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From : Sarah Brice Yacht : Concert Date : FRIDAY 20TH DECEMBER, 1996 A few days ago there wasn't much new to tell - trucking along in 4th place, under more grey sky, over more big waves; sails going up and down. Things are rather different now, as you've no doubt heard. We're mast off, engine on, destination Chatham Islands (where?). Let me tell you how it happened... The night had been a bit of a bun-fight. With the wind steadily increasing, we were working down through our sail wardrobe and each sail change was getting more hairy. We were having to bear away to 90 degrees to get pocket handkerchief sails dragged on and off the foredeck and hanked on. And we were changing down sooner rather than later given concerns about the rig. The waves were the biggest I've seen (in my vast experience!). Adrian said they weren't waves, they were cliffs we were sailing over. The crew came off each watch battered and exhausted, to feed and collapse into bunks. By breakfast things had settled and we were holding our own with 3 reefs in the main and only the staysail up, still with 45 knots across the deck. We were on deck in pairs, for 40 minutes at a stretch, each helming for 20 minutes. I was down below when it all happened, psyching myself up to clean the heads (yes, that time again) without killing myself. There was a loud bang. Not unusually loud, but not followed by the usual flogging of sails when a reef goes in, rather by an eerie quiet. The motion of the boat changed, too, from a dramatic heel with heavy crashing off waves to a gentle wallowing roll. Something had gone; something big. Shouts came down from the cockpit: "The rig's down! get the bolt croppers!". No, it couldn't be true. Crew came bundling bleery-eyed out of cabins, grabbing dry suits, refusing to believe the news. We believed it when we got on deck and saw the carnage. The top two thirds of the mast had folded over the remaining stump and and were lying over the port side dragging along the hull; the deck was covered with rigging, halyards, and twisted spreaders; the staysail was laid out on the water like a table cloth. There were so many emotions - disbelief, desperate sadness, anger. Not us, surely it hasn't happened to us. I wanted to cry - we all did. The implications were all there: the whole race and our place in it let alone this leg and how will we get to Wellington. And there was something more personal - this is our home. It was as though half your house had fallen down. This inevitably sounds melodramatic, but this has been our world for a month and more, and our goal for a lot longer. The scene was oddly quiet. Not much rigging for the wind to whistle through, no flapping sails, not sound of spray on the deck. Just a teeth-clenching grind of metal on metal. We stood around in the rubble for a few useless moments, unable to do anything. Then we galvanised into acton, lead by Chris. There was some urgency because the top third of the mast, above the second break, was a flail section under the water on the port side, held on only by the halyards running through the mast. As the boat moved over the waves it was knocking against the hull, and potentially our rudder. The off watch piled on deck and we set to clearing the wreckage and salvaging what we could. We tried to cushion the broken section of mast with fenders, to keep it away from the hull, but fortunately the flail section just came loose and dropped off, to sink to the bottom of the Southern Ocean. It was depressing work, and difficult with the boat rolling heavily from side to side, lurching over the big swell. But it was good to have plenty to do, to take our minds off the tragedy. Eventually, eighteen hours later, the rig was stabilised with the middle section of mast lashed to the deck. The engine was on and we were setting course for the Chatham Islands, 400 miles short of Wellington, where we'd pick up fuel. We had redezvous'd with Motorola and transferred diesel - and a bottle of whisky from them to "help take away the smell of the diesel". We were struck by how small Motorola looked as she approached us, dipping between the waves so we could only see the tip of her mast. By this stage we had also informed the other yachts and race headquarters, so rigs could be rechecked and work started on elucidating hows and whys. The admin had begun. We are philosophical about the event now. No one was hurt when the rig came down, and now we have an engine running well and diesel onboard. We also have plenty food, a large Christmas pudding and a bottle of whisky. We'll run out of peanut butter, but there's enough coffee to keep the skipper happy. A rather catholic selection of books is collecting in the library for circulation, and we've dug out the games box that had been banished to a back locker. The next issue is how to keep ourselves entertained for the next two weeks. Things could be worse! "Concert" makes a pitiful sight now, with a twiglet of a mast and two sad, drooping spreaders at the top. But now we have a sail hoisted! After two days of work we have a "forestay" carrying the orange storm staysail upside down and knotted in one end. This has helped stabilise the boat and makes us think we're going faster. We're also trimming like mad! Morale is high despite the awful events, boosted by messages of support from other yachts, from our sponsors and from home. We're looking forward to seeing land and a big party in Wellington. We hear there's at least a pub on Chatham Island. Do you think it'll be open on Sunday, when we're due to arrive? Yours dismasted, Sarah xx.
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