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Hump
Many skippers have made their contribution to the now legendary success of the Vertue’. Young and old, big and small, rich and poor, quiet and outspoken — this little ship has known and has been guided by them all. Their views and exploits would fill a complete volume. It would be comforting to think that, one day, such a book would be written. In this modest chronicle it is impossible to give to all of them their just dues. The task of selection has had to be faced, and I am sure that some readers will disagree with my choice. But, having made it, I am sticking to it, being a firm believer in the theory that, anyway, it is impossible to please all of the people all of the time. The ‘Vertue’ was Jack Giles’ brain child, but Humphrey Barton led her into the wide world. A partner to Jack for many years, (affectionally known as ‘Hum’), he spent most of his time with the practical side of the business, being mainly involved with survey and delivery work. He was closely associated with the ‘Vertue’ right from the start, sailing ‘Andrillot’ (No. 1) to Brittany in 1937 and, as already recorded, delivering "Monie" (No. 3) Lymington to Wales via the Caledonian Canal. ‘Hum’ can truly be described as a "character". He has strength formed from long experience, and voiced them. Tall and of frame, those who have sailed with him know him as a good companion who, even in the deepest crisis, never gets into a fuss first hit the headlines in 1950 when, having supervised the building of ‘Vertue XXXV, he and Kevin O’Riordan sailed her from Falmouth to New York — the first ocean crossing by a Vertue’. During the voyage, so ably described in his book "Vertue" they were knocked down by a freak wave. This incident led Jack Giles to re-design the structure of the dog and coach roof to provide additional stiffness. Since then ‘Hum’ has sailed huge distances, and has crossed the Atlantic in yachts more times than anyone else in the world, latterly beloved "Rose Rambler". In 1954 he founded The Ocean sailng Club, the qualification for Membership being a voyage to ports of at least 1000 miles. He is Admiral of the Club, and 2 he completed his nineteenth crossing of the Atlantic ocean. his wife, accompanies him on most of the crossings and in the years to 1972 "Rose Rambler" had covered no less than 80,000 since she was built. "Rose" is, of course, a Laurent Giles design. 35 ft. overall, 271/2ft waterline with a beam of 9ft 6 inches 'hum’, I am sure, would not mind my saying that he is now middle-age. But he sails on and is just as forthright as ever. Clear the English channel. Turn left. When the butter melts —Turn right. For those ‘Vertue’ owners unable to attempt the long ocean assages of their dreams he has these crumbs of comfort for port-hoppers. "Is it not just heaven, having stowed the sails, to get lown below out of the wind and rain, change into warm dry clothes and then have a magnificent meal? One has brought one’s little ship safely into port and really feels one has earned the reward. How much more enjoyable that sort of cruising is than this ocean stuff —entering port is. I think, the cream of the sport". Kainui and Russell Heath See the extract from the VOA Newsletter of October 1994 by Mathew Power
The Slocum Society, which along with Lt, Col. H. G. Hasler, d the first Transatlantic race, accepted his Norweigan s as his qualification to enter. From that moment on David ~‘as dedicated to the contest. He is a small man physically, like 3ther ‘Vertue’ skippers, but events were to prove his exceptourage and determination. here were five entrants for that first race, the boats ranging in m ‘Gipsy Moth III’ 39’/2 ft. overall, ‘Cardinal Vertue’ 25ft, and ‘Eira’ 25ft., to ‘Cap Horn’ 2lVzft. They left Plymouth on me 1960. few hours after the start the mast of ‘Cardinal Vertue dy broke 12ft. above the deck, the remaining twenty two feet going down into the sea. Poor David Lewis sat looking at the damag while ‘Blondie’ Hasler circled him asking if he required nce and the others sailed away Westwards. Disabled 3000 fini~hina line what neither skinner wniild nnt have mast repaired, and two days later set out again. It is not difficult to imagine his despair — it is all but impossible to grasp the extent of his determination with the four others way over the horizon. Not only did David Lewis complete this tough race — he came in third behind Francis Chichester and ‘Blondie’ Hasler. During the rugged crossing by the Northern route he carried out his research as. planned, then sailed ‘Cardinal Vertue’ back single-handed to the Shetlands. His book "The Ship would not travel due West" reveals his depth of character and his modesty. The reader is left in no. doubt that here is an outstanding man.
Bill Nance Bill Nance was born in Wallaby Creek, near Melbourne, 4ustralia, and he determined to sail alone around the world. Having worked for a time in the copper-mines of Rhodesia to save enough money to buy a boat, he then came to England to learn about sailing. He discovered that one East coast barge was still trading under sail, he decided that the best way for him to learn was to ship aboard her. He met up with the ‘Cambria’ in Pin Mill. Essex, and his sincere enthusiasm so convinced Bob Roberts, her skipper, that he took Bill on as mate. Bob Roberts was an able and experienced seaman who had ived on, and with, small boats for most of his life. Prior to the war he iad made a very long passage in a sailing boat and was just the nentor for Bill Nance. For a year they sailed the ‘Cambria’ together n all weathers through the shallow and treacherous East coast reeks and estuaries. During his spells ashore Bill began to search or a boat suitable for his purpose and pocket. He found David Lewis’s ‘Cardinal Vertue’ for sale in Burnhamn on Crouch, fell in love with her, and bought her. The summer of 1961 was spent working on her and preparing for the first leg of his projected voyage — England to his native Australia. He sailed in the autumn of that year, met a channel gale, and ber. Sixty one days later he was in San Fernando in the me. After checking over his boat he left for Capetown g a South East gale on the way. But the toughest part of the d passage was yet to come — the seventy six days from the to Australia. ‘Cardinal Vertue’ was knocked down and ed, the wind-vane being wrecked. After seemingly endless g he again ran into trouble off St. Paul’s Island, meeting onally steep seas which stood the boat on her nose then I Bill overboard and broke off the mast at the lower crosstrees. ately he was in safety-harness and although injured, managed back aboard. Under jury-rig he sailed the remaining 2,000 to Fremantle. Now he set to work again to provide the finance for the second his circumnavigation, doing some sailing in ‘Cardinal Vertue’ the Australian coast, Tasmania and New Zealand. About to the latter in November 1964, he damaged both his hands in a turning machine and to speed his departure had protective tips made to fit over the damaged fingers. On 1st December he sailed for the Southern Ocean from md. Gales battered him as he approached the Horn, two larly bad ones at the end of December again damaging his stering gear. He rounded the Horn on 7th January 1965, and the event "It was as usual a day of alternating squalls and but a day to remember for me. I think most of all I was i to see it go astern". ‘Cardinal Vertue’ sailed into Buenos Airesn 22nd January 1966 It had already been proved typical of Bill Nance, there was no fanfare, although he had just joined that tiny band of men who had single-handed round the dreaded horn he had done it in one of the smallest boats ever. From Buenos Aires Bill sailed to the West Indies, from where :e to Bob Roberts in Essex that he would head for Nassau and All communications from him then ceased, and efforts to find him failed for some years. It has not even been possible to Eventually his whereabouts were traced through his brother. Bill did sail ‘Cardinal Vertue’ to the U.S.A., and there he sold her in Miami. But he has not finished with the sea — he and his wife have built a much larger yacht in steel, reported to be on the lines of Halvorsen’s ‘Freya’. They sailed her from Portland, Oregon, where she was built, up to British Columbia then across the Pacific to Honolulu. They hope to sail ‘Phaedra’ back to Australia in due course. This is but a brief record of a remarkable exploit by a remarkable man. An exploit which passed unhonoured and unsung. We who sail ‘Vertues’ on our humble voyages can appreciate better than most the enormity, the danger and the hardships which Bill Nance faced and overcame. And salute him.
But despite his appreciation of the arts, he is essential’ practical, doing all his own repairs, maintenance and modifications He tackled the dinghy problem by designing and making his own three-part nesting type to fit the boat. His view of life is also practical He is outspoken about the effects of the injection of North American ideas into the islands of the Pacific, and the resultant’ deterioration in the quality of life of their peoples. In this context it seems a symbolic gesture that he has recently thrown his ‘Baby Blake" loo overboard, using the simple bucket instead. Over the last ten years Ed Boden and "Kittiwake" have covered some thirty thousand miles together. By modern design standards the ‘Vertue’ is considered by many to be rather staid. Ii this is so, then "Kittiwake’s" colorful skipper is the perfect foil for her, and you can read some of his philosophy elsewhere on this site
This article is reproduced from the Cheoy Lee Peter Kinse, in the mid 'eighties, sailed his Cheoy Lee Vertue from Victoria, BC to California (pitchpoled it on the way), then to the South Pacific, primarily Tonga and Vava'u, for three years. He wrote an article on his trip which was published in Latitude 48. He holds the copyright. (Peter is now in the sailing and boating business out of the Northwest-- Vancouver). He runs occasional charters out of Vava'u on a 50-foot steel boat which was designed by J Laurent Giles Co. (who designed the Vertue) and which he describes as "a real big Vertue." He REALLY likes Vertues. He has agreed that article be published on the web page, our grateful thanks The attached article was written about a Force 11 storm which he sailed through off the Washington coast in his Cheoy Lee Vertue, Kainui. Though no dates were given in the article, It is believed the episode occurred in the early 1980's. As I write these words I am two hundred miles offshore, northeast bound for my landfall at Cape Beale at the mouth of the Juan de Fuca Strait. Today is the twenty-fifth day of my single-handed passage aboard my twenty-five foot Vertue class sloop Kainui, from Honolulu to Victoria. This passage concludes a four and a half year, 13,000 mile return voyage to the South Pacific. This morning I picked up on the AM radio CKDA Victoria. I have been monitoring the weather reports of wind and sea conditions in the Juan de Fuca at the close of Swiftsure race. It is indeed comforting to hear the frivolous chatter of my home port radio station, particularly now. I have taken a beating these last few days and am feeling quite thrashed: a survivor re-emerging form the wasteland. The gash on my forehead is healing now, although an egg-size lump still remains. The fingers of my frostbitten hands are numb, particularly my right, tiller hand. I have managed to patch together the self-steering and it is functioning now, held together with two C-clamps, two vise grips, and some wire. I am steering a course by a French hand-bearing compass. The main compass was ruined, the glass stove in during the knockdown I encountered in a force 11 storm four days ago. At least I am not constantly shivering in wet clothes anymore. The sun has shone during the last two days and as well as warming me up it has enabled me to dry things out a bit. However, every corner of the cabin and every object therein remains covered with a slippery thin film of vegetable oil, which was released from a plastic bottle that became airborne at the moment the boat rolled over. This passage seems to have developed into a rather desperate lesson in Heavy Weather Management. Prior to this passage, during all my travels, I have encountered only two gales while at sea. Having no instruments to calibrate wind speed, I can offer the reader no precise figures. The first gale was during my first offshore passage from Neah Bay to San Francisco. Off Crescent City a gale blew up from the south. I turned and ran before the wind all night. My presence was not required in the cockpit. The self-steering did all the work, steering the boat hour after hour, hard-driven before the wind, under bare pole. I well remember that night, looking astern at row after row of foaming phosphorescent white horses advancing towards me in the inky darkness. During this gale three local fishing boats were lost with all hands. The second gale was in the South Pacific, north of Samoa and southeast of the Phoenix group. This time I hove to with the trysail clew fastened to the windward quarter cleat and the tiller lashed down. Running would have meant threading my way through the Phoenix Islands at night - a fearful prospect. Heaving-to worked admirably, but I did take some heavy thuds as seas crashed over the boat and the noise was a bit unnerving. As well as the above, I rode out two very severe storms at anchor during the several years I spent in the Vava'u group of the Tongan Islands. The second of these storms was Hurricane Isaac. Out of over 22 boats sheltering there during the hurricane season, only a handful of boats were floating after the storm had passed. Kainui was one of them. I have always been a little skeptical of other mariners' "heavy weather" stories. Most people, myself included, get frightened and excited in really severe weather at sea. In retrospect, memories are magnified, just like the angler who over-emphasizes the size of the huge one that got away. I was convinced that monstrously large breaking seas, which could threaten and physically overwhelm a small yacht could only be experienced in certain conditions: where strong currents conflict with very strong opposing winds, or in the regions of the southern ocean where the waves circle the globe unceasingly and undisturbed by any land mass. I recently discovered that this assumption was wrong. In the following description of my recent experiences I attempt to be accurate, objective and to avoid such magnification. Four days ago at 45 degrees North and 136 degrees West I encountered a Force 11 storm. The Beaufort Scale describes force 11 as a violent storm with wind speeds of 56-63 knots (67-76 mph) and seas 35 feet high. There were in fact sustained gusts of wind at much higher velocities. The surface of the sea in a Force 11 storm is described as having exceptionally high waves, and these waves are covered in foam. This is an accurate if not slightly understated description of what I experienced. I approached the onset of the storm with a rather cocksure attitude as "just another damn gale." Anger had replaced that usual little twinge of anxiety in my bowels. WWV was reporting it with a radius of 600 miles, twice that of the previous four gales I had already experienced so far in this passage. At 35 knots, it was moving 10 knots faster than any of these previous gales. The eye of the storm, as it turned out, passed directly over me. As the storm intensified, the Hasler self-steering did an admirable job as always. During this time the deck was stripped. All sail was bagged and below decks. The main was lashed to the boom. At first it was your standard storm scenario: the crashing thud of waves striking the hull, the high-pitched screaming in the rigging, the approaching whooshing of combers racing past, water intermittently hydraulicing in between the hatch boards. The first indication that things were getting a little out of hand was when the boat broached, suddenly and unexpectedly lurching over on one side. I was below decks at the moment, climbing out of my survival suit and getting some rest in my bunk. After the boat righted herself, I quickly zipped myself back into the suit and peeked out of the hatch. The Hasler picked up the boat as the wave passed and off we were driven at hull speed again. I put my wet weather gear over my survival suit, ready to go on deck. At this point I was getting scared, and quickly clambered out on deck, slipping in the hatch boards after me. I crouched down low, vainly trying to protect my face and neck from the salt spray and wind pummeling as if from a high-pressure hose. I secured both harness and safety lines. Then I heard in the distance the wave approaching that broached us again. Violently over on one side the boat went. From windward a deluge of water swept over me. The wave passed and up we popped again. Wind gripped the rigging and Kainui shot off again, surfing wildly on each wave. A glance around revealed the damage. The nylon-reinforced plastic leeboards had ripped their stainless eye-fasteners and screws bodily right out of the teak bulwark, leaving gaping splintered craters in the solid wood. Aft, the wind vane was split almost in two pieces. I disengaged the worm gear on the vane with a tug on the line and began steering, hunkering down and checking again the two safety lines of my harness where they were secured to cleats on each side of the cockpit. I could see almost nothing, only a vague shadow of the silhouette of each approaching wave. Squinting through the salt water stinging my eyes, I attempted to line the stern up perpendicular to each successive silhouette. I also used as a guide the flag flogging in the wind - a British Ensign, already ripped half-away from its bolt rope. This required absolute concentration. The hull was surfing on almost every wave now, and any minor movement of the tiller would effect a large misalignment of the hull in the wind, which would take precious seconds to correct. Another half hour or two hour passed; I don't know - every minute was like an hour. I was freezing. My insulated seaboots were full of water. Water had gotten inside my survival suit. I was shivering uncontrollably. My fingers and toes were numb. My legs were cramped. I wiggled my toes constantly and periodically adjusted the position of my legs. Gusts of wind above the steady onslaught scoured and flayed the broken and foam-covered surface of the sea. Later, when daybreak came, I was able to look down from the crests onto the enormous valleys between each racing hill of water. Near the flailed crest of each wave there were many racing combers. As they raced past my already hard-driven little yacht, they presented themselves time after time as seemingly vertical walls of water ten feet or more above the stern, crumbling in a fury of foam at the crest. The stern lifted to a dizzying angle with each successive wave. And then it happened. One wave, a particularly sheer wall of water, reared up above and astern. As the stern lifted to a near vertical angle the wave broke and cascaded over the entire cockpit. It happened very quickly. All I remember is the tiller going loose in my grip as the hull passed completely out of the water onto the backside of this wave. A cascading tumult of green water struck my back. I glimpsed down at the now downward-sloping, partially upside-down cockpit coaming. This was a moment that filled me with shock, horror and awe all at once, that endured only as long as it took to shudder from the cold water engulfing me. Then as she righted herself the tiller suddenly came alive in my grip. Off the boat went again, wildly driven. Still gasping from the shock of the cold water, I glued my eyes astern to negotiate whatever was next. I cautioned a split second glance up behind me to look at the rig, and miraculously it was still there. I remember finding these words whispered on my lips: "I'm O.K., the mast is still there." I looked around. Only splinters were left of what was once a wind vane. The dodgers were swept away, the urinal bucket gone. The Walker's log was over the side, knocked off its taffrail mounting but still secured to the boat by its safety line. Blood from a gash on my forehead was all over my face. I became aware of this injury only by the taste of blood on my lips. The cold numbed all. After a few moments I chanced a quick look below to assure myself that: a) the oil lamps had not upset and started a fire, b) water wasn't rising above the floorboards. My mind was reeling. What in God's name was I going to do? I needed rope, anchors, anything to trail astern. These were below, and I couldn't release the tiller for more than a second or two. In a futile act of panic, I cast all the loose main and foresail sheets over the side. Before I had completed this task I saw it for the hopeless gesture it was. The hull speed of my five ton yacht is six knots, and at that moment these five tons were hurling before the wind at a speed well above that. It was in the next half hour that I discovered how to maneuver Kainui on those monstrous seas. It was obvious that I must not again permit further loss of steerage by allowing the rudder to pass into free air on the back side of a wave. This was the crucial moment of either losing or maintaining control in the passing of each potentially destructive wave. It was not long before I found Kainui again under the crest of a particularly sheer wall of water that was beginning to catapult the hull forward. When I felt this momentum under me, just at that second when, in passing, the crest plundered down on the cockpit all around me, I thrust the tiller hard over. The boat then slewed over onto the flat surface of bow section. The rudder remained under water and at the same time the forward momentum diminished like applying a brake. Furthermore, as the hull reeled over onto one side, I just as firmly pulled the tiller back the other way. This dual motion effectively slowed the boat. The wave quickly passed on. Kainui found herself slipping down the backside of the wave, quickly picking up speed again as the wind caught her rigging. After the first few attempts at this maneuver I thought I had only been lucky. As wave after wave passed, I tried to remember the Lord's Prayer, reciting what snatches I could remember. A desperate sadness overcame me, faced as I was with the very real possibility of never seeing my wife's and son's smiling faces again. Many waves with steeper and more threatening faces than the one that knocked Kainui over came rushing past. Each time however, this newfound technique proved successful. After a while a sort of fanatical glee overcame me when I realized I would definitely survive. I was still shivering and my hand was like a numb claw on the tiller, but all storms pass, as this one would. A warm feeling of gained knowledge and success overcame me. But these uplifting emotions soon subsided as I pondered the splinters left on my vane, and the 400 miles of ocean left to cross. Sub note to above article: I happened on your site Cheoy Lee when in a fit of nostalgia I typed "VERTUE" into a search engine. I owned SN 106, Kainui, for a number of years -- I bought her, in fact, from Peter Kinsey soon after he was hit by the storm he describes in the article you have posted on your site. Kainui and I sailed from Juneau, Alaska in 1985 and completed a four year, 37,000 mile circumnavigation. When I left Juneau, I had sailed all of two weekends and hadn't a clue what I was doing; I was, however, in good hands -- Kainui's -- and she never let me down. In the trades our noon to noons averaged 130 miles, her best day was 154 (she did not have an inboard and so had no prop to drag). She was a bit slow to weather but she could take a beating that would have pounded other boats to bits. Kainui was Cheoy Lee built in 1960 and the yard did a fine job -- my only complaints were the iron floors fastened with copper rivets which caused some galvanic rot in the ribs and her chain plates, which were doubled 1/4" mild steel . They had completely rotted out when I reached Australia -- scraping off the rust scale with a chisel one day, I poked a hole clean thru the port plate. I replaced them with 5/16" stainless steel plates that were mounted on the exterior of the hull. I sold her in 1992 and her new owner has rebuilt her from the hull up. He and his sweetie hope to take her off shore sometime in the next few years. Russell Heath PS I have an Alaskan friend who bought a glass Vertue, sailed it across the Atlantic, trucked it across Mexico and off California was knocked down in a gale -- he lost his rig and the boat's water tanks (they were glassed into the hull) ripped out and he lost all his fresh water. He was three days drifting and considerably thirsty when a passing freighter lifted him and his boat on deck.
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hrey E. Barton
