The Grand Finale – Captain Tom Woodfield
The season was over, done and dusted — or so we thought — as we left the fast-cooling, pristine southern continent, with its lessening hours of daylight, for warmer climes, but initially duller ones, until we could also leave the Falklands astern and head for the tropics and home.
Modern thinking has it that equinox gales are a myth, but I must admit to an archaic view that those times of the year produce some howlers. Perhaps it is correct that the gales around an equinox are not directly related to it, but it is true that in the northern hemisphere the time of the autumnal equinox coincides with the end of the hurricane season; the tail end of some hurricanes get across the Atlantic either in their own right or, carried and enjoined with regular depressions on the jet stream, arrive on our shores in Britain whenever that high-speed flow of air brings them in our direction. Likewise there are circumstances in the southern hemisphere that bring storms across the Southern Ocean simultaneously with the equinoxes. So the old adage is none too far adrift.
This late March crossing of the Drake Passage was to prove that. We were to experience not just one storm but a whole family, relentlessly pursuing one another, as they were formed by the clashes of warm and cold air. It transpired that this was to be my final voyage down south and so it was also my final crossing of the Drake Passage, those changeable waters between Cape Horn and the South Shetlands. I had seen them calm, with or without fog; in ferociously shifting gales with unbelievably immense swells; and with a massive single tabular berg measuring 60 miles by 40 dominating a portion of the seas around us which, after its break-up, were strewn with hundreds of the resultant more minor bergs. But Neptune was to show me one more face of this ocean, and have one final onslaught upon one of my minuscule red ships, testing my abilities to the limit one last time. Extraordinarily, after 19 seasons south I was about to endure the worst storm of my career, with my wife alongside me to witness it.
The wind freshened from the north-west as the barometer fell shortly after our leaving the peninsula for the Falklands; not unusual. Nor was the increasing swell making for an uncomfortable motion as it pounded the port bow. Snow hindered visibility, making it difficult for us to spot the stray pieces of pack that had spewed from the Weddell Sea in the increased autumnal northerly drift of ice. This was caused by new ice forming in any open water between the older floes further south, as temperatures there dropped dramatically, inhibiting the floes from closing together, thus producing the spreading action which forces the older ice northwards. The temperatures, even at 60 degrees south were now decidedly colder too, and icing on the upper works was a consideration until we reached latitudes appreciably further north. Our progress in that direction was slow, as we were taking the gale on the port bow causing both pitching and rolling, though it was not necessary to heave to. We forged ahead until the barometer rose and a south-westerly came in somewhat stronger than its northwesterly forerunner — but, of course, colder. With the wind and sea now on the quarter, we picked up speed, but not comfortably for the swell had increased, now coming from due west, making us roll more violently but without the pitching. Patience, watchfulness and caution were required for one last time in these waters. The barometer would rise still further; the storm, as all do, would pass; the wind would settle to a nice breeze as the sun reappeared, and the chance of meeting ice would diminish. Of course the grey Southern Ocean would become unpleasant again when the ridge of high pressure following in the wake of the depression collapsed, but by then we would be away and clear of its ice and ferocity, or so I thought.
The barometer did rise but only to fall again immediately, this time more steeply and to a somewhat lower point than on the previous occasion. The wind, sea and swell rose, and were such that I was forced to heave to heading northwest. As it was the end of the season we were light ship, devoid of any cargo save empty oil drums and bags of mail and a few pieces of machinery for repair. She was a heavy, stable ship, but nevertheless in this ballasted state was distinctly lively compared with her fully laden motion, and was catching the wind on her high ‘cock-a-snook’ protective bow. Stuart and the chief had ensured that every conceivable empty tank was ballasted, which improved both motion and handling but made her marginally wetter; but I held little concern about solid water coming aboard, for she was sound and secure. But as the winds reached 100 knots it became a matter of making sure we came through it relatively unscathed; the scow and motorboat on the foredeck, secured as best as possible, would have to take their chances.
As the barometer rose again and the wind shifted marginally from north of west to south of it, and with the gusts rising in intensity, we sent a weather report to the Falklands. “Ihe remnants of the met station there, after the cessation of the service for whalers in the mid-sixties, sent us a note crossing with our report, warning us of depressions ahead! Without referring to the log, I lost track of the rises and falls of the barometer after the first 48 hours, concerned only with handling the vessel up and over each swell, a measured 70 feet in height, and possibly more after the recorder had malfunctioned in the chaotic maelstrom of the sea about us. There was frequently a wind of 120 knots screaming past the wires, aerials and masts, and through every aperture as we rode over the crests, yet there was almost no wind in the troughs. I increased the power as we rode up the mountainous faces so that we did not fall off and broach, alert to act further near the top of each breaking beast where the sea and swell became one and broke, deluging us with solid water. Then I eased the power as we sped down into the following trough, trying to avoid burying the forecastle at its foot before climbing the next mammoth.
During nearly every cycle, as each trough was reached, regardless of how I adjusted the power for the descent, the vessel was virtually in freefall down the face of the swell, so that she slammed, violently and loudly into the bottom of the trough, the reverberations running through the length of the ship as if she were a taut wire. She was strong throughout and very solidly built, with additional steelwork in the forefoot and concrete reinforcement between the stem and first watertight bulkhead. I had distorted the shoulder plating and frames behind it in ice, but rarely the very fore part, and never that or the entrance in a seaway. Yet thoughts as to how much of this she could take passed through my mind. What might fracture, which bit of equipment shatter, which bolts shear? I was mindful of the time when from shock in ice, bolts within the armature had sheared loose and destroyed the windings, rendering us without power. Not for long, though, did my thoughts stray, for I needed the utmost concentration to maintain as safe a control as possible — but I did manage to think of those down below. The violent movement, the vibration and the noise were bad enough on the bridge, but they must have felt worse for those cooped up within the vessel, unable to see or understand what was happening, so I had Eric, the chief steward, go around below to reassure and see to the welfare of those there.
Darkness fell on both the second and third nights as the onslaught continued, and the snow as thick as it can blow did so horizontally but had no chance of building on the bridge windows, as it sometimes did, for the continual solid spray cleared them. The circular spinning Clearview screens worked well, but by design there was not one on the centre line, as it would have interfered with vision for normal handling. However, I needed to remain there, because my hands hardly left the engine and course controls sited on the central console. Yet regardless of whether vision was obtained through window or Clearview screen, only a wall of solid water, spray or snow, could be seen, and I think a mixture of sound, feel and instinct took over within me. Hardly a word was spoken, even as a half-cup of coffee and toast, which just amazingly materialised, were repeatedly placed in the housing on the fore part beneath the central window, which normally also held my binoculars and small cheroots. There was a professional tenseness in those on the bridge — perhaps some fear, I later learnt, as they stared ahead or into the radar. There were some icebergs around, but none big enough to shelter behind. However there would in that case have been some question as to whether to seek shelter behind one large enough to give us protection, for in these conditions the collapse of a large tabular berg into a multitude of smaller bergs and bergy bits would be likely, and this would have created too great a risk to us.
We mounted up and ran down each swell at angles I can only guess at, perhaps 45 degrees. I drank coffee, smoked an occasional small cigar, and grew very weary. I did not believe in sitting, and could not have done so safely, although my wife spent many hours silently observing from the pilot’s chair, which was lashed in one corner of the bridge. She stayed silent, partly because she feared interrupting the concentration of those on the bridge, and also because her quiet voice was unlikely to be heard above the screaming of the storm and the thunderous crashing of sea against the hull. Her abiding memories of those days are of the monumental walls of sea, relentlessly roaring towards and towering above us; the blinding snow driving horizontally, and the mental vision of this cork-like speck being tossed upon a vast ocean, the latter part of this picture being brought about by movement that no human should have to endure, except at a fairground — and then only for minutes, not days.
I was not inclined to hand over to Stuart, my chief officer, as competent as he was. Several times he had taken command on previous voyages when I had gone home early, but this problem was my problem; it was I who was responsible for bringing our 100 souls safely through this. At the time I was almost instinctively not standing down, reflecting on the youngsters amongst the crew, the Fids who had only wanted to be transported safely home from the Antarctic, and the others down below, shocked, bewildered and frightened, even after the weather experienced during the season, by this attack upon their senses, this unbelievably violent world, this hell at sea. The enormity of the responsibility was stark. One false move during the whole episode could have brought about our demise. I say now that I earned all my wages of that season, during these and the next few hours. Never in my dozen years of command had the responsibility of it been highlighted so vividly.
I did not like to chance turning to run before the weather for fear of broaching. The vessel could go onto her beam ends and still right, but solid water entering through any hatch or doorway was of concern, although that should only be temporary, while she lay on her side. A more worrying scenario was that of water entering down the funnel and knocking out the electrical systems in the engine room, resulting in total failure of the engines. Also, once we were round and running before the weather, being pooped could not be discounted; this would also increase the possibility of water getting inboard and stalling the engine; lying a-hull without power was not something to be relished. length between the swell tops was not that of a long rolling swell, but short for their height, so there would be little chance of turning 180 degrees, or anything approaching that, between one crest and another. Yet as we rode each swell, I watched and counted. Up, over and down, again and again. ‘No,’ I thought, ‘I am not going to try it; the dangers are far too great.’
The wind then backed to the southward and I was told that the needle of the anemometer was once more almost constantly reading 120 knots, banging against the upper stud of the dial. There was soon a visible firming of floury ice around the wheelhouse windows, and as a glimmer of dawn filtered through on the fourth day, the same could be seen on most things forward, particularly the wires, rails and stanchions, growing measurably as we watched. Icing can get a grip in minutes. I asked the temperature, and it had dropped appreciably in the southerly wind. Many times before, until shelter was found behind a large berg or in an anchorage, I had seen the forecastle rails and stanchions grow with ice until they joined, turning that deck first into a swimming pool then into a multi-ton block of ice. Elsewhere on the ship a similar building of ice would begin. I had no knowledge of any ships capsizing from the build-up of ice in the Antarctic, shelter within pack ice or behind an iceberg or in the lee of islands usually being available, as opposed to the high incidence of this occurring in the Arctic, but here in mid-ocean there was nothing we could hide behind.
So, faced with ice forming rapidly overall, I had to turn. With my stomach in my mouth and hoping not to show any anxiety, I lit a cheroot and said, ‘Warn everybody below that I am going to turn to run before it. She will roll like a pig until we are round, but then all will be well.’ Then I waited for a while, but there was no discernible difference between swell lengths or heights; there was no obvious opportunity. As the ship neared a crest I finally applied full power and put her head fractionally off the wind. As the breaking sea smashed against the bow, I put the helm hard over, allowing the wind and sea atop the chosen swell to assist her rearing forefront to turn and be driven downwind, with the effect of the transverse thrust of the propeller helping. She sailed away like a bird. lhere was one gigantic roll, then a counterroll, which I learnt tore the butcher’s block from its welded deck brackets and smashed it through the galley bulkhead, but little major damage. None in the engine room, which I had feared; just a great many items, thought to have been well lashed, broken all about the ship.
We were round. change from the violent struggle into the headwind and sea as they hurled their fury against us while we steadfastly maintained as near as possible our chosen hoveto course, was transformed into a poorly directed wallowing as the stern was lifted by each swell and as it ran under us we would surge forward. Each swell always seemed to come from one quarter or the other, skewing us off course, and looked almost certain to board us — but it never did, though our speed had to be continually adjusted to reduce the likelihood of being pooped.
I felt safe, and considered that I had won through. Then I cursed myself. Why had I not turned before? Over the next few hours the wind eased to a mere 80 knots, then veered westerly and down to 60; we were on an easterly course set to cope with the still enormous swell, running at a speed which appeared to drag the sea towards the stern but never actually aboard. The sky cleared, and I went out on to the bridge wing with my wife, Stuart joining us for a while. In the midst of the storms with the sky overcast with snow, we had felt, boxed up in the wheelhouse, that even during the hours of daylight our world had seemed so dark, overpowering, oppressive and dangerous. Now on the open wing, the sun shone and a carpet of spume sparkled as it drove past from stern to stem at about main deck level beneath us. Albatross, those graceful giants of the Southern Ocean, wheeled almost within arm’s length, happily in close company with minute Wilson’s petrels, both seemingly watching over the ship surging forward on each swell, as we stood pressed against the fore part of the bridge wing, hanging onto the dodger, exhilarated, and wondering how those creatures survived in such appalling conditions whilst we had barely done so. Our world had come alive again; our thoughts turned to matters beyond that of mere survival; the foreboding danger was gone and we were excitingly at peace. I went below and turned in.
Some hours later Stuart called me to say that the weather had abated and he was more than happy to set our course for Stanley. Good sights had been obtained and as expected we were now several hundred miles to the east of our original course. A day and some hours later, after further fine weather and more sights to confirm our position, we raised Cape Pembroke lighthouse on the East Falklands. I frequently cut corners entering Port William, knowing it so well and often attempting to gain time to make a tide. But that morning I had already missed it, and caution seemed to be the order of the day after our recent thrashing. For my final entrance I also had a desire to linger, so took my time to soak up as much as I could of this place that had been our forward base and gateway to the Antarctic.
The Falklands were my second home, the place where, from my very first voyage as a youngster, so many Falkland Islanders and ex-pats had befriended me and welcomed me into their homes. They had afforded me shelter, tested my loyalties, placed me in dilemmas, tried my patience. Given me days of shooting hare over Mount Tumbledown, fishing for trout in Moody Brook, and riding over the camp. “Ihere were the short alliances with girls during my early visits, but who were invariably sensibly married to stable young local lads by the time I returned after the five-month elapse of the voyages to and from home and my leave. %ere were the parties aboard and ashore, and the drink-fuelled incidents like the marriage of the then shore-based Fid, when during the night we rolled a lawn mower up and down over the corrugated iron roof of the newlyweds’ nuptial abode. And the baptism where both parents and vicar were so inebriated that the child to be named Bernard Brian, after slurred exchanges, was christened Bird-Brain. Ridiculous was the New Year’s Ball at Government House when Protector officers inflated an enormous rubber boat on the dance floor, frightening the ladies out of their wits as they were squashed in their finery against the portrait-hung walls. Hilarious was a governor’s wife who, during post-dinner party high jinks of indoor bowls, shouted the length of the room to the visiting head of the church in South America, ‘Bishop, you’ve lost your balls!’ Many memories. Captain Bill Johnston going down the gangway in his brown dressing gown and slippers for the last time; my steaming the Bransfield proudly up the harbour on her maiden voyage and slipping her alongside, just feet astern of my old John Biscoe, for their first meeting.
I could have taken a round turn out of her then, had there been room, to reminisce further. But I kept to the proper courses, a sensible distance off Cape Pembroke and Seal Rocks, rounding onto the westerly run that bisected them and Volunteer Point, which I had often visited to view the penguins; then up the harbour to the Narrows, the grasses on the Tussac Islands and the sweep of sand at Yorke Bay glistening after a passing shower, and Sparrows Cove to starboard, but without the SS Great Britain, she having been removed to Bristol. How many times in all weathers had I done it? Port 15, a gentle turn to pick up the leading marks through the Narrows, laying off a touch to the west for the wind. This time I had a helmsman rather than handling the ship myself from the console, as this allowed me to wander and to talk to those on the bridge, perhaps to suppress my emotion as I enjoyed that last inward passage.
Did I really wish to go ashore? Was this life at sea, tested ‘beyond the boundaries’, and the resulting satisfaction, not for me? Snapping out of it, it was time for another decision. It was half-tide as we ran up Stanley Harbour, and we would never be able to get alongside, but not a soul aboard, let alone me myself, wanted to remain at anchor, be bothered with boats, delayed, and drenched with the inevitable spray getting ashore. We had already pumped out the peak tanks and most other ballast in preparation for eventually taking the mud, so I thought, ‘Let’s give everybody ashore and aboard one last surprise.’ I squared up to the rickety old Public Jetty and went in at a rate of knots, judging when to let go the anchor in preparation for hauling off, for another rain squall was obscuring my favourite transit marks abeam. I managed to drive the bow into the mud near the jetty’s western corner, repaired after my clouting it years before, and canted her well to starboard so that she could be hauled alongside with the mooring lines as the tide rose. There was never any doubt in my mind that some contraption of a hanging gangway could not be rigged to span the gap, and happy faces were soon crossing it in each direction. Those officers not already there came to the bridge. I shook them all by the hand, kissed my wife, and went below. Feelings of success at the safe completion of another season down south, amidst thoughts of all those previous experiences, never to be repeated, surged within me, mixed with a great deal of apprehension as to the wisdom of my decision to ‘go ashore’.