The End….  Thursday, 07/08/2025

On Tuesday 5th August at 01:30 Cabo Verde time, Manuka dismasted, about 240 nautical miles north of Sao Vicente. I was awake, having got up about half an hour earlier to check on everything. We were sailing into wind and waves and the bow was slamming frequently, which had stopped me going back to sleep. There was a crash – not so different from the bow slamming – and then the autopilot alarm went off, saying that it was off course. I immediately went up to the cockpit to investigate – you can imagine my surprise looking forward: no sails and no mast. 

I registered this discovery very calmly – almost as if I was looking on it from a long way away. I stopped and thought. First issue: were we taking water? There hadn’t been any sign of that below, but I checked again. With a torch I looked overboard. We weren’t low in the water. The mast was hanging over the port side; the boom was lying along the port deck. There was a mess of lines across the boat. And the boat had lost its steering – the steel backstay, which runs from the stern up to the top of the mast, had snapped and the cable was hanging in the water. It had become tangled in the rudder and one of the cables connecting the wheel to the rudder had snapped. 

The priority now was to ready the life raft. It was secured on the deck just behind where the mast had been. I unstrapped it and brought it back into the cockpit. It’s a large white plastic box basically, weighing perhaps 18 kilograms. It has a long rope, which you secure to something before flinging it into the water, whereupon it opens automatically to produce a covered raft, which has certain basic supplies in it. 

I then came below and gathered quite a bit of stuff together – boat papers, passport, wallet etc. Some clothes. They all fitted into two small rucksacks. (I later packed a larger bag with more clothes). 

Only then did I make a SOS call. It was 02:00. Which I did from the Iridium app on my phone, which has a specific SOS button. On the other end was GEOS, a US-based 24-hour, 365 day emergency service (which is included in my PredictWind subscription). I spoke to a woman, and then a man. I made clear that although the boat was completely disabled, I did not appear to be in imminent danger of sinking, but that I’d prepared the life raft and got the basics together so that I could evacuate the boat in well under a minute if she suddenly appeared to be going under. (It is a basic principle of seamanship that if at all possible it is better to stay on the boat – that maximises your chance of survival. You should only get into a life raft when absolutely necessary: it’s often said that your last act is to step UP into the life raft as the boat goes under). 

The man said that they were making contact with the Cabo Verde authorities, who were the closest, and that he would call me back when he had more information. Sadly, the Cabo Verde authorities proved to be less than competent. After 6 hours they were still telling GEOS that they were trying to contact ships out at sea. So I was calling GEOS, and they were saying that they were “reaching out” to the authorities. It got worse, not better. Early afternoon they were saying that a Cabo Verde navy vessel was heading for me. I suspected that it was still in Cabo Verde. Yes it was, and the result was that their ETA would be 4am Wednesday (in reality, even that was wildly optimistic). Cabo Verde was asking could I travel south to narrow the distance? No, of course I could not – apart from having a 17-metre mast and a foresail in the water, I had no steering. GEOS proved to be at best naive. (My daughter Anna, who they called because she was listed as my backup person, and who dealt with them by phone throughout, has a far less charitable conclusion: that we were dealing with a complete robot who was operating from a manual and lacking initiative, questioning and empathy. I should say, everyone recognises Anna as the kindest and warmest of our family – Louisa and I have a far lower threshold for dealing with fools). 

At 13:00 GEOS called me with excellent news: there was a British cargo ship, the Teal Bay, only 10 miles from me and it was steaming to the rescue. Could I make radio contact with them. So I set to radioing, no luck; retrying every 5 minutes. After an hour still no luck. Which obviously made me very suspicious. My daughter Anna did some internet searching. Six hours previously Teal Bay’s position had been only a few miles from me, but it was travelling at 13.3 knots, which meant that it was now 80 miles further on, headed for Las Palmas. When I shared this with GEOS and they confronted Cabo Verde, it turned out that Cabo Verde had not yet actually spoken to the Teal Bay. 

This was, to put it mildly, profoundly disappointing news. But then, at 15:30, there was great news: the Teal Bay had been contacted and had turned around and would be with me in 2.5 hours. Sounded a bit strange, but great! And lo and behold, at just after 17:00 there was a large cargo ship on the horizon, steaming towards me. The legendary Teal Bay! Except that it wasn’t – I suddenly noticed that my AIS was calling it the United Grace, a 292 metre cargo ship (with a beam of 45 metres). Not that it mattered: it was a ship come to save me! 

The United Grace slowed and got close by 17:30. And then we hit problems. The sea was moderately rough, with waves certainly two metres. Wind moderate, about 14 or 15 knots. But because I couldn’t steer Manuka against her, and a vessel of that length is not easily manoeuvrable, it took 2.5 hours to execute the hook up. Finally, now in the dark, I was close enough for them to shoot a line over me, which I grabbed and made fast, and then another, until we were pulled in against the side of United Grace, just after the raised bow area. I shouted up to them to throw a rope down, which I tied to my belongings so that they could be hoisted up, two bags and then another. Then the really tricky moment came. They lowered a rope ladder which I had to use to get aboard. Even in the lee of the ship, the bottom of this rope ladder was rising and falling a good 2 metres. I had to get this right – if I lost my grip I would fall between the two boats and be crushed. Instant death, no question at all. So I waited for what I thought an ideal moment, grabbed the rope ladder and launched myself upwards. Swaying in and out against the steel side of the ship, and climbing, steadily, one foot at a time, the height of perhaps 6 or 7 metres, just over two floors. When I reached the rail a group of about six Indian sailors all grabbed me, basically lifting me into the air and then turning me 90 degrees to deposit me on my feet on the deck. They were slapping my back, shaking my hands and cheering – there was much delight. They were telling me how well I’d done getting up the rope ladder – “no fear, no fear, and you are an old man! Very strong, very strong!” Phones were out, with multiple photos taken.

The United Grace is a Japanese owned bulk carrier, Indian managed, registered in Monrovia, Liberia. Most of the crew are Indians, plus several Filipinos. A very jolly lot! I was escorted up to the bridge, where I was introduced to the first officer, then the chief engineer, who’d come up from the engine room to meet me, and then the captain, who I obviously thanked profusely. A couple of crew then proudly showed me to my cabin, a spare officer’s cabin – spacious with en-suite shower, toilet and basin. And then they insisted that I eat, so it was into the officer’s mess for – you guessed it – a damn good curry (ironically cooked by a Filipino chef who came out to meet me). 

What a relief to be on board. The ship is relatively new, built in 2019, and was absolutely pristine – every staircase, every surface, spotless. The only time I’ve seen such cleanliness is in Japan. 

I was awoken at 05:30 with a banging on my cabin door. I was told that I was being transferred to a Portuguese warship in 30 minutes. Turned out to be an hour – mostly spent on the bridge talking with the Indian captain, who told me it was his first rescue in over 30 years of seafaring. He shook hands with me three times before I descended the rope ladder off his ship (this time with a safety harness on, its two lines held by two burly sailors). 

So I found myself in a fast launch, taking me over the waves to the NRP Sines. It is a class of ship called an OMV, an offshore surveillance vessel. As far as warships go, it is small, being only 81 metres in length (with a standard crew of 36). The launch was simply hoisted up to the deck by an enormous mechanical winch. I was then taken immediately by the doctor and a nurse to the infirmary, where I was examined for any injuries. I said My blood pressure will probably be higher than normal. But it wasn’t, it was 125/85, quite normal, as was my heart rate. I think that they were a little disappointed to have to pronounce me in great health! 

I was taken to the crew’s mess and given breakfast. Lunch I had with the captain in the officers’ mess. And then dinner by choice back in the crew’s mess. At 20:00 we reached Mindelo bay. About 1 mile from the port I was transferred to a local Coastguard launch and brought ashore, to be met by 2 immigration personnel, 1 ordinary policeman and 2 maritime policemen. I agreed to come in to the maritime police station at 10:00 the next morning to compose a full report on the incident for them (which has turned out to be a two A4 page report). An immigration man took me just along the road to a hotel, adjacent to two restaurants where I had eaten during my stay, and only a few hundred metres from the marina. By 21:15 I was in the hotel bar and drinking beer. (All they had were ridiculous 250ml bottles. I told the barmaid: I am an Englishman: I cannot drink such a small beer. Give me two! She dug out a large goblet, into which I poured both. I said: Now this is a gentleman’s drink! She was very amused…

This is a long, and of course a sad story. I must declare my culpability. Mea culpa. I knew that the rigging was at least a little damaged, yet I decided to sail. With the benefit of hindsight, that was a poor decision – a failure on my part, despite the fact that I felt that I had no alternative. I was sailing very cautiously, trying to minimise the strain placed on the rigging – I thought, the rigging can withstand very severe conditions, winds well in excess of 50 knots, so if careful, with less sail than the conditions warrant, it should hopefully be alright in winds of less than 20 knots. Of course, I don’t know what exactly triggered the dismasting. It is very possible that it was a part of the rigging that appeared to be fine – there might have been an invisible defect developing. The last professional rigging check had been done in New Zealand, almost 15,000 miles ago. Perhaps I should have had a formal check, and some replacements, done in Cape Town. All of this of course is my fault. However it happened, it was my responsibility, and my failure. I accept that, but I am philosophical about it. After all, one can never get everything right. I am immensely sorry to see Manuka, who served me so well for four and a half years, abandoned at sea. Ironically, we were almost within hailing distance of crossing the route that we took back in March 2021 heading from La Palma to the Caribbean. About 15 nautical miles short, which means that I just narrowly failed to complete a circumnavigation. Not that that matters. We sailed well over 30,000 nautical miles (over 35,000 land miles or 56,000 kilometres). 

But every cloud has a silver lining. I am lucky not to have been injured, or drowned. My experiences, with Indians, Portuguese and Cabo Verdeans, certainly reaffirm any belief in innate human goodness. That puts my loss in true perspective. 

I am battered and bloody, but undefeated. This “old man” lives to fight another day. 

* I will post further comments, in particular one about my incredible experiences aboard the Portuguese warship NRP Sines, of whose crew I formed a high opinion.