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The urgent, rasping buzz of the sail stations alarm jolts the wardroom quiet midway through the evening watch. Books are hastily tossed aside, card games abandoned. Foul-weather jackets half donned, we collide with each other going out the one door leading topside. Scarcely a day into the voyage, we are still on edge, not yet attuned to the old rhythms of life at sea—yet surprised to find ourselves so eager for action. Sail stations after dark? Something must be wrong; and we scramble to be the first to the bridge.
On deck it is strangely still, save for the scurrying of figures to their stations and the muffled, unintelligible shouts of someone on the forecastle; but an instinctive glance up at the mainsail tells us quickly what has happened: we’ve been caught aback in a light, fickle breeze. Thick, damp fog envelops the ship, making it difficult to tell whether we are moving at all. The whole scene has a ghostly appearance. Yet even in the eerie mist and confusion, the enthusiasm of the cadets as they muster at their stations is clearly felt. More than anything else, this is an adventure, and they are eager to taste it.
42 U. S. Naval Institute Proceedings, February 1974
Aft on the quarterdeck, the sailing master has relieved the deck and is assessing the situation. We had been sailing an easterly course, running before a light west-southwesterly breeze with all squaresails braced slightly on the starboard tack; our 2000 position was just south of Georges Shoal in the Gulf of Maine. In the thick fog typical of this area, we have been sounding the required fog signals for a sailing vessel with the wind abaft the beam: three raucous blasts of the klaxon every minute. Without warning, the wind has suddenly veered into the north and is now on our port beam. We slowly gather sternway, ship’s head falling right. The cadet mast crews, proving their eagerness, respond quickly to the first shouted order: "Brace the fore yards sharp on the port tack!” The squeal of the braceblocks and the heavy flapping of canvas forward tells us the yards are swinging around, even though we can’t see half the distance to the forecastle in the thick fog.
As the squaresails on the foremast begin to fill on the port tack, the ship slowly loses sternway and the command is given to brace the main yards on the port tack. This, too, is quickly accomplished, but the breeze is dying, and everything seems to be happening in slow motion now. As we wait for the wind to determine our next move, small groups of cadets stand about the damp decks speaking in subdued tones, as though a loud word would somehow be intrusive in the foggy stillness.
Soon the wind dies completely and the captain orders all sails doused and sea-furled. Sheets and halyards are eased, and all sails are hauled up to the yards. The cadet OOD orders the mast crews aloft to furl. They climb swiftly in the soggy rigging. Barely 50 feet above us, they disappear one by one into the fog, yet those assigned to the uppermost yard—the royal—have 80 more feet to climb. Within 20 minutes, all hands are back on deck, all sails secured. We resume our easterly course, now under power. The regular watch takes over and most of us retire to the wardroom for a cup of coffee before turning in. In the conversation which follows, we all remark on the enthusiastic performance of the cadets. Clearly, an altogether different attitude and a better mood prevail than on the routine coastwise cruises of previous summers. The reason is obvious: the Eagle is bound, not for a brief visit to New York or Boston, but on a transatlantic passage to Portsmouth, England, and Operation Sail 1972.
The adventure began with our departure from New London, Connecticut on 24 July 1972, but the excitement had been building since early January. Then, in keeping with custom at the Coast Guard Academy, summer training programs had become a frequent topic
of conversation among both cadets and officers. Shortly after the Christmas leave period, a rumor began circulating that, during his December visit to the United States, West German Chancellor Willy Brandt had asked President Nixon to send the Academy’s sail training ship, Eagle, to Germany in August to participate in Operation Sail, which was being planned by the West German Olympic Committee to coincide with the 1972 Olympic Yachting events. Almost before the rumor had a chance to gain wide circulation, it was confirmed as fact; the invitation had indeed been made; the President had accepted; and the Eagle was to make her first transatlantic voyage since 1963.
Actually, two separate but related events were planned: a "Tall Ships Race” for sail training ships from all over the world, and Operation Sail, an in-port gathering of these ships, preceded by a nautical parade. Since 1956, the former has been a biennial event sponsored by the Sail Training Association (STA) of England, a private, non-profit organization interested in promoting sail training and bringing together young people of all countries in friendly competition. The races have usually been held in European waters, since most of the world’s sail training activity is concentrated there. Operation Sail, on the other hand, had been held only once before: in New York in conjunction with the 1964 World’s Fair. Now, as in 1964, it was to be sponsored by local interests in cooperation with the STA, and would include dances, sightseeing, and athletic competition for the trainees, as well as public visiting aboard the ships. Entry in the race was not a prerequisite for participation in Operation Sail, but it was hoped that all ships would take part in both events.
Operation Sail 1972 was to be held at Kiel, West Germany’s principal Baltic port, a center of European yachting activity, and the site of the 1972 Olympic Yacht Races. A visit of the tall ships to coincide with these Olympic events seemed natural. The STA, working closely with the Operation Sail Committee (in effect an adjunct of the West German Olympic Committee) planned two races: one from the Isle of Wight, England, to The Skaw, Denmark, and another from Helsinki, Finland, to Falsterbo, Sweden. The participants in both races would then gather at Malmo, Sweden, proceed in company from there to Travemiinde and Liibeck, West Germany, and finally on to Kiel for the Olympics. The climax of this series of events was to be a Tall Ships Parade in the Bay of Kiel on Sunday. 3 September, mid-point of the Olympic Yacht Races- The Eagle had been invited to join the program as early as 1970, but the Coast Guard had routinely declined- As with previous STA races, the Academy’s academic schedule, summer training program, and the sheer distances involved, made participation infeasible. This
Tall Ships and Sailormen: Operation Sail 1972 -13
time, however, the Coast Guard had not reckoned with the West German interest in the Eagle.
This interest was natural. The Eagle (originally Horst Wessel) had been built as a training ship for the German Navy in 1936, along with two sister ships, the Gorch Fock and Albert Leo Schlageter} At the end of World War II, all three vessels were claimed by the allies as war reparations and, in 1946, the Eagle had departed Germany under Coast Guard command. In 26 years she had never revisited Germany, even though she had made frequent training cruises to Europe between 1946 and 1963. To the Germans, therefore, a visit by the Eagle had all the appeal of a homecoming. Even more attractive was the prospect of a scratch race between the Eagle and the Federal German Navy’s Gorch Fock II, a bark built to the same plans as the Eagle and commissioned in 1958 as a training ship for German naval cadets. These combined factors appear to explain the chain of events which led to Chancellor Brandt’s request that the Eagle come to Germany and the Coast Guard’s decision to send her; it was to be a command performance.
Numerous changes to the Eagle’s normal summer routine would be necessary in order to make the voyage. But regardless of certain disadvantages, it was decided that one tradition must be upheld: cadet training must be the primary mission. The Eagle would continue to be, insofar as possible, a cadet-operated ship. She would be manned by her normal summer complement of 12 officers and 50 enlisted men, plus some 100 cadets of the Academy’s second class.
These 100 cadets would run the ship, for on the Eagle, all billets, from OOD to lookout, EOW to oiler, and MAA to messcook, are filled by cadets on a rotating basis to provide them with exposure to a full range of shipboard duties. Officers and petty officers stand watches as instructors and safety observers, but leave the actual duties and responsibilities to the cadets as much as safe operation will allow. Equipment maintenance and repairs, cooking, and administrative functions are the only areas in which cadets are not routinely involved. The actual sailing of the ship is done exclusively by cadets, with a minimum of officer and enlisted supervision, and all sail handling is done by "Norwegian steam,” with no mechanical assistance other than blocks and tackle. Old salts may shake their heads at the need for 100 men to sail a ship the size of the Eagle; Alan Villiers has written, for example, of rounding Cape Horn in a ship of comparable ton-
1 Both the Gorch Fock and Albert Leo Schlageter are still in active service as sail training ships, the former as the Tovaritsch, training Soviet merchant marine cadets, and the latter as the Sagres II, training Portuguese naval cadets. Neither participated in Operation Sail 1972.
nage, in the waning days of the Australian grain trade, with a crew (not counting officers) of 13 men! But, in the Eagle, the emphasis is on training; sails are set and furled with a frequency unheard of on a short- handed ship; and evolutions such as tacking, which might take the better part of a watch aboard a working ship, are executed in a matter of minutes aboard the Eagle. The 75 or so cadets available at sail stations find no shortage of work to do.
By mid-July, all preparations and provisioning are complete and all hands—officers, cadets and enlisted alike—are anxious for the adventure soon to begin. On the afternoon of the 24th, the pier is crowded with well-wishers as we take our departure. All lines are cast off and, with a tug assisting, we back slowly from our slip. As our head slowly swings to port in midstream and we gather headway down the Thames River, the captain orders all hands to sail stations. The brisk northwesterly breeze is perfect for our southerly course into Long Island Sound. As we muster at our stations, many take a last look back at the pier, straining to pick out a familiar figure. The sadness of leaving loved ones mixes oddly with the anticipation of the adventure ahead as we turn to the task at hand.
In just a few minutes, topsails, courses, and a few staysails are drawing well on the starboard tack as we sail boldly past the harbor entrance, undoubtedly a stirring sight to the crowds along the beaches on both sides. Sailing smartly from the harbor has to be a good omen—or so we all hope. Soon we turn east-southeast and set our course for Nantucket Lightship. After the hectic preparations during the three-week in-port period, it is relaxing to be at sea again. We enjoy a mild, starlit evening—quiet and peaceful. The gentle sea and light breeze reflect our mood. Soon after sunset, the wind dies completely; we douse and furl all sail and motor through the night.
At dawn the following day we divert north toward Nantucket Island to evacuate a cadet with suspected appendicitis. A Coast Guard helicopter meets us south of the island shortly after breakfast, and with a skillful bit of flying, lowers his litter and plucks the patient from the fantail while the rotor blades whir barely five feet from the mizzenmast backstays. That accomplished, we retrace our steps, leaving Nantucket Shoals to port, and at noon turn east and set all sail on the starboard tack before a 15-knot southwesterly wind. We encounter fog in late afternoon and as it thickens, the wind diminishes until, shortly after dark, we are becalmed. Once again we douse all sail and motor on.
Shortly after midnight the fog lifts and at daybreak the wind again rises in the southwest at 15 knots. It remains so for two days as we sail a rhumbline slightly
44 U. S. Naval Institute Proceedings, February 1974
north of east to intersect our great circle track at the outer reaches of the Grand Banks. But at noon on Friday, the 28th, we are once more becalmed. For three days we steam in and out of fog with not a trace of wind. The sea is grey and flat. Boredom sets in, aggravated by the fact that this is our first weekend at sea. Everyone seems restless, walking about the decks with hands stuffed in pockets, gazing at the horizon as if challenging—perhaps imploring—the wind to blow.
The calm spell finally breaks during the midwatch on the 31st when a storm system passes just west of us, setting off heavy squalls with winds gusting to nearly 50 knots. By daybreak, the wind settles in the southwest at 25 knots and for the first time in three days, mast crews lay aloft to loose all sails. In a rising sea, we crowd on sail and boom along on the starboard tack at 11 knots. This is our first exposure to a stiff
and steady wind and we soon discover weaknesses in our sails and rigging. A headsail sheet parts, sails tear at the seams, and poor leads begin to cause problems. Most of the tears and parted lines are quickly repaired, but the torn out clew on the mainsail will require two days work. Better that our weaknesses be exposed and rectified now—before the race.
During the day, the wind slowly veers two points to west-southwest and remains nearly constant at 20 knots. With the wind shift, we brace the yards square and douse all fore and aft sails; our speed drops to eight knots. The sea builds quickly to 12 feet; and the Eagle responds with an uncomfortable wallowing. But no complaints. Morale is up; the wind is back and our forecasts indicate it will be with us a while longer.
The strong winds continue throughout the night and following day. At twilight on Tuesday, 1 August,
1
"The Eagle, originally the Horst Wessel, (center) had been built as a training ship for the German Navy in 1936, along with her two sister ships, the Gorch Fock (left) and the Albert Leo Schlageter (right)."
FERD URBA8’
the horizon astern is a riot of reds and purples. Over- head it is partly clear and starry with wild cloud form3' tions scudding past the half moon on our starboa^ bow. The ship rolls deeply in a quartering sea, an^ occasionally ships water through the freeing ports ,n the waist, routing the handful of spectators watchm? the movie on deck. All squaresails are set, except the royals and mainsail as we clip along nicely before i 20-knot west-southwesterly wind. We are sailing easf
*
Tall Ships and Sailormen: Operation Sail 1972 45
northeast some 600 miles northwest of the Azores and slightly more than halfway to England.
The hard sailing continues for two days and, on 3 August, with 750 miles of continuous sailing behind us, spirits begin to soar at the possibility of winning the Boston Teapot Trophy. The STA offers this prize annually to the sail training ship which covers the greatest distance under sail in a continuous 124-hour period. If we can continue at our current pace for two more days, we should be assured of the trophy. We continue to run free, now on an easterly course 500 miles from the southwest tip of Ireland.
At dusk the southerly wind increases to 25 knots and the Eagle charges forward at 13 knots, heeling 15 degrees to port. Many of us are on deck, exhilarated by the hard sailing. Every square foot of sail is being used to full advantage. Halyards and braces are set taut and staysail sheets quiver under the strain. Midway through the evening watch we encounter a dangerous crossing situation—a fast-moving freighter on our starboard bow, obviously not aware that we are a sailing vessel and that she must yield. With the range decreasing rapidly, we illuminate our sails with the powerful floodlights atop the mast. The freighter turns away abruptly, as though she had seen a ghost ship. We chuckle as we imagine the startled reactions of the bridge watch on the freighter.
We immediately go to sail stations after the freighter turns away. Our high sails are contributing little to our speed but much to our heel. Accordingly, we douse and sea-furl royals, topgallants and upper staysails. Our speed drops only a couple of knots, but our heel has been cut in half. During the evolution, the freighter has come under our stern and up along our port side for a closer look and a few queries by flashing light. We’re putting on quite a show for her as the cadets wrestle with the flapping canvas on the upper yards. The freighter lingers for awhile, then resumes her course.
We continue under sail for another two days with the wind generally in the southwest at 15 to 20 knots. At midafternoon on the 5th, we finish our 124-hour run for the Boston Teapot Trophy, covering 1,104 miles, and we are confident that the Eagle is a contender for the prize.[1] As soon as the Teapot run is over, the captain orders sail stations for tacking drills. We’ve done little in the way of training these past few days and we have only a short time remaining to practice our sail handling skills.
The cadets, who have been growing anxious about
the coming race, respond with enthusiasm. All stations soon report manned and ready and the cadet OOD maneuvers the ship closer to the wind. When we are sailing full and by—wind just forward of the starboard beam—he orders: "Ready about!” Main and mizzen staysails are doused and lines are laid out free for running. As soon as all mast captains report ready, the OOD orders: "Right full rudder.” Slowly at first, the ship’s head swings up into the wind and sea. Aft at the mizzenmast, the spanker is hauled amidships, thus increasing the turning moment. The headsails luff and all squaresails are aback, but the ship maintains sufficient headway to bring the bow through the wind. The OOD orders "Mainsail haul,” and 30 cadets strain at the starboard main braces. Gradually the main yards swing around, and as they do, the headsails fill on the new tack. With the fore yards still aback on the old tack, the bow swings rapidly to starboard and soon the sails on the main mast ripple and fill. The OOD now orders "Let go and haul”, and the foremast crew, assisted by the wind now, quickly hauls the fore yards around to the port tack. The sails fill immediately and we fall off slightly and re-set all main and mizzen staysails. Only 15 minutes have elapsed since the call to sail stations.
After a few minutes rest, we tack again, making minor modifications to speed up the maneuver, and to return to our original easterly course. The cadets respond well. They are anticipating and eliminating dead time, and their eagerness and drive is still very evident. Along with everyone else, they are beginning to taste the excitement of the coming race; their appetites have been whetted by the run for the Teapot.
The week-old southwesterly wind continues for yet another two days, but on the 7th, the barometer plunges and the wind hauls to the south-southwest and increases to 30 knots as we approach the Scilly Isles off the southwest tip of England. A major storm is brewing. At dusk, as we race toward the English Channel, the wind continues to haul until it is just east of south. The shift has added to our leeway northward, and it becomes questionable as to whether we can safely pass south of the Scillys—a notorious nautical graveyard. At best, we may clear the Scillys but be caught on a lee shore in the intensifying storm. To avoid being forced into this situation, the captain orders a temporary course change to the northeast, toward the west coast of England and the Bristol Channel. If, as we expect, the wind shifts to southwest with the passage of the storm, we may still be able to turn southeasterly around the Scillys and into the English Channel.
We’ve been not an hour on the northeasterly heading when the anticipated wind shift occurs. We turn with the wind, and in two hours, with the Scillys 30
46 U. S. Naval Institute Proceedings, February 1974
miles on our port hand, we are racing east by south across the English Channel toward the Cherbourg Peninsula. The storm shows every sign of worsening and we shorten sail, dousing royals, topgallants and upper staysails shortly after dark.
At midnight, the urgent call of the sail stations buzzer startles us from a fitful sleep. We stagger to the bridge, glancing off the bulkheads as the ship heels 25 degrees to port in heavy seas. On the bridge, the captain, hatless and in his slicker, has relieved the deck, while the OOD has gone forward to direct the deck watch in dousing the headsails—a maze of tangled lines and flapping canvas caused by a parted sheet. With the wind now registering a steady 40 knots, the sailing master takes the conn and begins to organize the hands on deck as they appear in groups of three and four from the berthing areas below. At first we try to bring the ship up into the wind to luff the sails, thereby making them easier to douse, but this proves impossible: we heel dangerously to port. Instead, we fall off to the northeast, thus leveling the ship, and, with the full crew now on deck, quickly douse all sails except the topsails. Perhaps realizing that this is their final test before the race, the cadets perform superbly. In any event, this seems a fitting way to finish our crossing-flying up the English Channel before a rollicking southwest gale.
By daybreak, the rapidly moving storm has abated considerably. The wind settles in the west-southwest at 20 knots and it is showery and cool through the morning hours. We turn east, then east by north; the sky clears and the temperature rises as the day wears on. We enjoy a pleasant evening—much like our first night at sea—as we approach Portsmouth.
Shortly after sunrise on the 9th, we sight our first land in 16 days. The rolling hills of the southwest coast of the Isle of Wight loom larger as we sail leisurely in an east-northeasterly direction before a gentle breeze. It’s a clear morning, mild and sunny, and soon after breakfast, all hands not on watch turn to ship’s work. Our stormy crossing has taken its toll on topside paint and brightwork. At mid-morning, the lookout reports to the bridge, "square-rigger, three points on the port bow!” The word spreads quickly and work comes to a standstill. The port rail is suddenly crowded as anxious eyes search for the object of the report. Those with binoculars soon identify the bare poles of the Gorch Fock II, hull down off the southeast corner of the Isle of Wight. She is evidently anchored in St. Helen’s Roads—our destination.
Noon chow is piped early as we prepare to anchor. We are now but a few miles from the Gorch Fock as we near St. Helen’s Roads. The wind is perfect for anchoring under sail. The propeller shaft has not turned
in nearly 2,000 miles and we are determined not to use the engine now—particularly with the Gorch Fock looking on. We brace sharp on the port tack as we turn north-northwest on our final approach. Only the four topsails are now set. A half mile from the anchorage, the upper topsail yards are lowered smartly into their lifts; our speed is now three knots. Three hundred yards short of the anchorage, the cadets brace the main yards hard on the starboard tack, thus backing the main lower topsail. Simultaneously we douse the fore lower topsail. Slowly we lose all way and let go the port anchor. We douse the one remaining sail and the tidal current takes control and completes the task.
The Special Sea Detail is secured but nearly everyone remains topside. Again the port rail is crowded, for now the Gorch Fock lies at anchor only a mile west of us. We are pleased with ourselves, and as we gaze confidently at the Gorch Fock, we wonder what sort of impression we’ve made on the Germans.
Shortly after anchoring, the Gorch Fock's commanding officer comes on board to pay us a call. He is a sunburned, hearty man, big and a bit shaggy, who had sailed in the Eagle (then the Horst Wessel) as a naval cadet in 1937. He is curious to see how she looks after 35 years, and we are flattered that he finds her little changed. After an hour’s visit with our captain, he invites us to return his call later in the evening- The invitation is eagerly accepted, and after supper six of us, including the captain, embark in the ship’s boat for the Gorch Fock.
We are vaguely apprehensive as we approach the accommodation ladder on her starboard side. None of us speaks much German, and we are ignorant of German naval customs. Worse, we are suddenly conscious of the relative isolation in which we have been training young men to sail a square-rigged ship. We feel confident of our credentials and our competence; but for years we have been virtually out of touch with the mainstream of sail training. We have an uneasy feeling of looking like country cousins.
Our fears are quickly put to rest, however, by the warm hospitality of our German counterparts. A memorable party ensues, and a fellowship, generated by a shared love of sailing and its traditions, is felt by every one of the dozen and a half men who crowd into the cramped wardroom and toast each other with cognac broken out for the occasion. Language barriers, different customs, past wars—none of these matter in the
The tall ships dock at Kiel. Visible from the Eagle’s forecastIt are the Danmark and Gloria and, right, the counter of the Gorch Fock. As the crowds clamber aboard, the authors "suddenly realize that the summer is over. For many of us, this has been the experience and adventure of a lifetime. ”
48 U. S. Naval Institute Proceedings, February 1974
slightest. Instead we sing chanties, swap nautical terminology, tell sea stories, and talk of ourselves. Amid the laughter, the boasting, and the good German beer, there grows a warmth of feeling which will never be forgotten. And at the end of the evening we know that, whoever may win the race, the chance to have been here and experience the true comradeship of sailors is a very large part of what we have come for.
Tuesday, 15 August 1972. We are underway again, enroute to Cowes on the Isle of Wight, after a four- day visit at the Royal Naval Dockyard in Portsmouth. The Royal Navy has entertained us in the style and tradition for which it is justly famous, but it has been anticlimactic after the party on board the Gorch Fock. We are sluggish from the effects of too much liberty and the hot, muggy weather which has prevailed since our arrival. It is good to be at sea again, if only for an hour’s run under power across the Solent, but we scarcely feel ready for the race tomorrow; we were better prepared when we dropped anchor last Thursday, still high from the exhilaration of our battle with the Channel storm and our slick maneuver to anchorage under sail.
Spirits begin to improve, however, as we approach our anchorage off Cowes. The fleet has already gathered, and it is an impressive sight, strung out accross the entire mouth of the Medina River. Most are at anchor, but the STA’s schooners, the Sir Winston Churchill and Malcolm Miller, are underway, sharpening sailhandling skills for the race. They are graceful, swift-looking vessels, and move easily in the light airs of this hot August morning. As we glide to our assigned anchorage a half mile off the beach at West Cowes, we must pass close aboard our two main rivals in the race: the Gorch Fock II and the Polish full-rigger, the Dar Pomorza. The latter’s presence is a surprise to us; we had known nothing of her until now, and it is her first appearance in a Tall Ships’ Race, as it is ours. We are to learn later that she is a product of the same shipyard which built the Eagle and Gorch Fock II, Blohm and Voss of Hamburg; she is more than 60 years old, but in excellent condition. In the meantime, the cheers and greetings of our competitors, as well as dozens of small craft, quickly bring us out of our doldrums and rekindle our eagerness for the race.
There is much to be done ashore, and as soon as we anchor, our liberty launch, graciously provided by the Royal Navy, begins making continuous round trips into the harbor. After lunch we call at STA race headquarters at West Cowes Castle, home of the Royal Yacht Squadron, to pick up a packet of race programs, sailing instructions, and our communications plan. Enroute to the castle from the boat landing, the quaint,
narrow streets of Cowes are thronged with yachtsmen, sightseers, pretty girls, and naval cadets in unfamiliar uniforms. Although it is Tuesday, a festival atmosphere prevails; only the shopkeepers and bartenders seem to be at work. Later in the afternoon, we attend a masters’ briefing by the STA Race Commitee, held at North- wood House, a mansion set in the middle of a park overlooking Cowes Harbor. It is here that we begin to taste the full flavor and excitement of the coming race.
Into an elegantly furnished conference room some 100 people are crammed, many of them standing for want of chairs. The language is English (more than half of the 44 vessels in the race are British), but the atmosphere is distinctly international and faintly aris- j tocratic; here are men from 12 nations, ranging in age from their twenties to their sixties, accomplished sailors all, who have come to discuss a race which they will sail purely for the sake of the sport and adventure involved. The meeting is serious and businesslike, but not without humor. There is the matter of filing declarations that at least half of each crew consists of trainees between 15 and 25 years old; a young Dutch naval lieutenant, from the minesweeper which will escort us, briefs us on communications and position reporting; the Germans raise questions concerning the use of engines at the start and in the Straits of Dover; and a French naval officer registers the droll complaint that his wine supply is adequate but he is having trouble getting fresh water for the two French schooners, the Belle Poule and L’Etoile. Finally, questions of the course and sailing instructions resolved- the meeting adjourns and we all retire to the ballroon1 for a cocktail party in honor of the race participants- 1 Here we renew our friendships with our counterpart' from the Gorch Fock, and toast each other for the las[ time: we will not meet again until we arrive in Sweden- after the race. But there is little talk of the race, sa'c for some humorous boasting. Comradeship is the ordc1 of the day; competition comes tomorrow.
Wednesday, 16 August 1972. The day begins off1’ nously. Most of us are suffering from the after effect' of a night of celebrating and the captain is noticeabh upset with the state of our preparations. The race |S to start at noon 12 miles east of Cowes at the moud1 of the Solent, but there is no sign of a breeze and tb day promises to be another hot, muggy one. After s° much anticipation, the prospect of a postponement depressing. Our departure from anchorage is schedule for precisely 0905, when we are to take our place ,|: a line of ships sailing in review past Cowes. We gfI underway on schedule and set all sails, but it is Old) a show—the wind is light and the sails hang slack 1,1
their gear. We must use our engine for propulsion f and it seems an unlucky sign.
I As we near the starting area, both the mist and the
i spectator fleet thicken, and we become confused and
somewhat anxious. The information given us yesterday indicates that the starting line will be marked by two Royal Navy vessels, a frigate and a minesweeper; but i the "starting area” shows on the chart as an ellipse nearly two by five miles, and with the visibility down ; to just over two miles, we have difficulty locating the line. Finally, with less than an hour until noon, we sight the two warships marking the line and begin maneuvering to stay short of it and at the same time clear of the now hundreds of spectator craft. Our prob- i lems are complicated by a strong tidal current which is setting us toward the line. And still there is no wind.
At 1130, all three of the Class A ships (the Gorch Fock, i Oar Pomona, and Eagle) are abreast of each other about a half mile short of the line, trying to maintain i position against the tide. Then, at 1145, a flare bursts
c high above the frigate, signalling a postponement of
i the start until 1230. We are now faced with a di
lemma. In 45 minutes we will drift across the line, j but we can’t drop anchor to prevent it, as to do so would cause us to swing head to current and stern to the starting line. Besides, it would take too long i to weigh anchor again; so we must motor away from
H the line and try to get back in position for the delayed
start. All three ships are in the same predicament, and we all turn away at about the same time. Then, almost providentially, a light southwesterly breeze comes up; not much, but enough to sail with, perhaps 10-12 knots. It is blowing almost parallel to the starting line, and it is apparent that the only possible start will be on a starboard tack. We motor away from the line about a mile, make a wide sweep to port, and stop our engine as we come back toward the line at the windward end.
To our surprise and puzzlement, the other two ships have turned to starboard, and as a result find themselves so far downwind and downcurrent that they can’t get across the line between the marks. But we are in perfect position, and at 1220 the ten minute warning gun goes off, confirming that the race will start. In all the excitement and confusion, we suddenly realize we are rapidly drifting toward the line. Race rules permit us to use our engine until five minutes before the start, and we use every available second backing full. For the last five minutes we are at the mercy of the current, and we drift so agonizingly
close to the line that when the starting gun at last goes off, we are sure there will be a recall signal. The suspense remains high for several long seconds as we drift across the line and watch anxiously for the numeral pennant "zero” to break from the frigate. But it doesn’t—it’s a fair start and it’s ours! Our competitors must now maneuver under sail to get back in positioh to cross the line. Amid loud cheers from the spectator craft which surround us, we set full sail in record time—five minutes—and are off on a southeasterly course at a comfortable five knots, feeling immensely pleased with our success.
By midafternoon the wind veers more westerly and the mist clears, so that we sail easily with a placid sea and warm, sunny weather. Toward evening we sight several of the Class B schooners off our port quarter. They sail best in light winds, and although starting a half hour after Class A, they are now overtaking us. But there is no sign of either the Gorch Fock or Dar Pomorza, and we learn by radio that they were nearly two hours behind us in crossing the starting line. Just at dusk, we are beset by fog, but it clears within the hour and the light but steady breeze permits us to sail straight toward our first mark: the Basurelle Light Vessel at the southern approach to the Straits of Dover. Still elated from our brilliant start, and without visible company on this pleasant, moonlit evening, we find it difficult to feel the pressure we had expected; this seems more like a pleasure cruise.
Thursday, 17 August 1972. By morning, all is changed. At dawn the sky is overcast and the wind has risen to a brisk 20 knots from the southwest; on our starboard hand, the high cliffs of the coast of Flanders rise surprisingly close, and astern, not more than eight miles distant, are the sails of the Gorch Fock and Dar Pomorza. We have a race on our hands after all! We clear the last navigation mark in the Straits of Dover just before noon, and with the wind holding at 20 knots (from the west now), we are able to make good a north-northeasterly course directly for the first starboard-hand mark of the course, a restricted area off the Dutch coast. The Gorch Fock presses us hard through the day, remaining five to eight miles astern, while the Dar Pomorza, sailing closer to windward, goes off due north—a tactic which is to prove fortunate.
We are confident but remain on our toes throughout the day, as we make good speed and maintain our lead on the Gorch Fock; but at dusk we realize the wisdom (or luck?) of the Dar Pomorza's decision to run northward; the wind rapidly veers into the northwest, forcing us to the east. Midway through the evening watch it becomes evident that, if the wind holds, we will have to tack ship by morning in order
to clear our mark. And hold it does, increasing to more than 25 knots.
Friday, 18 August 1972. We are flying along at 12 knots with the Gorch Fock hard on our heels, when at midnight, the flying jib sheet parts under the strain. The deck watch douses the sail for repairs and then, as a precaution in the freshening blow, the captain orders topgallants and royals doused to prevent further damage. Sail stations are called for the first time since the start of the race, and the crew responds eagerly, but at the same time complains loudly at our furling sail with the Gorch Fock so close astern.
Their fears prove justified; the Gorch Fock, which had closed to within four miles by midnight, now begins to gain on us rapidly. At 0200, we call sail stations again and the order to reset royals and topgallants is met with cheers from a crew that ought to be tired. The sails are quickly set, and the gap between us and the Gorch Fock stabilizes. But the mark is now only 20 miles due north of us, and we are getting close to the point at which we must tack to clear it- We decide to tack at first light, and at 0415 call sail stations for the third time. Few have had much rest this night, but with the Gorch Fock barely three miles astern, no one is thinking of rest. We tack at 0445, three miles short of the restricted area, and beat as close to windward as we can; but at best we can sail only west-southwest. Meanwhile, the Gorch Fock holds the port tack a little longer, so that when she tacks she is to windward of us, though still astern. It >s soon apparent that she is sailing closer to windward than we can, and in dismay, we realize that she has gained the advantage. Our chagrin is compounded when, shortly after sunrise, we sight the Dar Pomorza5 sails on the horizon, well to the west-northwest. By sailing closer to windward yesterday, she has been abk to clear the restricted area without tacking and is no"' in the lead!
Our immediate concern is with the Gorch however; the race with her is what matters most t0 us, and in spite of the exhausting night just past, man) of the crew remain topside, pacing the deck and staring anxiously at our rival. The sheer exhilaration of ^ competition, the thrill of sailing hard, pushing °uf’ selves and the ship to the limit, is felt by every m*111 on board. The very idea of sailing 1,800-ton squacC riggers as though they were racing yachts engaged ,f a tacking duel is outrageously exciting, and the real11' of it is intensely satisfying. We feel a harmony wlt the ship and the elements of wind and sea wh" none of us has ever experienced, as though all parts of a single, living organism. Surely, this is "'k'1 "going to sea” means, and we suddenly realize tb-'1' for all our collective years in motor and steam vess£
Tall Ships and Sailormen: Operation Sail 1972
we have really never "been to sea” until now.
By 0830, both ships have gained enough to westward to clear the mark, and this time the Gorch Fock initiates the tack; we cover shortly afterward, and soon we are both beating northeastward again, close-hauled on the port tack with the wind still northwesterly at 25 knots. We are substantially behind now—almost 11 miles—but as the morning wears on, we begin gaining steadily at the rate of nearly two miles an hour. Our excitement rises in inverse proportion to the distance to the Gorch Fock, and by 1330, when we must again tack to clear a restricted area, our enthusiasm is at a fever pitch. We have closed to within 4,200 yards when the Gorch Fock begins her tack, and we immediately begin ours. But this time we begin to pay the price for our lighter dacron sails and gear; during the tack, we lose two important sails: the main topgallant staysail and the main lower topsail. Our sailmaker, assisted by eager cadets, begins repairs immediately, but the loss of these sails for even a short time will cost us precious speed and distance.
A fourth tack in late afternoon costs us yet another sail, the fore topgallant. We are now west of Helgoland and north by west of the West Frisian Islands, beating hard to the northeast for the third time in 24 hours; but we are partially crippled due to our damaged gear, and the Gorch Fock again begins to increase her lead. Repairs proceed well, and by the beginning of the evening watch, we have reset our two squaresails; but now the weather, which has been boisterous all day, begins to worsen. Toward sunset heavy squalls loom in the northwest, and though we dodge several, one strikes us early in the watch with gusts of 50 knots and heavy rain. With more in the offing and darkness coming on, prudence dictates that we take in our lofty canvas; sail stations are called for the seventh time today, and we douse royals and topgallants. Safety has become our main concern, and the Gorch Fock is momentarily forgotten. The squall passes quickly, and the wind abates to between 25 and 30 knots, but it is nearly north-northwest now, and once again we are being forced toward a restricted area to leeward. Hopefully we can hold this tack until morning, but it is clear that we’ll eventually have to change tacks in order to stay within the course.
Saturday, 19 August 1972. The North Sea weather, however, doesn’t permit us to wait until morning. Just at midnight a ferocious squall strikes, worse than the earlier one, and at its height, the flying jib lets go with a thundering crack. Seas have already built to 12 feet, and we feel strained to the limit; we decide to change tack and sail westward at least until morning, in hopes that the weather will improve. In any case,
we have considerable repairs to make, and arc fearful that continuing to beat to windward will only multiply our problems. Our weary captain orders sail stations and we "wear ship,” bringing our stern through the wind at 0030; the wind is too strong for us to tack safely. We had lost track of the Gorch Fock at sunset, when she was some 12 miles ahead of us; we can only assume that she must soon make the same decision we have, if she hasn’t already.
After wearing, we sail due west for the rest of the night, and are glad for the opportunity to rest. The wind remains north by west at 25 to 30 knots until early afternoon, when it begins to slacken. During the day we lick our wounds; the forenoon watch douses the foresail so the sailmaker can mend a tear which threatens to get worse, and the afternoon watch resets the repaired flying jib and fore topgallant. By midafternoon the wind has dropped to 18 knots, but remains nearly north, and without a more westerly component to it, we will gain little ground toward the finish on either tack. Nevertheless, with no report on the Gorch Fock's position since we last saw her, we are nervous about sailing so long in what amounts to the wrong direction; so at 1540 we tack and sail northeast by east with all sail set except the foresail, which is repaired and set a few hours later. By mid-evening the wind drops to ten knots, and we hope fervently for a westerly shift.
Sunday, 20 August 1972. The wind dies altogether during the midwatch, and for several hours we loll helplessly, becalmed in the gentle swell which is all that remains of yesterday’s gales. Then at dawn a light breeze springs up from the west-southwest and, bracing our yards nearly square, we set off before it on a course directly toward the last mark of the course: a restricted area off the Jutland peninsula of Denmark. We are pleased with the wind shift, but our pleasure is considerably dampened when we learn by radio that the Gorch Fock is nearly 80 miles ahead of us, close behind the Dar Pomona. With only 250 miles to the finish, we will need more than luck to catch them; and though the day is sunny and pleasant, a gloomy atmosphere pervades the ship. After our glorious start and the invigorating battle of the past two days, the fact of our now being a poor third is difficult to swallow. We sail north-northeasterly through the day at a lazy six to eight knots, and the mood remains glum. The wind shifts toward the northwest at sunset, but this is little encouragement. Our chances are fading, and we try to resign ourselves to the probability of losing.
Monday, 21 August 1972. We are not to have a lazy, anticlimactic finish, however. Around midnight
(once again), the wind increases sharply to 30 knots and shifts toward the north, so that for the fourth time in the race, we are fighting to clear a restricted area. By 0100, we are less than ten miles off the coast, pinching as close to the wind as we can get. Navigation is good, with numerous lights on shore and good visibility; but the last hour before we round the mark is tense. At 0200 we clear it by less than half a mile, and shortly thereafter call sail stations to douse royals and topgallants. We are able to fall off a point or two now, and at dawn, as we enter the Skagerrak, the wind drops to 18 knots. We reset our high sails, but the wind continues to veer, and before long we are again pinching with yards braced hard against the lee backstays. There are no more restricted areas, but we are barely three miles off the Danish coast, and it appears we will have an uphill struggle all the way to the finish.
Hopes had risen during the night that we might still have an outside chance in the race, but now, with only a little more than 30 miles to the finish and no sign of either the Gorch Fock or Dar Pomona, it seems likely that the race is already over. We are therefore not surprised when, at mid-morning, we learn from the Hermolijn, the Dutch minesweeper which had served as escort and communications guard ship, that the Dar Pomorza had crossed the finish line at 0808, a scant five minutes ahead of the Gorch Fock. We marvel at the close finish, and regret (for more than one reason) not having been there to see it; but we take consolation in the fact that we had closed the gap by nearly 50 miles in 24 hours. We pass the Skagens Rev Light Vessel at exactly 1240, thus finishing the 645- mile course in just five days and ten minutes; not bad, considering we were beating to windward during most of the race. As we pass through the Skaw and head south into the Kattegat toward Malmo, the mood of the crew is subdued, but not unhappy. We have done our utmost, and we have gained immeasurably in our knowledge of the sea, the ship, and ourselves. If there is a sadness, it is not for the loss of the race, but because a great adventure is coming to a close.
Although much of the adventure has ended with the finish of the race, the remaining two weeks, far from being anticlimactic, are rich in tradition and pageantry. At dawn on the 22nd, we pass within hailing distance of Hamlet’s Elsinore as we negotiate the narrow waters of The Sound some 30 miles north of Malmo. After embarking a pilot, we are taken in tow by two tugs which guide us expertly through the narrow entrance to Malmo’s man-made inner harbor. We are third to tie up; only the French topsail schooners L’Etoile and Belle Poule, have preceded us. But a day
later, after the finish of the Helsinki to Falsterbo race, some 60 vessels line the wharves of Malmo’s harbor. The full-riggers Christian Radich of Norway and the Danish merchant schoolship Danmark have arrived, and the Colombian bark Gloria, though not a participant in either race, has joined the other five tall ships for Operation Sail. Along with the smaller vessels, the crowded masts and rigging of the six magnificent square- riggers, docked end to end on both sides of the basin, give Malmo’s waterfront a 19th-century appearance. The combined crews number nearly 2,500, and many of the sailors, in spite of the lures of nearby Copenhagen, spend their free time visiting the other ships.
We remain in Malmo five days. True to their seafaring heritage, the Swedes and their neighboring Danes turn out in droves to visit the tall ships. The Eagle alone hosts more than 62,000 visitors during the period, ranging from babies in strollers to old salts who had sailed around Cape Horn early in the century. In return, the Swedes prove gracious hosts, inviting trainees into their homes and sponsoring parties and sightseeing tours for all hands.
On the eve of our departure from Malmo, a crew exchange among the schoolships takes place. The STA has planned the exchange to give as many trainees as possible a taste of sailing in a ship of a different rig and nationality, in the belief that the opportunity to live and work with trainees of different national and cultural backgrounds, but a common seafaring tradition, will be one of the most rewarding and worthwhile experiences of the summer for the young men involved. Some 25 Eagle cadets, about a fourth of our complement, disperse to various of the smaller vessels, while an equal number of trainees joins us for the two- day sail to Travemiinde. Among them are British, Dutch, Finnish, French, German, Polish, and Swedish sailors; yet in spite of this variety, they prove a willing and compatible crew.
The Swedes give us a warm sendoff from Malmo on the morning of Sunday, the 27th and, after a leisurely 36-hour sail before light northeasterly winds, we anchor five miles north of the Baltic resort town of Trave miinde an hour after sunset on the 28th. The following morning we take our assigned position in the naw tical procession into Travemiinde, passing abeam of the breakwater at the mouth of the Trave River at exactly 0800. Thousands of cheering, waving spectators, many of whom have been waiting since 0400, line the break water and adjacent quays. They seem particularly pleased to see Eagle and as we pass the narrow harbor entrant we can hear the unmistakable strains of the "Star Span' gled Banner” blaring from a loudspeaker, amid a chan1' ing of "Horst Wessel!” from the enthusiastic crowd.
Most of the fleet docks at Travemiinde but we con
v> * «r
tinue ten miles up the Trave to Liibeck where, again, we receive a rousing welcome. Among the thousands of visitors who throng the ship each day are several of Horst Vessel’s original crew, and many more whose relatives had sailed aboard her. Again, as in Malmo, our hosts are most gracious, and it is with considerable reluctance that we take our departure on Saturday afternoon, 2 September.
As we near Travemiinde at dusk, the river comes alive with small craft bidding us farewell. Once again, thousands of spectators line the small harbor. All are in a festive mood; boat horns blare and flares and fireworks explode in colorful arrays above our masts. The Eagle is the center of attention, and the cadets stand proudly on the footropes along the yards above us.
A few hours after this overwhelming sendoff, we are sailing easily across the Baltic enroute to a morning rendezvous with the fleet for the final, climactic event of the summer: the Parade of Tall Ships into Kiel Bay for the Olympic crowds. At 0900 on the 3rd, 40 miles northeast of Kiel, we take our position 600 yards astern of the Gorch Fock. The six square-riggers form one column, while the smaller vessles form a line to starboard. As the parade approaches Kiel, all ships are under sail with a light breeze on the starboard beam. The spectator fleet has grown to 2,000 vessels, and in the outer harbor, six miles north of the city, an estimated 250,000 spectators line the beaches, many wading waist deep into the water to get a closer look.
As we approach our berth with a cheering crowd looking on, we suddenly realize that the summer is
The authors, recalling their duty in the Eagle, seen with the Colombian hark Gloria in the background, concluded: "Thus, the skills and attitudes developed by the Eagle experience, far from being irrelevant in the modern Coast Guard, seem to be the very ones which we will continue to need so long as we send ships to sea. ”
over; for many of us, this is our last season on the Eagle. Recollections of earlier Eagle cruises come to mind, but quickly pale in comparison to the events of these past seven weeks. Reflecting on the excitement of the race for the Boston Teapot, the drama of the Channel storm, the exhilaration of the race, and the applause of our European hosts, we know that for all of us on board, this has been the experience and adventure of a lifetime.
After the excitement has faded into memory, the question is inevitably asked: what is the value of such an adventure? Why train future officers in skills they will never need again? Why teach them to operate a ship which is an undoubted anachronism in a fleet increasingly characterized by controllable-pitch propellers, gas turbines, and automated control systems? Granted the relative economy of operation and the obvious public relations value of the Eagle to the Coast Guard, might not cadets more profitably spend their time developing more relevant skills? The last question deserves an emphatic "No!”; the second and third questions mistake the real purpose of the Eagle.
First, there is the fact that the Eagle is, in a very
real sense, a cadet ship. With only instruction and supervision from experienced officers and enlisted men, cadets can and do sail the ship entirely by themselves, a situation which would never be possible on a power vessel, even one committed solely to training. The complexity of the propulsion machinery and electronics systems of a modern ship requires a crew with training and experience that cadets have not had. On the Eagle, however, cadets are the crew; this experience results not only in a better awareness of what a ship at sea is but in an esprit, derived from the shared experience of operating her, which will pay off in terms of future competence and commitment to a seagoing career. It is of course impossible to measure this essentially intangible benefit; but it is significant.
A second and related benefit of the Eagle concept lies in the intimate acquaintance with the sea which the cadet must, of necessity, develop. The Coast Guard has often been called a "shallow-draft navy,” and while this epithet is not wholly accurate, it does reflect the fact that much of our seafaring work is done in relatively small vessels, often in adverse weather conditions. Taking a disabled trawler in tow at the height of a coastal storm, or getting a ten-ton buoy aboard in a seaway, are tasks which require a sound understanding and appreciation of forces of wind and sea. The Eagle is an ideal platform for gaining such understanding and appreciation. The very nature of the ship’s main propulsion system is that it must take advantage of and somehow harness these forces; thus the Eagle sailor must develop a keen "weather eye”, a habit of constant alertness to the portents of change. Also, he quickly learns a healthy respect for the elements; anyone who has had to "sheet in” a headsail in a gale, or pass a gasket on a wildly flapping sail at the end of a yardarm some 130 feet above a rolling deck, cannot help but respect the forces of nature.
Yet these benefits—commitment, and a knowledge of seamanship—important as they are, are subordinate to the most important benefit of the Eagle program: the opportunity it gives a cadet to learn and practice leadership. In no other situation—certainly not on a modern, highly automated cutter—does the success or failure of so many important evolutions depend so heavily on the ability of individuals to organize and direct the efforts of others to perform a task. In tacking ship, for example, there are at least a dozen cadets in charge of various aspects of the evolution: the cadet sailing master, who must time his commands carefully to take best advantage of wind and sea conditions; the mast captains, who must anticipate commands by assigning and shifting men to various stations, often with split-second timing, and who must, in addition, dele
gate authority to several other cadets (at the braces, for example) so as to keep overall control of their masts; and the subordinate cadets in charge of sheets, braces, lifts, brails, etc., who must be alert to hear and respond to orders, converting them into instantaneous actions at their various stations. Each of these men must know what is happening, must make his commands loud and clear, and must be constantly alert to potentially dangerous situations so as to sing out "avast” in time. The results of inattention or timidity in such circumstances are immediately apparent—a fouled block, a parted line, a torn sail—and there is rarely any doubt as to where the failure lies. There are few places to hide on the open decks of the Eagle, and even fewer aloft in the rigging. A man learns quickly how to size up a task, organize the available forces to perform it, and make his orders effective; he learns, from direct observation, his own strong points and limitations; and he usually gains a good deal of self-confidence in the process.
Thus the skills and attitudes developed by the Eagle experience, far from being irrelevant in the modern Coast Guard, seem to be the very ones which we will continue to need so long as we send ships to sea. Of course a future officer needs other specialized and technical preparation for a professional career; but whatever his specialty, the leadership experience gained aboard the Eagle cannot fail to serve him well. And should he specialize in seafaring, there is no better place to begin to learn his seamanship than on board a square- rigger. The Europeans have long believed this; we are convinced that they are right.
A 1964 graduate of the Coast Guard Academy, Lieutenant Commander Thompson was first assigned to the CGC Casco as First Lieutenant and Communications Officer. In 1966 he commanded the CGC Cape Hen/ope* in Port Townsend, Washington. A year later, he was assigned as Commanding Officer of the CGC Point Marone, engaged in Market Time Operations in South Vietnam. Following a tour at the Rescue Coordination Center in Juneau, Alaska, Commander Thompson was assigned to the Coast Guard Academy as a mathematics instructor in 1969. During his four year tour, he served two summers aboard the Eagle, and was Navigator and Mainmast Officer during Operation Sail 1972. In May of 1973, he was transferred to Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute where he is seeking a graduate degree in management.
A graduate of Amherst College in I960, Lieutenant Commander Wood entered the Coast Guard OCS in 1962. On commissioning, he was assigned to the CGC Sorrel in Sitka, Alaska until 1964, and thereafter served a staff tour at the First Coast Guard District, Boston. After successive tours a* XO of the seagoing buoy tenders Spar and Cactus from 1966 to 1968, 1* was briefly assigned as Assistant Chief, Aids to Navigation Branch in the Thirteenth Coast Guard District, Seattle, before reporting to the Coast Guard Academy as an instructor in the Humanities Department in 1969- While at the Academy he served three summers aboard the Eagle and was operations officer and sailing master during Operation Sail 1972. Since Juty he has been assigned as CO, CGC Madroma (WLB-302), a seagoing buo? tender out of Portsmouth, Virginia.
[1]The Eagle did, in fact, win the prize as a result of this run. The trophy, a large silver teapot, arrived in New London from its previous holder, the Gorch Fock 11, on 20 October 1973.