Great seamanship: The Log of the Molly B

Tom Cunliffe introduces this extract from The Log of Molly B Pete Hogan's account of sailing a home built 30ft ketch around Cape Horn

The Log of the Molly B stands out from the crowd of today’s cruising accounts. It opens around 1980 with Dubliner Pete Hogan quitting the straight life in Montreal, which had profited him to the tune of a smattering of French, a failed marriage and the opening balance of a pension plan. He gives away his business suits and heads for the West Coast, which sounds like a good start.

Next, after a year spent getting the feel of the longshore community, he acquires the bare fibreglass hull of an iconic 30ft Tahiti Ketch. Using this as a basis he builds himself a boat. In a surprisingly short time he launches Molly B into the Pacific and sets out single-handed into the sunset.

Readers follow his colourfully described adventures until he finally circumnavigates 10 years later, so what sets this book apart? No photographs adorn the pages but, far better than lens and shutter, Pete Hogan has given us a high-quality volume illustrated with his own paintings. These crop up richly throughout the book. We join Pete and

Molly B on the long road from New Zealand towards the Azores as they press on towards Cape Horn.

Extract from The Log of the Molly B

Molly B turned south for Cape Horn at the end of week five. Soon we are crossing the 50° south latitude line on the small-scale chart of the tip of South America. The waves build up with the wind and now and then break across the deck.

The most common rig combination is the reefed mizzen and storm jib. Every so often the waves will catch the thin plywood vane of the self-steerer and snap it off where it is attached to the stainless holder. I have a replacement ready with a smaller version for heavy weather.

Big southern ocean rollers occasionally result in a complete knockdown as Molly B spews around broadside and gets caught in a breaking crest.

I rarely now spend much time on deck. I rush out to change the rig or sails, adjust the ropes, check for chafe or something working itself loose. When I do this I wrap up well in two of everything. Two sets of pants, two oilskins, two safety harnesses, a damp towel around my neck, a woolly hat and rubber boots. I clamber up on deck into the slipstream, make sure I am well hooked on, close the hatch behind me and do what I have to do.

I winch in a few inches of jib, tighten down on the kicker of the mizzen, adjust the self-steering slightly, stow an errant trailing line. I do a quick check on the foredeck and rigging and dash below again before a wave breaks. The boat is like a sealed bottle or maybe even a submarine.

We are approaching the west coast of Chile as we head south for Cape Horn, but I do not want to get too close to this potential lee shore before we reach the correct latitude. Molly B is slightly out of control as she makes her approach. I have to tack downwind as I position her to go around Cape Horn. Gybing is not easy in the high winds.

As the boat turns dead downwind the storm jib slams from side to side with incredible force. It’s a bit like a giant whiplash which puts a great strain on the sail, the mast and the forestay. I am sure one of them will go.

Boom break

At the same time I am steering, having disconnected the self-steering to gybe the mizzen. This involves releasing the vang, pulling in on its boom so it will not hit the self-steering gear. Then I pull in on its topping lift to raise the boom. Next, pulling in on the sheet I cause it to gybe. The boat spews around on a wave and takes up its new course. I reconnect the self-steering and the vang. I then bring the jib across and adjust the sheets. We are off on a new tack downwind.

I get it wrong once and gybe against the boom vang. BANG! The mizzen boom breaks in two as it pulls against its preventer. Almost a day’s work goes into splicing the boom back together with some spare wood and nuts and bolts.

The water is everywhere, finding holes and dribbles which I never imagined existed. They drip down on me as I lie on the bunk. Everything is damp. The boat crashes onward, the waves rolling right over it. I take the spray dodgers off to give the waves an unobstructed passage across the decks. It is very tiring to do anything other than lie on the bunk. I rarely bother to look out
at the horizon. The ice is supposed to be to the south.

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Molly B tacks downwind in a broad fairway on the pilot chart between the land and the ice line on the chart. Eating is the high point of the day. That lasts for about five minutes. I cook up a big mess of rice, potatoes or spaghetti once every two days. The leftovers last for the following day. I wolf the food down straight out of the pan, burning my mouth in the process and collapse on the bunk to sleep it off. Molly B crashes onwards to the south.

Running to the Horn

At the end of the sixth week, we had run 881 miles for the week and most of that under storm jib alone. This was the best week’s run I was ever to do on Molly B. Cape Horn was 329 miles away to the south east. Three days, and so it transpired. The barometer was dropping. The sea turned an icier colour and the number and types of birds increased.

The wind built up over the afternoon. Around midnight I dropped the reefed mizzen leaving the tiny storm jib to react with the self-steering as we crashed along. I could not reduce sail any further.
It was a sleepless night. In the morning a breaking wave carried away the plywood vane.

I replaced it with the smallest vane I had. I had a big breakfast, like a gladiator getting ready for battle: a tin of apricots, ham and eggs, fried bread (an Irish delicacy) coffee and biscuits with peanut butter and marmalade. At noon I was 220 miles from the Horn. The barometer was still dropping and the sea building up. I ran on under storm jib making a steady 6.5 knots with the tiny sail.

Occasionally the hull would attempt to surf and the waves run clear over the cabin. I cat-napped in my oilskins, putting on a second set when going on deck. How much worse could it get? Molly B was now pretty much out of control as she ran downwind. The self-steering worked overtime, often completely underwater except for its faithful vane.

Cape Horn was now 95 miles away. Diego Ramirez Island, a small outlying reef, was some 60 miles distant and Molly B was about to pass over an underwater shelf where the depth changes from the 2,000m of the South Pacific up to the shallow reef running out from the tip of South America.

This is one of the main reasons Cape Horn is so dangerous. I planned to pass between Diego Ramirez and the Horn. The barometer was still dropping. The storm was now probably at its peak.

At times we recorded speeds of up to eight knots just with the storm jib. There was a strong current sluicing through between Cape Horn and Antarctica. I stood in the companionway looking at the overworked self-steering gear. The jib whipped back and forth and the waves broke over the cabin. “Something’s got to give,” I thought.

By late afternoon Molly B was very near to Diego Ramirez but I never saw it in the fading light. I had other things on my mind. Twice Molly B was knocked down by breaking waves, the mast at least horizontal with the water. I was kept busy replacing the vane on the self-steering. With less than 60 miles to go to the Horn I began to feel more confident. “It’s in the bag,” I thought.

I did some calculations. It looked as though Molly B was going to sail past Cape Horn in the night. “It would be nice to see it,” I thought. Having come all this way. I decided to try and heave-to, by using the mizzen sail to hold the bow into the wind. I dropped the jib. I hauled up the flapping reefed mizzen hoping that it would hold the bow into the wind. But in the space of about five minutes it simply flapped itself to pieces.

I decided to try laying a’hull with no sails up. I lashed the tiller, secured everything on deck and went below. I was standing around in the cabin, getting the feel of the boat under this new, sail-less, condition and preparing to take off my oilskins.

Suddenly, without warning and with an almighty WHOOSH followed by a huge BANG, a wave hit the side of Molly B. Over she went and I found myself walking up along the bookcases on the port side of the cabin.

Everything went quiet as Molly B reached the top of her roll. There was a moment of stillness as I looked about with the flashlight. At the companionway I could see the water spurting in through the hatch on sinking submarines in movies. Forward I noted the mast was at an odd angle. Then I realised the boat was upside down until slowly, like a heavy, steady pendulum, the hull righted itself.

Molly B had turned turtle but come back up on the side she went over. I immediately went topsides to check everything. The masts were still standing. My first thought was to get us sailing again. There was no reason why another wave should not hit us sideways and turn the boat over again. And this time with me on deck.

Then I noticed the main stay of the mast had sheared. I tried securing it but could not unravel the twisted rigging in the dark. I then discovered that the sacrificial safety tube of the self-steering paddle had sheared. It’s a big job to replace, so no self-steering. I grabbed the tiller and started steering through the spindrift, running down wind under bare poles.

I steered all night, crossing the reef between Cape Horn and Diego Ramirez. A full moon came up. It was very beautiful, the silver sky turning the clouds, waves, boat and myself into the same ghost-like white silhouette.

There did not seem to be much danger as long as I kept steering and pointing the stern of Molly B into the oncoming rollers. It got cold. I piled on the sweaters and woolly hats. I got tired. I shook my head and stamped my feet and kept steering.

By early the next morning the seas had become more regular and less threatening. I lay down and had a catnap.

When I awoke things seemed a lot better. I found a shackle and some tools, unravelled the rigging and got the main stay set up again. I replaced the tube on the self-steerer. This was no easy task as it involved climbing out over the stern. I hoisted the storm jib. Then with the dawn fully over I looked up to the north and saw in the distance the faint grey shape of the most famous and feared headland in the world, Cape Horn.

I was exhausted. I slept a bit more, then got up. Cape Horn was still there. To do even the simplest thing was exhausting. The mizzen boom had again been broken. The mainsail, furled on its boom, had burst beyond repair by the force of the knockdown. I bent on the spare. The wind continued to ease off and gave two days of respite in which to recover.

I lit the stove, put music on the ghetto blaster and looked around at the confusion of the cabin. Tools all over the place, books, charts, blankets, clothes, food, bits of string. My whole idiotic world. Cape Horn was on the distant horizon and I broke down and cried, a sort of a happy cry.

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