By Anton Huggler
Here is the story of where my boat bumming life all began, on a fateful April weekend in 1971.
Jenny Wren…Her name has a very special place in my heart, as she gave me one of the most memorable pieces of my life. She was a creaky old lady, about 40 feet long, gentle, forgiving and she safely carried me on an unforgettable journey; my first on the open ocean.
Born and raised in the Bernese Alps in Switzerland, I began sailing on the lakes at age 12, racing dinghies and crewing on Dragons and Solings. Later, I taught sailing during semester breaks. After finishing architecture school, I decided it was time to leave the nest and I chose to emigrate to Cape Town, South Africa.
Within a week of arriving, I was hired by an architect. I was curious to check the local sailing scene, and on the first weekend I walked down to the harbor, where the Royal Cape Yacht Club was located. Asking around for an opportunity to sail, some fellow pointed to a boat bobbing on the jetty, telling me they were looking for crew.
Jenny Wren was a Colin Archer-designed, gaff-rigged ketch, around forty feet long with an impressive bowsprit and definitely a bit older than me. She’d spent younger days far North, where she served as a rescue vessel with the Norwegian Coast Guard.
Claus, the skipper, briefly inquired re my sailing knowledge, then asked me to join them for a sail to Saldanha Bay…
I had not a clue where this bay was, but I assumed close to Cape Town and we were going to anchor there, have some picnic, perhaps take a swim, then be back by late afternoon. Sort of like at the sailing school in Switzerland. This I thought because the crew was the skipper’s young family. There was a three-month-old baby girl and a two-year-old son, his wife, and now myself.
As we slowly motored out of the harbor basin, Claus ordered me to take the tiller, went to the foredeck and after robbing onto the bowsprit, he hanked on the jib, then back at the mast hoisted first the mainsail, simultaneously pulling on two halyards and raising the gaff. I hauled in the sheet and she heeled over ever so lightly. After he also hoisted and set the jib, Jenny came to life and we switched the engine off. We were sailing.
Leaving the protection of Cape Town harbor and its breakwaters behind, the swell began lifting and gently rolling the vessel. A rhythm set in and I learned to react to the movements forced by the waves so I would not oversteer. Claus, watching me closely for a while, decided I was as good as I’d claimed to be and he left me at the helm. He disappeared below and after a while popping his head through the companionway, told me I should maintain a compass course of 317 degrees. I remember this number as if it was yesterday.
The waves moving the boat didn’t let me hold this course without deviating 5 degrees to either side. I was getting nervous and expected Claus to demand more attention. Instead, told me this was perfectly normal and unlike on a lake, the ocean’s swell did not allow precise straight-line steering. He actually commended me for doing well. I grew ten inches right then, at least…
Eventually relieved from my post, I was told to go below and have lunch – my first time inside an oceangoing boat. Climbing down the companionway, entering from the bright sunshine outside, it was dark down there, the portholes only letting a limited amount of light in, but definitely cozy. There was a tiny galley to port, a nav-station on starboard, a gimbaled table midships and bunks on either side, all built of dark teak with an oiled finish, old and worn. Definitely some fascinating history here. I instantly felt at home. This was great!
I can’t recall Claus’ wife’s name or even what she cooked but I remember that afterward I was told to take a nap, as I was now off-watch and would be called on deck again in three hours. “Wait a minute! Sleep? Now? Why?” I sheepishly admitted I did not exactly know where Saldanha Bay was and would they please tell me how long this was going to take. “Oh, just two days. We will be there tomorrow!” “Ah, yes. Thank you!!?!??…!!!
Clambering into a bunk, there was a short spell of fear creeping up as I realized we would sail through the night. I dug my head deeper into the slightly musty pillow and pulled the blanket a tad over my head, but after a short while my body began relaxing in the rolling movement, and the creaky, sighing of the rig and gurgling sound of water rushing by the hull lulled me into a deep slumber.
Claus shook my shoulder, and with a laugh, probably initiated by my sleepy-eyed expression of surprise…”Hey, where am I?” He told me it was my watch again and I should come up on deck and take the helm.
The sun was just setting, painting the horizon in brilliant colors from bright yellow to deep purple. The ocean was now a dark blue and the waves were crested with sparkling white bubbles. Nightfall came quickly, then it got lighter…again? Turning around and looking astern, I saw a huge yellow full moon rising over distant Table Mountain. It was magic.
Sailing on a broad reach, the old girl slipped effortlessly through the water, lifted by the following seas, slightly accelerating when running downhill. Arriving in the trough, she slowed again, her rig moaning, her sails bulging under the increased pressure. Then the ritual began anew, the next wave raising from behind lifting the boat up…
I found myself adjusting and getting into sync with this seemingly endless repetition and learned that I could let her do what she wanted to do with little interference, each luffing was followed by her bearing off, and it all added up to a straight course if not a straight line through the water.
I was almost in a trance. Never had I envisioned little mountain goat me steering a sailboat on my very first day out on the ocean… and at night, with the rest of the crew asleep below. I felt incredibly proud and was flooded with feelings ranging from total happiness to absolute excitement. And yes, fear too. Just a little bit. With the moon rising ever higher, the waves became huge silvery mountains, with some dark valleys between. Mesmerizing. Looking up at the mainsail to check the trim, invariably my eyes caught the millions of stars shining down on us. It was overwhelming and I wanted this night to last forever.
Sometime around midnight I was relieved once more and Claus told me he’d wake me in another four hours. I must have fallen asleep the moment I slipped into my bunk. The next watch was hard. I was not used to these rather short spells of rest, and accordingly, I was sleepy. But I mustered the energy to stand my four hours.
It became a little easier toward the end, as a brightening sky indicated the sun was about to rise. Breakfast never ever tasted as good as on this morning. A delicious scent wafted up into the cockpit, traditional English fare: Bacon, eggs and hash browns. Not much used to coffee yet, I nevertheless accepted the huge mug, only half full to prevent spilling. Then once again sank into my now very familiar bunk and blissfully drifted off to sleep.
This all continued for the day and my body began adjusting to the routine. By late afternoon, we closed in on the coast. It all looked the same to me, sand dunes met the sea, with sparse, craggly vegetation visible in the background. This coastline was arid.
The entry to the bay demanded precise navigation and Claus called the course, which he sternly demanded to keep as exactly as I possibly could. Once past the bar to the lagoon, the water became flat and the motion of the boat totally stable, there was just a slight heeling angle. Lake sailing.
We dropped the anchor in a tiny side bay of the rather large, natural harbor extending several miles across. Saldanha at that time was just a forgotten haven, where square-riggers used to stop and advantage of the calm, well protected waters of the lagoon to make repairs. It always remained an outpost and was never developed because there is no source of fresh water nearby.
Nobody else was in sight. The place looked deserted. Just an old cemetery on a nearby hill was testimony of the days long past, when this harbor must have been busy. Inscriptions on the stones were weathered and barely visible. I read the names of sailors who were buried there, and was taken back to the previous century, in these waters where our little vessel was bobbing at anchor. I saw graceful clipper ships, their towering masts, billowing clouds of sails… I sat there dreaming. The mountain boy had come a long way. ■
Born and raised in the Bernese region of the Swiss Alps, Anton Huggler began sailing on Lake Thun at age 12. He raced dinghies, Dragons and Solings while studying architecture. Emigrating to South Africa in 1971, he sailed several Admiral’s Cup and Sardinia Cup races and the Cape Town to Rio de Janeiro Race in ’73 and ’76, crossing the Atlantic four times that year. He singlehanded the Carter 37 Sarabande from Antigua to Gibraltar, calling it his best trip ever. Now residing in Stonington, CT, Anton reflects, “Much to my regret, I sold my Swan 371 and am actively looking into courting financial disaster by gifting myself a Swan 391. This is America. Bigger is better, right?”
