Great Seamanship: Tales from the Golden Globe Race

Solo round the world skipper Tapio Lehtinen has a narrow-miss when sleep deprived on the Golden Globe Race. Tom Cunliffe introduces this extract from The Last Voyage of Asteria

Ten years or so ago I was contacted by a Finnish yachtsman, Tapio Lehtinen, who was seeking assistance with his studies of astronavigation. He was obliged to become a master of this ancient art to take part in the 2018 solo Golden Globe Race around the world.

For the event, boats had to be typical of those available for the late 1960s race won by Robin Knox-Johnston, and navigation was to be by traditional methods. Tapio’s yacht in the inaugural event was plagued with gooseneck barnacles, which severely restricted his speed and upwind sailing ability, yet he was among only five that finished.

Determined to be competitive, Tapio decided to have another go at the race in 2022. He sailed the same boat, the Gaia 36 Asteria which, although the oldest yacht entered, was better fitted out this time as Tapio had learned much from the earlier race.

Asteria performed perfectly, all the way until she was to sink in circumstances of some mystery well down in the Southern Hemisphere. Tapio’s story of this mighty effort is told in his latest book, The Last Voyage of Asteria. Here he’s on passage between Lanzarote and Cape Verde. There’s a sharp lesson in the results of sleep deprivation, but we end with an insight into a thoughtful and warm-hearted individual who never gives up.

Extract from The Last Voyage of Asteria

After waving goodbye to Don [McIntyre, race organiser] & Co outside Marina Rubicon, I head west. The other alternative would have been to head south on the eastern side of Fuerteventura, but I trusted the wind to be stronger and more stable to the west, due to the funnelling effect in the sound between the eastern shore of Gran Canaria and western shore of Fuerteventura.

The lighthouse at the north-western corner of Fuerteventura warns mariners of shoals that extend far out from the island. Reaching with full genoa and mainsail, I sail for a bit over two hours before the lighthouse is abeam, leaving plenty of room between us and the shoals.

The night is beautiful, with the mountains of Lanzarote and Fuerteventura in the distance, and lights on both sides of the sound from the towns and the stars above. I am filled with a sense of relief at finding and making my way safely around the lighthouse into the sound between the islands, meeting my friends Don and Aïda and the film team, and now sailing back to the safety of the sea.

The lighthouse ahead of me at the south-western tip of Lanzarote is familiar. I rounded it in the 2018 Golden Globe Race, and took bearings towards it during my RYA Offshore Yachtmaster course in Lanzarote the winter before.

By the time the lighthouse at the north-west corner of Fuerteventura is abeam, I am exhausted. I slept only two hours the previous night, so other than that short spell of sleep, I have been straight awake for roughly 45 hours. The tradewind has been blowing steadily from north-north-east about 14-18 knots, so after broad reaching out of the sound and with the lighthouse and reefs of Fuerteventura well behind, I am able to bear off and ease the sheets. I pole out the genoa to starboard and open the yankee and full mainsail to leeward.

The west shore of Fuerteventura extends roughly 50 miles with the southern tip curving a couple miles to the west, towards the island of Gran Canaria, another 50 miles to the west.

I adjust my course roughly south-west, heading into the middle of the opening between the southern end of Fuerteventura and Gran Canaria. We are roughly 10 miles off the coast of Fuerteventura, and my course is slightly away from land.

I need to sleep, but first I must get everything properly set on the deck – the sails sheeted, sheets coiled, windvane adjusted, navigation lights on. Once Asteria is well under control of the windvane, it is time to take a nap, or else I might collapse.

Asteria has been making excellent speed in the strong tradewind and surfing in the fairly big seas under the starlit sky. She is in her element, and I go below. I have two kitchen timers and a mechanical alarm clock. I set all of them to give an alarm in one hour and hit the sack.

The moment I close my eyes, I fall asleep.

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When I wake up, the first thing I understand is I have not woken to the alarms, as it is bright daylight. Right after, I also realise the wind has dropped and I am angry at myself: in this light wind, I should be flying the spinnaker. I get out of my bunk and go up on the deck to check the situation.

Once in the cockpit, looking aft, I realise that in addition to the light wind, quite a bad cross-sea has developed, with waves coming from different directions. When I turn around to look forward, I’m struck with horror. A wall of rock rises from the sea only a little more than a hundred metres dead ahead.

We are not on the open ocean but have sailed into a small bay surrounded by high rocky cliffs, the wind is straight behind us, and we are heading directly towards the rock wall. Luckily, the wind has gone light because of the wall in front of us deflecting the wind upward, or else we would have already hit it. The cross-seas are simply reflected waves coming back from the wall ahead.

‘So this is it,’ flashes into my mind. Will this be our end? When we hit the rocks, only moments from now, the waves will smash Asteria, and the surrounding cliffs will prevent my escape from the water. But the premonition of death lasts only a second, as I realise that there might still be a chance to turn Asteria up to the wind (to starboard), sheet in the sails, and get around the rocky point to our right.

Unfortunately, we are sailing wing-on-wing, with the genoa poled out to starboard. The main and yankee are to port, and the main is held in place by a preventer. Asteria couldn’t be less ready to turn upwind, and I can’t start the engine quickly enough to get us out of this situation. Starting it requires opening the exhaust seacock, the raw water intake, the fuel intake, and the fuel tank vent, and closing an electrical switch, all taking about 15 minutes. Keeping all the valves closed is necessary to keep the engine and boat safe in rough offshore conditions, so now I have to sail out of this or face disaster.

Luckily, I have kept up my habit of keeping all the lines neatly coiled in the cockpit. First, I ease the genoa sheet, letting the pole go forward against the forestay, and furl in the genoa. Next, I adjust the windvane so it heads the boat up against the wind at a beating angle. I release the preventer, sheet in the mainsail, and then sheet in the yankee. Though we are properly trimmed to beat upwind, I realise that we will not fetch around the rocky point, again roughly a hundred yards ahead of us.

I rush to the bow to detach the pole lift so that we can tack, as the pole is in the way of the yankee. Then I rush back to the cockpit and again adjust the windvane so it will tack us to starboard (onto the port tack). To my horror, in the light wind and cross seas, as the boat heads up, I realise that our speed is not enough to get us through the wind. The boat stops in irons, head almost up to the wind, starts drifting backwards, still on starboard tack.

I first detach the tiller from the steering gear and push it to port to help get her bow downwind. Then quickly adjust the windvane again, for a beating angle in footing mode on starboard tack, and unfurl the genoa on the port side outside of the yankee.

I sheet the genoa a bit open, ease the main to gain speed, and continue to sail towards the rock wall, which is getting closer and closer as Asteria begins to gain speed. From the side of my eye, I am looking at the cliff trying to see if there is any place where I might be able to jump ashore and try to climb up, in case we hit the rocks.

I know I have just one chance left. In order to save Asteria and most probably myself, too, I need to stay cold blooded and not panic. The approaching rocky wall looks dead scary, but I keep Asteria’s bow down, pointing at the wall and trying to gain maximum speed. In the swell and light wind Asteria is accelerating painfully slowly.

The decision which will make the difference between life and death is when to tack. If I try to tack too early, still without enough speed, I will get caught in irons again without room for another try, and be thrown by the waves against the rocks. If I postpone the tack too late and get too close, I might hit underwater rocks, again with disastrous results.

Going for broke

I decide to trust that the rock is steep-to and get as close as possible to gain just a bit more speed that will be crucial for getting through the wind. With less than two boat lengths from the rocky point, serenaded by the sound of the seas crashing into the rocks, I adjust the Hydrovane to head her up and over to the port tack.

As the boat starts turning, I furl the genoa to make it easier for the boat to head up. Slowly, slowly but surely, she goes through the eye of the wind, the yankee backs and helps the bow to come down on port tack, while I unfurl the genoa to the starboard side.

After sheeting the genoa ready, I furl the Yankee in and we continue accelerating on port tack. I glance to the lee of the boat and see that we are gaining distance from the rocks and breaking seas. At this moment, my hands are shaking, and I notice a long bleeding scratch on my leg and blood all over the cockpit and deck, but have no idea when and from where I got the wound.

The feeling of relief is enormous – I have fought and gained another life for myself. Moments ago, Asteria and I were facing a nearly hopeless situation. Had I not woken up when I did, we’d have been lost, and without her upwind ability, we would never have escaped the trap.

A moment later, the relief is replaced with anger and disorientation. Where the hell are we and what could have happened? After continuing for a few more minutes on port tack, I can tack again to starboard and get safely around the rocky point we almost sailed into.

Gradually I understand that we are at the southern end of Fuerteventura.

It appears that while I slept, the tradewind backed at least 20° and took us towards the north shore of the southern tip of the island, which ends in a kind of a hook towards the west. I keep sailing close hauled on starboard tack to keep distance from shore, sailing toward the south-western point of Fuerteventura.

Once clear of the point, I bear off and ease the sheets, then pole out the genoa to starboard, again, sailing wing-on-wing with the main and yankee to port. This time, there is no island ahead of us and I begin to relax.

Wistful memories

A wistful memory from Fuerteventura almost 34 years earlier vividly returns to me. I had taken a week-long holiday with my very small children to the island in February 1989, half a year after I had lost my wife and their mother to cancer.

That winter in Helsinki had been miserable with short, dark days, stormy weather and snow, hail, sleet, and rain taking turns. Unfortunately, the weather in Fuerteventura was also rainy, but a bit warmer, so I rented a small jeep and drove to the south end of the island. The sun broke out for a while, we went down to a beach between the rocks, I was reading a book and the kids were playing by themselves.

After a while they came to me and asked me to go with them to see what they had built. They had found a metre-long piece of wood, dug a hole in the sand and put the piece standing up there. Then they had collected stones and made a circle of the stones around the wood.

I said: “Wow, that is beautiful – what is it?”

They replied proudly: “It is a memorial for Mom.”

Now, with this close call, I had almost given my kids a reason to make another trip to Fuerteventura in order to build a memorial for me. Once again, I feel deep gratitude for the gift of life. It is great to be alive after having a shivering look straight into the eyes of death.

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