piss off!” We had been inspected, and found wanting, and we were extremely glad.

Later that afternoon Trondur told us why the Faroese islanders so distrust the killer whales. The trouble usually comes, he said, during the pilot-whale hunts. These hunts take place when a school of pilot whales is seen close off the islands. An armada of small boats rushes to the scene and forms a crescent, gently herding the pilot whales toward the killing beaches where the pilot whales are stranded by the falling tide and provide—at least until recent years—an important supplement to the Faroese diet. Sometimes killer whales are also in the area, or, worse still, mixed in with the school of pilot whales. In these cases the killer whales have been known to come up underneath the small boats of the Faroese, smashing the boats, tipping the crews into the water, and men have been badly hurt. Also the killer whales are intelligent enough to rob the islanders’ fishing nets as an easy source of food. They chew great holes in the nets to get at the catch, and do
enormous damage. Some years ago the United States Air Force was called in to try bombing schools of predatory killer whales off Greenland, but the animals were so intelligent that they swiftly learned to dive out of sight when they detected the presence of an aeroplane. But the most astonishing story of the animals’ intelligence came from Trondur. He told us that a Faroese islander had clambered down a cliff to rescue one of his sheep which had fallen onto a rocky sea ledge. As the man was on the ledge, a killer whale burst out of the deep water nearby and reached for him as though he were a basking seal. Again and again the whale tried to snatch the man, keeping him trapped against the cliff wall until the whale finally gave up the attempt and swam away.

We ourselves witnessed some evidence of the killer whale’s ferocity four days later: most unusually, because it was a choppy day, a school of pilot whales suddenly surfaced around us. They were behaving with great agitation. Instead of their usual placid motion, the animals were greatly disturbed. They surfaced and dived in confusion. Some were darting in one direction, others turning back the way they had come, plunging out of sight without taking breath. A few even leapt clear of the water. Instead of their usual herd discipline, the animals were scattering far and wide into small groups as if in panic. “I think spaekhugger are chasing them,” said Trondur, as we watched this display of fear among the whales, and I again thought back to the
Navigatio
’s description of the battle of the sea monsters. Had the Irish priests been worried by a large whale coming up close to their boat, sending before it the characteristic bow wave? And at the last moment had this whale been the victim of a grampus attack? The details seemed quite reasonable: the bow wave sent forward by a large approaching whale and the mist spouting from the killer whale would agree with the medieval description. And what other “sea monster” was there which, when killed, would float away to a beach and make food for the monks? Surely it had to be a whale. Once again the mundane facts, stripped of their fanciful telling, emerged from the Saint Brendan story and made a sensible interpretation.

July 8 we finally received our weather luck. The wind picked up from the east, and
Brendan
began to reel off the sea miles. The wind was exactly what we wanted because it allowed us to steer clear of the long
and dangerous coast of Iceland. “The south coast of Iceland is the most dangerous of all its coasts,” stated my old edition of the Admiralty Pilot in a welter of gloom. “Should the winds shift to southwest and blow hard, a vessel would be very badly placed on that coast, where to touch the ground is certain loss…. The advisability in keeping at a distance from the south coast cannot be too strongly enjoined, and the numerous wrecks of French fishing vessels, whose spring fisheries begin here, demonstrate strongly that navigation must here be carried on with great caution…. It is rare that any vessel having incautiously neared the coast in stormy weather can clear it again…. Navigators are apt to be deceived…. The first warning of its vicinity may be the sound of the surf on it.”

The thought of a southwest gale driving
Brendan
sideways onto that inhospitable shore was enough to make me lay a course that headed almost due west, leaving a safety margin seventy miles wide between
Brendan
and the coast. But the gale, when it came, was a blessing in disguise, for it swirled
Brendan
even faster on her way. On the first day we covered seventy miles, and on the second day we went even better. Writing down the log at the end of the day’s run, I noticed that in the space of twenty-four hours
Brendan
had notched up 116 miles, even when reckoning by our very ineffective log, which, when the conditions became rough, started to flick its rotor out of the water between the larger waves. A hundred sixteen miles was not bad progress, even for a modern cruising yacht, and we were by no means pushing
Brendan
to her limits. After all, the North Atlantic ocean off Iceland was no place to attempt to break speed records in a leather boat.

Then the wind freshened into half a gale, and the seas began to tumble in cold, grey ranks fifteen feet high. We lowered the mainsail five feet on its mast, reefed up its foot, and took down the headsail altogether.
Brendan
began to labor. Her frame squeaked and grunted; the massive H-frame of the steering oar swayed back and forth under the changing pressure; and the rope holding the steering oar in place began to emit the most alarming high-pitched creaks as it was stretched under the increasing pressures.

Sooner or later, we knew, gear failures would begin. The first item to break was one of the splendid new oak posts of the H-frame that we had installed in Faroes. With an impressive groan it cracked just where
it passed through the thwart. Hastily we trebled the leather thongs holding it in place and carried on, but the lesson had been learned: the oak was too stiff and resisted the motion of the boat instead of flexing with it, and it could not withstand the strain. The next item to give trouble was at the masthead, where a plain leather strap held the crossyard to the mast. The constant see-saw motion of the yard was wearing through the stitching, and the strap gave way. So it was out with needle, leather awl, and flax thread, and make repairs at sea to keep
Brendan
running briskly on her course. Inside the main cabin the constant dash of spray over the roof was beginning to tell. An ominous damp stain appeared in each corner where the sea was creeping in, and each day the stain expanded a little farther, inching nearer the vulnerable radio set. The rate of the advance increased dramatically when we were eventually forced to bring
Brendan
across the wind. The easterly gale was now blowing us so fast that there was a risk that we would be blown clear past Iceland if we did not claw up to the north. But the new course laid the starboard side bare to the rollers, and the spray collected in the cracks and corners, seeking out
Brendan
’s weaknesses, and steadily trespassing into the living area. A murky tide-line rose steadily along the navigation books stowed on the shelf, and I became accustomed to find my “privileged” skipper’s berth nicely wet at each end.

Fortunately we were now completely accustomed to our medieval surroundings, and it was remarkable how high was our morale. Six weeks earlier it would have been unthinkable to steer
Brendan
casually across the face of such hostile waves. Yet now we did it without flinching, and scarcely glanced up at the rumbling roar of a large breaker. We had learned that between the roar and any cascade of foam on board, there was a split second to act if we felt the tell-tale thump of the crest butting awkwardly against
Brendan
’s stern. That was the time to duck, or to hunch one’s shoulders so that the spray didn’t deluge down one’s neck. And I noticed that our priorities had altered too. I was cooking up the favorite pudding of dried apricot and mashed biscuits one afternoon when a large breaker hit. A fair-sized dollop of the Atlantic fell right on top of us. Immediately everyone dived to save the pudding and ignored everything else. When it came time to dish up the pudding, we found that the spatula had been washed clear to the other side of the boat.

Nothing seemed to depress our good humor. During the second
night of high winds, as I relieved George at the helm, I asked him how his watch had gone.

“Not bad,” he replied. “A bit wet here and there, but nothing to worry about.”

“Did you have to pump out the bilges at all?”

“Yes, quite a bit now and again. We got one good comber straight over the stern.”

“Was that the one which woke me with a crafty squirt of spray in the face?”

“Oh no, a much earlier one. There was about a foot of water where you are standing now, and I was wondering if anyone was actually afloat in his sleeping bag. Good night.”

With that, he calmly disappeared into the shelter, and left me to light the pressure kerosene lamp which gave the helmsman some warmth. I worked up a good sweat pumping the wretched thing, turned on the valve, and was rewarded with a mocking water-logged gurgle. The lamp was completely drowned. From inside the shelter George, who hated that lamp, gave a satisfied chuckle.

Each of us was reacting to the conditions in his own way. Arthur had decided that the best place to be in foul weather was warmly curled up in his sleeping bag. But if he curled up, George could not lie down properly, so there was much friendly banter between them as George kept count of how many hours each day Arthur could pretend to be asleep, surfacing only for meals and his turn on watch. Neither did the heavy weather take the edge off Edan’s enjoyment of life; though he was complaining that his cigars were getting soggy in the spray. He, alone of us, still liked to take a tot of whiskey in the evening. However much he pressed us to join him, the rest of us had long given up the desire for a drink or even a smoke. Trondur remained absolutely unruffled. He would emerge bearlike from the forward shelter to take his turn at the helm, and on the first wind-swept evening taught us another useful trick. From his pocket he pulled out a pair of shapeless oiled wool mittens. To our astonishment, before he put them on, he leaned over the side and dunked them, warm and dry, into the water, squeezed them out, then put them on half-sodden. “It’s better,” he said. “Not so cold later.” He was quite right; the gloves acted like wet-suit gloves and reduced the wind’s chill.

Food became the number-one topic. Every morning George dug
out the day’s food pack from its place in the stowage area, and each day we watched to see how much of the pack would still be edible after the seas had been washing over it, and our feet had been trampling in the same area. Each bag was sorted through so that the ruined material was thrown overboard and then he brought the salvaged items aft to the cook box. We found that some food was too plentiful. There was packet upon packet of dried soup which we couldn’t face eating, too many packets of biscuits, too much sugar, and sad-looking tea bags with half their flavor already washed out by the sea. To save money when victualing, I had bought a supply of very cheap powdered coffee, and this now proved to be false economy. After twenty or thirty cups of the stuff, not one of us could face the revolting brew any longer, and rediscovered the delights of childhood drinks, hot malted milk, chocolate, or meat extract. The main courses of corned beef or tongue or mince were very popular, and there seldom seemed to be quite enough to satisfy all our appetites, so that Skipper’s Special, the mush of apricots, jam, and crushed biscuits, was a popular event, besides using up our surplus foods.

By July 11 I was very concerned about
Brendan
’s rapid advance to the west. The easterly winds had abated from gale strength, but were still pushing the boat westward so effectively that I was worried we would miss Iceland altogether. I looked again at the large-scale chart. If the wind kept up, we might even be able to run direct to Greenland in one long haul. But this would mean that we could not pick up the stores waiting for us in Iceland. I calculated our remaining food and water, and did my sums. There were enough supplies to get us to Greenland if we rationed ourselves strictly. But then I remembered the pack ice. There had been reports that the sea ice off Greenland was unusually prolonged that year, and the east coast might still be closed by a shelf of ice. It was not an attractive prospect, and I made up my mind:
Brendan
had to get in to Iceland at all costs.

So we struggled to get north. We set and reset the sails to their best effect. Adjusted and readjusted the leeboards. But still
Brendan
slipped sideways to the west. We put out the sea anchor again, dropped our square sails, and rigged an oar as a mizzen-mast on which we set a bonnet as a makeshift sail to try to keep
Brendan
’s nose up against the wind. But still we were pushed westward, past the Westmann Islands, and past the corner of southwest Iceland. Never again, I thought to myself,
would I doubt the theory that many sea-borne discoveries have been made by accident, when ships were driven off course by storms and heavy weather. If a vessel was as responsive to the weather as
Brendan,
then it was very easy to find yourself five or six hundred miles off target after a week of storms.