Heavy Weather Sailing, 8th Edition

Martin Thomas
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Contents

Preface

PART ONE • STORM EXPERIENCES

■ 1 The loss of Tamarind
Mervyn Wheatley

■ 2 Heavy weather lessons from the Southern Ocean

Randall Reeves
■ 3 A night rescue in the Bass Strait
Jeff Dusting and Grant Dunoon

■ 4 Hit by a Cape Horn cold front in the South Atlantic

Tim Barker
■ 5 Atlantic storm diary
Martin Thomas

■ 6 Dragging an anchor in Storm Hector

Christopher Elliott
■ 7 An encounter with Super Typhoon Surigae
Francis Hawkings
■ 8 The Loss of Reliance AC
Richard Heath
PART TWO • EXPERT ADVICE
■ 9 Yacht design for heavy weather
Peter Bruce and Rob Humphreys
■ 10 Preparations for heavy weather and calamities at sea
Peter Bruce and Martin Thomas

■ 11 Waves
Sheldon Bacon

■ 12 Stability of yachts in large breaking waves

Andrew Claughton

■ 13 The weather chapter

Simon Rowell
■ 14 Storm tactics for sailing vessels
Susanne Huber-Curphey, Peter Bruce and Mark Orr
■ 15 Storm sails
Peter Bruce and Peter Sanders

■ 16 Seeking refuge, anchoring and mooring in severe weather

David Ridout
■ 17 Heavy weather sailing with foils
Gordon Kay and Hugh Welbourn

■ 18 Boat handling and design factors for operating powerboats

in heavy weather
Frank Kowalski

■ 19 Tactics for helming RIBs in heavy weather and open seas

Hugo Montgomery-Swan

■ 20 High latitude sailing

Martin Thomas and Bob Shepton
■ 21 Lightning at sea
Martin Thomas

■ 22 Dinghies and tenders

Martin Thomas

■ 23 Seasickness
Martin Thomas

■ 24 Medical emergencies at sea

Martin Thomas

Bibliography
Acknowledgements
Love & War, skippered by Peter Kurts, ploughs through rough seas off
the east coast of Tasmania during the 60th Sydney to Hobart yacht
race, 28 December 2004. PHOTO: DANIEL FORSTER/AFP/GETTY
Preface

Heavy Weather Sailing has a new editor, only the third in 55 years. When
asked to succeed Peter Bruce I recognised the privilege I had been
offered but also the huge responsibility. Adlard Coles first published his
remarkable book in 1967 and gave us three editions. He demonstrated
through his seamanship and his writing how to cope in rough weather
and sailors were keen to learn. Peter Bruce has been at the helm for over
three decades; few people know more about handling boats. His
experience, advice, common sense, his passion for sailing are expounded
in his fine writing. Over the years he has continued to incorporate into
the book advances in boat design, some of which he has shown to be for
the better and some not. Peter remains concerned that requirements for
racing can compromise yacht stability and safety. His editions feature
advice on good seamanship and crew safety, on improvements in boat
handling under both sail and power and on new useful equipment. His
style has made the skill of driving a boat in rough conditions accessible to
all. He has elevated Heavy Weather Sailing to the authority that it has
become. Happily, Peter has stayed on board and guided me through this
latest edition, for which the reader must be grateful.
The ‘Storm Experiences’ have been moved to the first section of the
book. The immediacy of these personal accounts is powerful; they record
the dangers faced and the resilience of the crews. Storm accounts that
give personal experience of what are often tough events remain central
to the book. Having read of the storms, chastened sailors may move on to
the ‘Expert Advice’ section in case they encounter such weather
themselves. Over the years some storm accounts have taught sailors a
huge amount, the 1979 Fastnet Race and the 1998 Sydney—Hobart Race
are two such. These tragedies and the lessons learned from them are still
referenced in these pages. More recent storm accounts show that the sea
remains unpredictable and dangerous. Events where matters went
wrong, or when mistakes occurred, often tell us more than those that
were perfectly managed.
Every chapter in the ‘Expert Advice’ section in this 8th edition has been
updated and refreshed. In most instances loyal contributors such as
Sheldon Bacon, Andrew Claughton, Hugo Montgomery-Swan and Mark
Orr have re-written pieces to include new material recently available.
Peter himself, for instance, has completely re-fashioned, with the help of
Rob Humphreys, ‘Yacht design for heavy weather’. He has recruited Peter
Sanders, the celebrated sailmaker, to help with ‘Storm sails’. Other
chapters have new authors to provide fresh and modern views. The
voyages of Susanne Huber-Curphey, so long alone in the rough seas of
the world’s oceans, bring real authority. Frank Kowalski’s experience of
driving powerboats through breaking waves is second to none. These
two authors light up the pages. David Ridout’s fifteen years cruising the
seven seas inform his valuable lessons on anchoring, mooring and taking
refuge. Simon Rowell, who advises the Royal Ocean Racing Club (RORC)
and the British Olympic Sailing Team, has written extensively on
meteorology. He merges his expertise in sailing and in weather to bring
an accessible account of such an important aspect of yachting. Foils can
be considered the greatest innovation in yacht design since the
catamaran. Gordon Kay and Hugh Welbourn inform us on how boats with
foils behave in rough seas. All these new authors know what they are
about and I am grateful to them for bringing their insights to this latest
edition of the book.
While the best of the old must be preserved, it is important to bring
forward the new. As well as the enhanced chapters on topics familiar in
the book, new aspects related to heavy weather have been introduced.
No boat can venture into high latitudes without meeting heavy weather.
The crew will have to face rough conditions compounded by the special
problems in those regions, such as ice and the sparsity of safe refuge.
With the invaluable help of celebrated polar sailor the Reverend Bob
Shepton, a chapter on high latitude sailing has been added. Thunder and
lightning are associated with heavy weather. To be caught in a lightning
storm at sea is a concern to any sailor; lightning is frightening. A new
chapter on how to manage in a thunderstorm should be welcome. The
yacht’s tender is uniquely important equipment and yet often neglected.
The piece on tenders is there to raise awareness on how to handle a
dinghy in heavy weather and give the little craft some proper
consideration. When offshore, skippers rightly worry about medical
emergencies affecting their crew and some guidance is given, not the
comprehensive Ship Captain’s Medical Guide, but timely advice.
This book has been growing in size and to keep it manageable sadly
some wonderful, older material has had to be lost to make way for the
new. This latest volume tries to reflect changes in the techniques and
practice to survive heavy weather. Not every yacht struggling in heavy
weather has a strong, competent crew. For the short-handed crew caught
in a survival storm, for instance, the emphasis on the Jordan Series
Drogue described in Chapter 14 has shown its worth. The theme that
runs through this edition is that prevention is better than cure, that
proper preparation of boat and crew is essential. If nothing else is taken
from reading this book than to prepare properly, then this alone will help
safer passage in heavy weather.
Martin Thomas
Charm of Rhu, Dartmouth. PHOTO: MARTIN THOMAS
 Part One
Storm Experiences
1
The loss of Tamarind

Mervyn Wheatley
I bought Tamarind in 1997 on my return from
being a skipper on the ’96 Clipper Round the
World Race. She was a Formosa 42, designed by
Robert Perry and built in Taiwan in 1985. She
was cutter rigged, canoe sterned, heavy, slow and
comfortable – an ideal family cruising boat.

In 1998, my son and I, entered Tamarind for the Round Britain and Ireland
Race. On satisfactorily completing that race, I entered her for the Azores
and Back (AZAB) ’99, single-handed. I then felt that Tamarind and I were
ready for the Original Single-handed Transatlantic Race (OSTAR) and
entered for the 2000 race – 24 years after I had first hoped to enter!
Tamarind and I then entered every subsequent OSTAR and single-handed
AZAB, winning our class and overall handicap prize in 2005.
During these races, we had two particularly stimulating occurrences.
The first was on an OSTAR, about halfway across. I was preparing
breakfast when I sensed that we were over-canvassed so I went on deck
to put the third reef in. As I was doing so, I realised the wind was still
freshening. I dropped the main, let fly the staysail halyard and handed
the hanked on Yankee. By the time I had stowed that, the snap shackle on
the staysail halyard had opened. I retired to the cockpit and watched the
wind increase to a violent storm force 11. The barograph rose 10 mbar in
two hours and the sun was shining on the sea which had gone white. The
wind was on the beam at a steady 58–60 knots and we were sailing at 4
knots under bare poles. It was very exhilarating and enjoyable.
The second incident was on an AZAB. The wind had freshened to a
force 8, gusting 9, on the beam. We had three reefs in and the No 1
Yankee and were sailing at hull speed. I was sitting at the chart table
reading a paperback. Suddenly, I was drenched in water and Tamarind
was flat on the water – I later discovered a slight bend in the boom. She
righted immediately and I leapt to the hatch to see the back of a huge
wave disappearing. The sprayhood was at the stern and the open hatch
had allowed a lot of water in. The laptop on the chart table and the spare
in a drawer under the seat were written off as were the wind and log
instruments. The engine was positioned in the bilge and the starter was
drowned. I streamed the Walker log and reverted to astronavigation. I
never finished the paperback.
By the time we reached OSTAR ’17, Tamarind and I had four OSTARs,
and five single-handed AZABs behind us, as well as two Atlantic cruising
circuits, and we had sailed a total of about 135,000nm. I felt that she was
well prepared for the 2017 OSTAR.
The weather briefing before the start of the race suggested reasonably
benign weather for the first week. The start on 29 May was put back by an
hour because fog had delayed ship movements in Plymouth Sound
earlier. However, for the start, it was sunny with a SW force 4. For the first
time the Royal Western Yacht Club had combined OSTAR and TWOSTAR
to start at the same time but as two different races. There were fifteen
starters for OSTAR and six for TWOSTAR. There were seven, including
Tamarind, in the Jester class.
As predicted, the first week was fairly benign for an OSTAR. We were on
the wind but it did not exceed 30 knots. This was my nineteenth Atlantic
crossing and, for those who enjoy their superstitions, my 13th in
Tamarind and I was thoroughly enjoying it. Once away from the
continental shelf and into the long ocean swell, there is a fundamental
feeling of timelessness and peace which is difficult to find in any other
environment.
 Tamarind sets off on an Azores and Back Race.

I spoke daily with my wife, Penny, on the Iridium satellite telephone

and, with the help of the race tracker, she kept me updated on my
position in my class. This showed a coronet over the leading boat in each
class and one day she told me it was over Tamarind. I said ‘Take a picture –
it may never happen again’. She did not and it will not!
On 8 June, the wind started to freshen and by 9 June it was SW force 6–
7. I received a text from a Merchant Navy Captain in our village, giving a
detailed synopsis of the Atlantic weather. I had a Toughbook laptop fixed
on the chart table and did not want to move it. The only other space to
open a chart and plot it was the saloon table but that had no fiddles, so I
did not bother. It was a stupid mistake but, by then, it would have made
little difference.
During the afternoon of 9 June, the wind continued to freshen and by
the evening it had become a quite boisterous force 8, gusting 9. I thought
‘Fine, this is our first gale’ and handed the sails. I put one of the two
washboards in, closed the hatch and started the engine to charge the
batteries. I then went to bed in a saloon bunk.
 I was woken at about 0200 being doused by a large quantity of cold
water. I shouted, ‘No!’ and climbed over the lee cloth. I was aware that
Tamarind had been inverted, but was surprised that I was standing on a
water tank instead of the floor boards. The lights were not working but I
found a torch and thought briefly about my next action. I was aware that
the mast was still standing and then remembered the fundamental tenet
on safety in every vessel; keep the salt water on the outside.
I made a hasty inspection with the torch and saw that the quite large
window above my bunk had been broken and the sprayhood had
migrated to the stern. My main worry was that, if we were hit by another
wave, she would not come up again because of the amount of water in
her. There was a very unpleasant smell of seawater mixed with battery
acid so I switched off all the electrics and started pumping on the manual
pump in the engine bay. My thinking at this stage was that I would get
her pumped out, assess the damage and continue with the race. I also
clearly remember thinking ‘Sod it, I’m not doing this again’. This, after our
previous knockdown on the AZAB, was enough. It took me a little more
than three hours’ continuous pumping to empty her out by which time it
was dawn. The boat was a shambles. The galley had a large fridge/cool
area with four lids of about a foot square and four inches deep. These had
all been thrown off, followed by their contents. The drawers in the aft
cabin had opened and the clothing was distributed by the water.
 This synoptic chart shows what my friend was trying to tell me. The
deep depression in the middle of the Atlantic has a central pressure of
964 mbar. As a basis for comparison, the Fastnet storm of 1979 in
which fifteen people died, had a central pressure of 980 mbar.

I ignored the mess and went into the cockpit. The first thing I noticed
was the EPIRB among the folds of the destroyed sprayhood. It had been
torn from its bracket and had started transmitting. I turned it off and
replaced it in its bracket. I then turned my attention to the Monitor wind
vane whose paddle was at a strange angle. While addressing that
problem, I noticed a web of cracks around the central bolt of the gear and
decided to return to that later.
While tending to the vane gear, I thought more about the EPIRB. It
would have been transmitting for about four hours and I reckoned the
rescue would be well underway. If I left it turned off, they would assume
Tamarind had sunk so I turned it back on. I also reckoned that, after I had
assessed the damage, I could stand down any rescue attempt if we were
able to proceed.
I was below when I heard the roar of an aircraft overhead. I grabbed
the handheld VHF and went into the cockpit. It was a C130 Hercules of
the Royal Canadian Air Force from Halifax, Nova Scotia. We established
communication and the pilot suggested we kept it informal and use first
names. Although I had charged the VHF battery in Plymouth, I was
worried about its endurance and said so to the pilot. He said he would
drop one on a long line. He came in low and dropped it. I did not see it or
the next one. He said he would drop two liferafts tied with a long line. I
did not see those and asked what the wind strength was. He said ‘60–70
knots’. On the Beaufort Scale hurricane force 12 is 64 knots. I was wearing
several layers under oilskins but the wind chill was ferocious, making
transmitting and receiving very difficult.
Eventually he left and was relieved by a Portuguese Orion from the
Azores who in turn was relieved by another C130 from Halifax. He told
me that a ship was on the way and would arrive in about fifteen hours.
This gave me time to assess the situation. The broken window could be
fairly easily repaired with timber from the large selection I had on board. I
believed I could repair the wind vane. Although I had lashed the wheel,
the steering cables had parted because of the considerable lateral forces
on the rudder from the waves. However, I had spare cables and had
replaced them on a previous OSTAR so that was not a problem. As far as I
could tell, the rig and sails were sound. I had a battery-powered GPS, a
sextant, a Walker log and paper charts. The boat was viable.
 These two charts show Tamarind’s position, in the worst possible place
and surrounded by wind arrows indicating winds in excess of 50 knots.
CHARTS: COURTESY OF DR ANDREW ECCLESTON, PLYMOUTH UNIVERSITY

On the downside, we had no electrics so no communications, AIS or

lights. I thought it would take 3–4 days in reasonably benign conditions
to make the repairs and then two weeks to sail back to the UK – obviously
the best destination being downwind and a better place to repair the
damage. Tamarind and I were in a fairly parlous condition and, if we
encountered another gale, would be poorly equipped to face it.
The prospect of arriving in the Western Approaches with no radio, AIS
or lights and, if becalmed, no engine, was daunting; we would have been
a sitting target for any of the many merchant and fishing vessels in that
area. However, what finally persuaded me was the thought that my
family, knowing my present situation, would then hear nothing for at
least two weeks. It seemed unreasonable to subject them to that. I also
realised in retrospect that, although I had thought I could stand down the
rescue effort, it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so and, if I did, I
could not in all conscience reactivate my EPIRB if I subsequently had
difficulties. I decided to continue with the rescue.

View from the C130 aircraft of Tamarind in the storm. It is almost

impossible to identify Tamarind from the aircraft in the white spumed
sea.

At about midnight, the MV Labrador arrived and the captain, whose

first language was clearly not English, asked how I intended to board his
ship! I said there were two options; either he went to windward of me
and drifted down or he went to leeward and I transferred to my liferaft
and drifted down on him. Thankfully, he decided on the former.
In a remarkable display of seamanship, he manoeuvred his ship to
within about 40m (131ft) of Tamarind. There was a good moon and I
could see two men in the waist of the ship. There was no net, ladder or
rope rigged and there was still a lively sea. I realised that, if we arrived
alongside, Tamarind would be smashed and I would die. We still had a
C130 overhead and I told the pilot that a transfer in these conditions was
a non-starter. He agreed and said we would leave it until the morning
when he hoped the conditions would have moderated. He then said I
should call the ship every half hour. I reiterated that I was worried about
the endurance of the VHF battery and reluctantly agreed to make it every
hour. I had now been awake in a fairly stressful situation for 24 hours and
was looking forward to some sleep. I dutifully called the ship on the first
hour and was relieved to receive no response. I slept with a clear
conscience!
In the morning, there was no ship and no plane but that did not
concern me and, eventually, a C130 arrived. The pilot told me that the
Labrador was still there but, not far behind, was the Queen Mary 2 (QM2). I
said that, if I had any say in the matter, I would prefer the QM2. This was
not because of her luxurious appointments but because I knew that
passenger ships have a door low down for disembarking passengers
when at anchor. The captain subsequently told me that he had no
intention of opening that door in the prevailing conditions.
During the morning, I heard the C130 directing QM2 towards my
position and eventually we established direct communication and
agreed a schedule to save my VHF batteries. The plan was for the ship to
make a lee to launch a rescue boat which would then transfer me. Apart
from the lifeboats, the ship carries a water-jet propelled rescue boat on
each side.
Having decided during the previous day to continue with the rescue,
my thoughts had turned to what I should do about Tamarind. My first
thought was that I would be pretty disgruntled if I was in another yacht
and collided with a derelict one. However, a much more important
consideration would be if a merchantman found her and, since we were
on the Great Circle route, this was quite probable. In such a situation, a
conscientious captain would feel obliged to launch a boat to investigate.
This would delay the ship and could endanger the crew. I therefore
decided I should scuttle her. Once rescue seemed certain, I cut a pipe to a
skin fitting, having closed the valve.
As the ship approached, the Captain kept her upwind of us, using his
bow and stern thrusters.
She was gradually drifting down on us and I had no way of steering.
Eventually, Tamarind T-boned QM2 and then turned broadside on and
drifted very slowly aft. I was embarrassed to note that our lower
spreaders were knocking divots out of the QM2 paintwork!
They launched the rescue boat which secured to my port quarter and I
threw my small backpack in and went below to open the seacock. I then
scrambled into the rescue boat and we were quickly whisked up ten
decks to the davits.

Queen Mary 2 affords Tamarind a lee prior to rescue.

 The rescue boat launched from Queen Mary 2 reaches Tamarind.

Tamarind dwarfed by the Queen Mary 2.

I thanked the coxswain of the rescue boat, descended a ladder and was
met, inevitably, by the Security Officer! He passed me on to the doctor
and nurse. Both were women and I was a little apprehensive about
peeling off layers of clothing which had been wet for 36 hours and were
not clean before that! However, there was no display of revulsion from
them and they declared me fit and healthy.
The hotel team then arrived and escorted me to my stateroom. It was a
surreal contrast with what I had just left. The ship was bound for Halifax,
Nova Scotia, and I had three days of living in the lap of luxury and being
treated like a lord. Clothes, food and drink were provided and I was
loaned a dinner jacket which I wore to dine at the Captain’s table. I carried
out a few telephone interviews with various publications and did a
question-and-answer session with the Captain, conducted by the
Entertainments Manager, for about 1,200 of the passengers.
I disembarked in Halifax and thankfully flew home to Devon.

AFTERTHOUGHTS
Out of the 21 starters in both races, 7 finished, 10 retired and 4 were
abandoned. There were no casualties. The response of the Maritime
Rescue Coordination Centre in Halifax was remarkable for its
professionalism and efficiency. Those with whom I spoke were solicitous,
considerate and pragmatic. Penny established communications with
them early on and experienced the same response. With so many yachts
in difficulties, it must have stretched the organisation considerably to
provide the level of cover that they achieved.
 Birds’ eye view of Tamarind from the deck of Queen Mary 2.

The text with the synopsis of Atlantic weather from my Merchant Navy
friend would not have made any difference to my positioning, relative to
the centre of the depression. However, a more detailed reading of it
would have alerted me to the seriousness of what was approaching and I
would have closed the main hatch completely, with the second
washboard. I might also have dropped the sprayhood, although if I had,
the EPIRB would have gone over the side. I notice that the manufacturer
of that EPIRB now provides a clamp to keep it in the bracket.
 This barograph was kindly given to me by Captain Christopher Wells,
the Captain of the Queen Mary 2.

There were a number of comments in the press below the reports.

Almost all were favourable about the response of QM2, the Canadians
and the fact that someone of my age (73) was competing in such an
event. Inevitably, there was one on the lines of ‘If these singlehanders
thought more about what these rescues cost, they might not do it’.
Captain Wells of the QM2 told me that the diversion had cost virtually
nothing in time and fuel and it had been a very useful exercise for the
crew. Furthermore, it had been wonderful entertainment for the
passengers! When we reached Halifax, the pilot of the C130 came aboard
and I discussed it with him. He said they had been sitting there for two
years with no excitement. This had been an excellent training exercise
and the squadron morale was sky high. My personal thought on the
subject is that, if our island nation did not run such events, it would be a
poorer place. Almost any human endeavour has its risks and the fact that
there were no casualties says much for the safety requirements of such
races.
Insurance was a peripheral thought while I was considering my
options. I was insured with Pantaenius and obviously had no way of
conferring with them. When assessing whether to continue, I reckoned
that the bill for repairs would not be much less than Tamarind’s insured
value, so it was not a significant consideration. I had no idea if they would
accept my decision to scuttle her, but I also had no doubt it was the right
decision. I visited Pantaenius in Plymouth soon after my return. I told the
story and gave my reasons for my decisions. There was no argument
about any of it.
I asked how long it would take to receive the money, expecting they
would say a couple of months, and was staggered when they said 7–10
days. It was a good example of why it pays to go to a well-established
and reliable company.

EPILOGUE
My thoughts, while I was pumping out, that this would be my last OSTAR,
was on the basis that I would complete that race. After my arrival on QM2,
Penny and I talked on the telephone. She asked if I intended to enter the
next race. I said that I thought it would be a pity to finish it like this and
that I considered it unfinished business. She agreed and, as soon as we
had the insurance money, we bought a Bowman 40, Arethusa of Yealm.
The next year, we were in the Azores for an OCC Meet and the following
year, I entered Arethusa for the single-handed AZAB. I then entered her
for OSTAR 2020, the 60th anniversary of the race. That race, like almost
everything else, was postponed because of the Covid pandemic and so
was the next one in 2021. It now remains to be seen whether the race will
happen in 2022 and whether, aged 78, I will still have the motivation to
compete.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
It may appear from this account that all my sailing has been single-
handed. However, Penny, my wife of 47 years, and our two children have
sailed with me for many thousands of miles, have helped with boat
maintenance and have been immensely supportive when I have sailed
single-handed. I am also extremely grateful to the many sailmakers,
riggers, mechanics and craftsmen at home and abroad, who have helped
to prepare and repair our various boats over 40 years of boat ownership.

COMMENT
Mervyn Wheatley, a retired officer from Her Majesty’s Royal Marines, has a
huge experience of short-handed, mainly single-handed, ocean sailing. The
weather for the OSTAR of 2017 was exceptionally bad. The race was one of
attrition; only 7 of 21 starters reached America.
Tamarind was knocked down, maybe even inverted, so it was commendable
that the rig stayed erect. What broke the window? It is likely that something
below, maybe one of the lids of the fridge, flew across the cabin and broke the
window from inside. This seems more likely than the pressure of water from
outside. Although this happened to Randall Reeves, his window was larger
and so maybe more at risk (see Chapter 2). Locker doors opened, drawers fell
out, all their contents spilled and lids broke free. How many ocean sailors
have known this mess? Nearly all, I would venture. The floorboards were
dislodged so that Mervyn was standing on the water tank. Advice in Chapter 8
suggests fixing down all floorboards, apart from a small one through which to
reach the strum box. Water flowed in through the open hatch. How easy for us
in our armchairs after the event to say that both washboards should have
been in position, secured from inside, and not just one. As the author says, if
he had taken account of his Merchant Navy friend’s warning, perhaps he
would have secured the hatch better. One cannot be critical at such a
consummate sailor; he is no stranger to stormy weather. As the Italian
proverb states ‘After the ship has sunk, everyone knows how she might have
been saved’.
The damage from the knockdown bears scrutiny; each breakage alone could
have finished this voyage. One was the smashed window that was shipping
water so that, if Tamarind were knocked down again, it could cause her to be
swamped. The damage to the wind vane steering and the loss of the cables off
the quadrant made steering impossible. The drowned engine and loss of all
power made saving the boat in those conditions even more difficult. With no
battery power, limited life of the VHF, no AIS, no autopilot and an open hole
for a window, the situation looked bleak. Such a resourceful sailor as Mervyn
Wheatley might have been able to deal with one of these problems, maybe
even two, but with so much amiss in a storm of 60–70 knots, it was not
possible. Mervyn Wheatley estimated it would take four days in calm weather
to make repairs, but the storm raged and he did not know for how much
longer. It is remarkable that, in such circumstances, the skipper could so
calmly consider the options. In what must have been a hellish situation he
was able to think clearly, then made the most awful decision a skipper has to
make and, in this case, the right decision.

Mervyn in a state room on board Queen Mary 2, some contrast to

Tamarind in a force 10.

It is a good point that once an ocean rescue has been initiated, it should not
be stood down. A second call out would not be appreciated. The attempted
rescue from MV Labrador illustrates how difficult it is to transfer to a ship in
rough weather. Even transfer to a lifeboat with much lower topsides and
trained crew is hazardous. The decision to abandon the idea of boarding the
cargo ship may have saved a life. The Queen Mary 2 was better equipped to
effect a successful rescue by launching a purpose-built vessel.
 Few sailors have had to scuttle their boat. This article contains a careful,
dispassionate review of why the boat was abandoned. One of the compelling
reasons was communication with the family. Until quite recently, to set off
across an ocean was to be incommunicado for the duration until landfall. In
1969 Robin Knox-Johnston, now a knight, spoke virtually to nobody for seven
months. For much of his voyage he was thought to have drowned and even an
obituary was written. Nowadays it is easy to reach people by satellite phone
and Mervyn Wheatley did so every day. If then there is no phone call from the
boat for two weeks, this can only suggest to loved ones that the skipper has
been lost.
One of the items Mervyn saved from Tamarind was the tracker. Some of us
following the race knew there had been a change in circumstance when we
saw Mervyn was travelling due west at 20 knots in a straight line. To go from a
little yacht, sinking in a storm, to a ship’s state room was remarkable. This
rescue by a luxury liner was the stuff of Hollywood, a diverting interlude for
the captain, crew and passengers aboard the great ship. Could this have been
the most exciting event since the older ship, the original Queen Mary, carried
troops in wartime?
2
Heavy weather lessons from the
Southern Ocean

Randall Reeves
Randall Reeves in Moli, a 13.7m (47ft) aluminium
sloop, was the first to complete the ‘Figure 8
Voyage’. During the second successful attempt he
covered 40,000nm in 384 days.

The first major blow of the first Figure 8 Voyage attempt – a solo
circumnavigation of both the American and Antarctic continents in one
season – stated the problem well enough, but I had missed the clues.
On 17 December 2017, Moli (Mo) and I were 49 days out of San
Francisco crossing 52°S and on our final approach to Cape Horn, when we
were overtaken by an intense low packing steady winds to 50 knots and
gusts to 70. During the later stages of this gale, Mo was pushing on under
storm jib when a knockdown gushed just enough water through the
companionway hatch and into the pilot house to find and short-out the
autopilot junction box. Though disappointing, this was not particularly
worrying as, at sea, the autopilot is understudy to the windvane.
Three days later, at 56°S and now 400 miles west the Great Cape, a non-
serviceable, welded part on the windvane failed in a fresh northwesterly.
It took six long and cold days of 12–18 hour tricks at the tiller to make
Bahia Cook, the sheltered waters of Chile’s Beagle Channel, and then on
to Ushuaia, Argentina, for repairs.
 Once back on the Figure 8 Voyage route for Cape of Good Hope and
several damage-free gales later, I had begun to feel a certain ease with
what the south could dish up. I knew, I thought, what to expect and how
to handle the boat as winds and seas increased and rotated slowly on
their circuit from northwest to west to southwest. My comfort, as I would
find, was misplaced.
The second major blow of this first attempt overtook us in the Indian
Ocean. Its approach on the weather charts from a point of origin off Rio
de Janeiro looked nothing special, that is until it slid under Africa, where
it would intensify, treble in size and grow uniformly round. A week after
the long-range GRIB’s fair warning, I had worked Mo up from 50°S to near
Cochon Island, in the Crozet group at 46°S and 50°E. By now I wasn’t
particularly worried. Though the low would produce winds to 50 knots to
the south, our latitude put us in a less intense quadrant of the system,
where mean winds were forecast to be 35 knots. Even after adding my
customary 10 knots to the prediction, what was coming looked to be
very manageable weather.
By the afternoon of 17 February, the barometer had dropped from a
high of 1012 mbar the previous noon to 996 mbar, and winds were now
from the northwest at 35 knots with long gusts in the 40s. A surprisingly
heavy sea, beyond what was called for by the present wind, had moved
into our area, and already the crests were breaking with earnestness,
tumbling wide and white. Given what I was seeing, I recall some alarm for
what would overtake us as the gale matured.
As light began to fade, I dowsed the main and working headsail in
favour of the storm jib. This change of sail left Mo underpowered and she
slowed markedly, yawing a bit in the troughs, but I was eager for a set of
sails that would take us through a night of worsening conditions.
 Fast and steady through a low under Moli’s working jib. PHOTO: RANDALL
REEVES

I recall being seated in the pilot house at 1900 when a comber knocked
the boat flat to starboard. By this time, winds were steady at well over 40
knots. Night had fallen and had brought with it a heavy deck of cloud and
pelting rain. Nothing of the outside world could be seen, save for the pale
glow of a grey-beard as it raced aboard. The boat rolled deeply from the
hit. Water flooded into my lap through the one dorade vent above me,
the only vent I’d left unplugged. From the companionway hatch I
searched the deck for damage and found that the force of the fall had
bent Mo’s starboard rail in over the cockpit winches. The rail, not wire
rope but thick-walled aluminum tubing, also held a 200-watt solar panel,
which took the sea flat in the face and shattered.
At this point, our average speeds through the water were within what I
considered a safe range (I noted 5–7 knots). However, even at such a
pace, Mo still could stall-out in the troughs. This meant that my desired
course – one of slightly quartering the sea – could become exaggerated,
and without sufficient water over the rudder, the windvane had no way
to correct in time for the next sea.
 Wind speed remained over 45 knots, and several hours later we were
pushed over again. From my bunk I could hear the sea approach above
the already intense din of the gale. A thundering sound at first, and then
just as the wave hit, a much louder, high-pitched hissing, as if a jet liner
were crash landing on the coach roof.
Now there was the faint grey glow of dawn. Back on watch, I could see
that the veering wind had begun to expose Mo’s port side to a difficult
northwesterly break, so I gybed to starboard, taking the now dominant
westerly sea slightly on the starboard quarter. This seemed to give the
boat a cleaner approach to both the northwesterly and westerly wave
train, and, I thought, would be a safer ride. I was wrong. An hour later I
heard the thundering and hissing again. Mo was lifted and slammed over,
a much harder knock than the first two.
Water poured into the pilot house. The boat righted and the water
continued pouring. It cascaded thick and green over the chart plotter,
over the navigation desk. An ankle-deep river flowed over the cabin sole.
Suddenly the sound of the gale intensified, and inexplicably, I could see
out of the window opposite my position, though previously it had been
covered in spume and spray. In the confusion, it took several seconds to
recognise the problem: the gale had shattered a pilot house window.
By now Mo had recovered and was back on course. A scan of the deck
revealed no other injury, so I pumped bilges while thinking through how
to stop the hole. I am Mo’s fourth owner. All previous owners had sailed
the boat into the harm’s way of high latitudes, and the boat had even
suffered a full roll in a South Atlantic blow east of Uruguay. As I knew no
previous experience had stove in a window, I’d allowed the fashioning of
storm shutters to fall from the prep list. Now I’d have to get clever.
 Moli experiences force 9 to 10 in the Southern Pacific. PHOTO: RANDALL
REEVES

When the pumps sucked air, I retrieved two bunk boards from the
forepeak and bolted them together, one on each side of the broken
window frame. They were not quite the right shape and left small voids
on two corners, which I filled with silicone. The next step, making Mo safe,
had only one solution I could think of, deployment of the Jordan Series
Drogue. That done, we were finally under control.
The knockdown had destroyed most of Mo’s electronics – the SSB
radio, satellite communications and AIS units were beyond recovery, as
was the AA battery charger, used mostly for flashlights. Without these I
had no way to access weather forecasts, no way to see or be seen
automatically by shipping, no way to illuminate the deck at night. These,
plus a questionably patched window, convinced me of the need for a
repair stop in Hobart, Tasmania, some 4,000 miles further on. Due to the
lateness of the season, this stop would effectively end my Figure 8
Voyage attempt for that year.
The long sail home to San Francisco from Hobart for the second
attempt gave me ample opportunity to lick my wounds and assess my
storm management misjudgments. Among my tactical errors, I reasoned
that there were two, the first of which entailed my positioning. Though I
had been justified in sailing north so as to achieve a quadrant within the
low where winds were less severe, I had failed to anticipate that position’s
effect on sea-state. The Crozet Islands, which were near as the gale broke,
sit atop a large shelf that has risen by 3,048m (10,000ft) from the nearby
sea floor, a change very likely to create turbulence in surface current.
Moreover, I learned later that the powerful Agulhas Current sends
vortices even to such distances from the source. Given the high likelihood
of wind-over-current seas, my surprise at their heaviness and break
relative to wind force was not warranted; I should have seen that one
coming.
The second error had to do with my sail tactics. From the very
beginning, I had intended to manage heavy weather following the
example of heroes like Vito Dumas and Bernard Moitessier – that is, to
keep sail flying, to push on even in the worst of weathers. But if it had
worked for them and in vessels like my own, why had it not worked for
me? Only by chance did I recall a line by Rolf Bjelke in Time on Ice, ‘speed
is safety’. Like me, Rolf favoured the ‘keep sailing’ approach, but he added
a stipulation I had ignored.
Early in both of the damaging blows, I put Mo under storm jib alone, a
mere 16 sq m (175 sq ft) of sail. And though I noted how, even in gale
force winds, it slowed our progress, I was eager to conserve my own
energy by flying a set of sails that would carry us through to the end. This
tactic also dovetails with one’s natural inclination in such conditions,
which is to quiet fear and establish order in chaos by slowing things
down.
During the early and middles stages of a gale, such a manoeuvre may
have no adverse consequence, but in the latter stages, when the blow is
easing, seas can quickly grow and become severe. Wave speed follows
the same formula as does hull speed – the bigger the wave, the faster it
travels – and a big sea is travelling at many times that of a small vessel.
Moreover, by this time mature and breaking wave trains may be
approaching from the several directions the wind has sustained during
the blow. With so little sail, I was leaving Mo underpowered precisely
when she needed power to survive.
While sailing for home, I vowed to leave the storm jib in its bag during
the second Figure 8 Voyage attempt and to take all heavy weather on the
working jib. This would have several advantages. Not only would Mo be
flying more sail for more speed and control, as conditions changed, her
skipper could make frequent sail adjustments from the cockpit without
having to brave the foredeck. The second Figure 8 Voyage attempt
commenced in the autumn of 2018 and followed the same southern
route, a 15,000-mile loop from Cape Horn to Cape Horn again at roughly
47°S. We saw as many gales as on the first attempt, but we sailed fast and
without significant injury.

Windows smashed by a knockdown. Repaired using two bunk boards

from the forepeak. PHOTO: RANDALL REEVES

Heavy weather lessons from the first Figure 8 Voyage attempt:

· Often the most dangerous seas will be encountered in the latter
stages of a gale; when wind first eases, waves can stack up and
become severe.
· In general, the larger the wave the faster it travels, and a big sea is
moving at several times the speed of a small, heavy displacement
boat.
· Current can cause seas to be higher and steeper than expected. Only
after returning home did I learn that during the Indian Ocean gale, Mo
was likely in an area affected by unusual current. Near the Crozet
Islands the bottom quickly shelves and over this some tongues of the
Agulhas Current are not unknown.
· In heavy weather, speed is safety. A fast-moving vessel slows the
apparent speed of the approaching wave and provides for more
rudder control.
· Letting an emergency item fall from the preparations list – for
example, storm shutters and because ‘no previous owner has needed
them’ – was a serious error that could have endangered the vessel’s
survival.

Moli flies a storm jib. PHOTO: RANDALL REEVES

COMMENT
This achievement of Randall Reeves is extraordinary. He has successfully
completed a voyage that nobody else had even contemplated, one that he just
made up. The Figure 8 Voyage takes a boat to the two most feared parts of the
world’s seas, Cape Horn and the North West Passage. He sailed 40,000nm in
384 days which won him the Barton Cup, the Ocean Cruising Club’s most
prestigious award, as well as the Blue Water Medal from the Cruising Club of
America. There is no substitute for experience. The author admits freely that
he was better placed for his second attempt both in regard to his boat and
psychologically. As he has said, the first time he set out he ‘looked at the
horizon from under a cloud of foreboding’ but after 24,000nm at sea, he wrote
of his view before the second attempt: ‘I felt relaxed, now I knew what lay
ahead and had a plan’.
One of his main points in this piece, which led to a major change of his
tactics, is that boats must travel through a storm sufficiently fast to allow
water to flow over the rudder to keep steerage. It is true that a sluggish vessel
will stall in the wave troughs and be at the mercy of the sea. This was true of
Cavalier, as recorded in Chapter 9. Counter to all intuition, speed is safety for
a heavy boat in heavy weather because the flow of water provides the rudder
with corrective power and offers control of the vessel. The great Argentinian
sailor Vito Dumas wrote: ‘To escape the fury of the sea, keep up your speed’.
On his second attempt Randall determined to do just that, to keep the speed
up, carry more sail, the working jib, and leave the storm jib in its bag. Even if
the storm jib is left in its bag, do not leave it at home, it may still be required.
One of the lessons that emerged from the 1998 Sydney—Hobart Race was the
need for smaller storm sails in hurricane strength winds. At Wilson’s
Promontory at the north end of the Bass Strait the average wind velocity
recorded was 79 knots with gusts of 92 knots. These exceptional conditions
will require a storm jib of modest size. Even a heavy displacement boat can
travel too fast and risk burying her bows into the back of the wave in front,
what Frank Kowalski and others call ‘stuffing’. This excess speed occurred
with Randall on four occasions when he thought it prudent to deploy a Jordan
Series Drogue (JSD). With a heavy boat a drogue is preferable to a sea anchor
which can exert such huge stresses (see Chapter 14). It is wise, when setting
out on such an extreme venture, to pack storm sails and a drag device,
preferably a series drogue.
Randall seems to be hard on himself on the matter of the shelving seabed at
the Crozet Islands. He demonstrates the wisdom of hindsight. It was entirely
reasonable to make a northing and position himself in the quadrant within
the low where winds were likely to be less severe. Although astonishingly
remote, the islands themselves could offer refuge and shelter in case of
breakages or problems. The story is told of a French vessel, Tamaris,
shipwrecked on the uninhabited Île des Cochon. The crew tied a note to the
leg of an albatross that was found seven months later. Sadly, despite this
enterprising plan, the crew perished. It is true that a shelving seabed with a
reduction in depth will affect the surface waters. The continental shelf south
and east of Cape Horn, the submarine continuation of the Andes, can render
those waters huge, chaotic and virtually untenable. Approaching the cape
from the south across the Drake Passage, one can appreciate the worsening
seas as the depth decreases. The continental shelf running off Europe into the
Western Approaches can alter sea conditions and make them worse.
A leaking window can be a problem. This commentator experienced a leaky
window in one of his previous boats when crossing the English Channel in
heavy weather, battered by 40 knot winds. The relatively minor leak was
above the navigation station and destroyed the electronics. Windows should
not have sharp corners with acute angles, as so often favoured by designers
for their looks, a point made strongly by Ian Nicolson, a celebrated naval
architect. Such shapes are much more likely to leak. Windows in ocean-going
yachts should be like those on an airliner, tough, small and with rounded
corners. A completely smashed in window is a disaster, it is remarkable how
much water can be shipped. The same injury scuppered Mervyn Wheatley’s
boat Tamarind (Chapter 1). Randall’s imaginative repair probably saved the
boat. He did not have boards ready for such an event, which he admits he
should have. The commentator confesses here to a worse crime in that he had
made a set of wooden boards on his traditional boat but, because after several
thousand miles of ocean sailing they had never been required and took up
space, he took them off. Since reading Randall’s account they are back aboard.
Long distance sailors should have a plan in place for disasters such as
smashed in windows, lost tiller or rudder, dismasting, loss of electrics and so
on. One might call it a ‘What if…’ plan (see Chapter 10).
3
A night rescue in the Bass Strait

Jeff Dusting
An account of events on board the yacht
Inception on 6–7 April 2012 by her skipper Jeff
Dusting, when she sank during the Melbourne to
Port Fairy Race.

PART ONE: THE SINKING

THE STORM
Round the table at the club we pore over the weather forecast and note it
says no wind for the start and the change to hit us at around 1600 with
winds up to 35 knots quickly swinging to the SW and abating after
approximately two hours. This should be great for us, a bit of pressure
and the heavy 15.3m (50ft) Beneteau Inception should be in her element.
We set off under a full moon and a light SE wind for Queenscliff, rigging
the new reefing lines and testing them all along the way. The boats ghost
around in a light northeasterly on this moonlit night before the start.
Then the green flare appears and we’re racing, or rather drifting out of
the bay largely under tide. As dawn breaks, we have a building NE
swinging to the north, and are slowly building speed.
 We’re tripping along now, that asymmetric kite is doing a great job
flown on the pole! It looks like the dolphins are loving it too, the biggest
pod I have seen following the boat as we chase down the leaders at 9 or
10 knots. Then, there’s another puff, we round up slightly and there goes
the pole, BANG! We hand the kite and throw it down the hatch and set
the No 1.
The wind blows harder and we take the opportunity to pre-empt the
forecast change and get the No 3 on. Not a minute too soon either, by
this stage the wind had built to a solid 20 knots from the N to NW and we
were maintaining great speeds with the No 3 and a full main.
Then, a mile ahead, I see the leading boats take a 30° knock. The wind
change is here and we take in the second reef. We are travelling well! The
wind builds to 30 knots. We take in the third reef with no loss of boat
speed and a great deal less weather helm. When is that wind going to
start shifting to the SW?
It’s getting towards dusk now, and there is an increasing number of
cray pots to dodge, so reluctantly we take a tack back out to sea. The
wind is dropping, it’s down to 10–15 knots. We shake out the reefs and
start to talk about getting the No 1 back up. Can it really be over already?
Greg, Chris and I head up forward to start getting the No 1 ready to
hoist. With the No 1 on the feeder and ready to go, I notice that the wind
seems to be building again and call back for a wind check – 18 knots they
call. No need for the No 1 after all, and we decide to stow it back again.
The wind is really building and there is regular green water over the
bow. By the time we get Chris and Glenn off the bow, the wind is up to 40
knots and we need to get the main down.
With the main secured and the wind up to 45–50 knots, I scramble
back into the cockpit behind the wheel, and the crew look at me as if to
say – what now?
 Inception, a Beneteau 50, sailing in 50 knots of wind in the Melbourne
to Port Fairy Race. The liferaft is tied down to the coach roof and
appears secure. Nevertheless during the night a large wave tore the
raft away and it was lost overboard.

· Option 1 – we get the storm headsail out. I really need a break before
heading forward again.
· Option 2 – we sail for a bit and see how the boat is handling things.
The forecast was for up to 35 knots, so surely it will drop from here.
· Option 3 – we furl some of the No 3, taking the power out, but
reducing our ability to make any ground to windward. We’d be stuck
here till the wind drops.

One look around the crew’s faces and it is clear that the ‘do nothing’
approach is really not an option. I make the call, let’s furl the headsail and
take a breather.
I look to Doug and Ken. ‘What would you recommend?’ I ask. ‘Don’t run,’
replies Doug. ‘it’ll be horrid at the Cape, and last time I did that we lost
the mast.’ ‘Well, we can’t stay like this,’ says Ken, we’re on a lee shore.’ He is
right, before too long we’d be back on the rocks near Port Campbell. So,
our only real option is to continue to sail under heavily reduced sail,
making no real ground till that dastardly westerly swings to the SW.
We set the boat up and, aside from the streaming sleet and the waves
breaking over the deck, it all looks safe, although the crew’s faces don’t
look too convinced. Exhausted, I announce I’m going down to make the
sched – it’s 0635 and we’ve missed the planned sched at 0605. I am lucky
and get a response from Ocean Racing. I tell them we are all well and will
be back to report with them at the next sched at 1205.
I know that I need a break and the guys need to know that we are safe.
I stick my head up the companion way and look at the row of determined
faces up on deck and tell them, ‘I am going to take a 30 minute rest, hold
this course and I’ll be back soon’. Bouncing my way forward to my cabin, I
make a quick check of the main bilge pump. There is some water making
it in, but the pump is clearly dealing with it. I do get 20 minutes’ rest
before being roused by the flogging headsail. I head back on deck.
Up-top the sleet hasn’t stopped and Ken confirms the wind is a
consistent 55 knots, gusting higher. I take the helm and he moves to the
cockpit seats to shelter and rest. Let’s tack, I say, we don’t want to head
too far out to sea, the forecast said it was stronger out there.
We slowly turn through the wind and sit poised head to wind as a huge
breaking wave appears out of the sleet. We both duck into the oncoming
wall of water. I keep looking forward as the water works its way down the
deck as if in slow motion. Then to my horror, I see the liferaft launch itself
from the deck heading for us both.
Luckily, Ken was ducking and the raft lands intact about a metre from
the aft quarter of the boat. It stays with us for around 20 seconds before
the next wave commands my attention and it disappears. I hope we don’t
need that liferaft and I’d just had it serviced too!
It’s really cold, they tell me that with wind chill it was −5C°. Every third
wave comes over the beam or bow, running back to the cockpit. Not
much I can do but drop into my long distance helming position on the
leeward side and use my feet to guide us through the wind and waves.
The only problem with this position is that it is almost comfortable and
I catch myself lapsing into micro-sleeps. I hope Doug or Greg come back
up on deck soon, I need a break!
 The wind seems to be dropping, yes there it is 38 knots for a moment.
Maybe if it keeps dropping, we can let a little more of the No 3 out and
start making some ground. We tack and decide to let some out, just a
little… but bang, as the clutch is lifted the furler runs out rapidly and
stops magically with a twist in the line. With very little change in heel
angle, the boat accelerates, we are now heading 200°M and making GPS
speeds of 6–8 knots; this feels good. At last Doug appears and tethers in
near the companion way, then takes the helm. We tack and I retreat to
the cockpit seats for a break, shivering, cold and exhausted.
Then, something happened, I still don’t know what, but I sat up and
looked at the pool of water at my feet in the cockpit. That water should
be draining out the stern. I stand up and look forward. It looks as if the
bow is low in the water, with the nav lights ploughing through the waves,
is the bow low? I head into the cabin to check all is well. I go as far as the
main entry to the forward cabin to check the bilge pump, all seems well.
The bow remains low so I head below again. This time, there is water
pouring over the doorway between the forward cabin and the main
saloon. This is serious. I call up the hatch, ‘We’re sinking, any ideas?’
I head back below to make a radio call. ‘PAN, PAN, this is the yacht
Inception, 6 persons on board located 34nm SE of Port Fairy, we are taking
on water and need immediate assistance’. I stick my head out into the
cockpit to get our position for the next call.
‘What’s happening?’ asks Greg. ‘We’re sinking,’ I reply.
The guys start getting dressed, and I turn to the manual bilge pump. It
draws water from the engine bay, but there’s no water there. I reach for
the cable ties and pull the pick-up out of the bay so we can start
pumping from the saloon.
Glenn appears and I ask him to make another radio call, he’s not
confident, and so we switch roles.
‘PAN PAN this is the yacht Inception, 34nm SE of Port Fairy, taking on
water and need immediate assistance…’ No response, I try the VHF 16
and back to the HF on the emergency frequency.
Ken appears below, collecting the flares from the safety locker. I tell
him we are sinking, wanting to impress the importance of action and
attention. ‘I know’, he says, ‘that’s why I’ve got the grab-bag and flares.’
Doug’s still at the wheel. He says, ‘I’ve lost rudder authority, I can’t turn
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Ural
uranium
Urban
urbana
Urga
urge
urged
urgency
urgent
urgently
urges
urging
Uribe
Uriburu
URREA
Urrutia
Uruguay
Uruguayan
Us
usage
usages
Use
used
useful
usefully
usefulness
useless
uselessness
USES
ushered
Using
Usoga
Ussuri
usual
usually
usufruct
usufructuary
usurers
Usuri
usurient
usurpation
usurped
usurper
usurping
Utah
utilitarian
utilities
utility
utilization
utilize
utilized
utilizing
Utman
utmost
Utrecht
utter
utterance
utterances
uttered
uttering
utterly
uttermost
v
va
Vaal
Vaca
vacancies
vacancy
vacant
vacate
vacated
vacating
vacation
vaccination
Vacherot
vacuous
vacuum
vagabonds
vague
vaguely
vagueness
vain
vainly
Vakin
Val
Valdivia
Valencia
Valentine
Valeriano
Vali
valiantly
valid
validated
validity
Valis
Valladolid
Valley
valleys
valor
valorem
valour
Valparaiso
valuable
valuables
valuation
valuations
value
valued
valueless
values
valuing
valve
valves
Valérien
Vamos
Van
Vancouver
Vanderbilt
Vandergrift
vanes
vanished
Vannoffsky
Vannovsky
vanquished
vanquishing
vantage
Varanger
Vardö
variance
variations
varied
varies
varieties
variety
Various
variously
Varipetro
Varley
Varona
vary
Varying
vase
vases
vassal
vassalage
vassals
Vassos
vast
vastly
vastness
Vatican
Vau
vaudeville
vaudevilles
Vaughan
vaulted
vaulting
Vavau
Vecchia
Veeder
Vegas
vegetable
vegetables
Vegetarian
Vegetarians
vegetation
vehemence
vehement
vehemently
vehicle
vehicles
veil
veiled
vein
veins
Velasco
veld
veldt
Velestino
Veliki
velocity
vendetta
venerable
venerated
veneration
Venezuela
Venezuelan
Venezuelans
vengeance
vengefulness
Venice
Venosta
vent
ventilating
ventilation
venture
ventured
ventures
Vera
verb
verbal
verbally
verbaux
Verde
Verdi
Verdict
Vereinigung
Vereins
Verfassungstreue
Vergano
verge
verification
verified
verify
verifying
Verily
veritable
Verkauf
Verlaine
Vermilion
VERMONT
Vernon
versa
Versailles
verse
versed
version
verst
versts
vertebral
vertical
vertically
vertretenen
very
vespers
vessel
vessels
vest
vested
vestige
vestiges
vesting
vestries
vestry
veteran
veterans
veterinarians
veterinary
veto
vetoed
vetoes
Vetter
vex
vexation
vexatious
vexed
VI
Via
viability
Viatka
vibrated
vibration
vibrations
Vicar
vice
Viceroy
Viceroyal
viceroyalty
viceroys
vices
vicinage
vicinities
vicinity
vicious
vicissitudes
Vicksburg
Vicomte
Vict
victim
victimised
victims
Victor
Victoria
Victorian
victories
victorious
victors
victory
vide
Video
vied
Vienna
Viennese
vient
Vieques
VIEQUEZ
view
viewed
views
Vigan
vigilance
vigilant
vigor
vigore
vigorous
vigorously
vigour
VII
VIII
vilayet
vilayets
vile
Villa
village
villagers
villages
Villalon
Villaverde
Villiers
VINCENT
vindicate
vindicated
vindication
vindictive
vindictiveness
vines
vinous
vintage
Vinton
violated
violates
violating
violation
violations
violative
violators
Violence
violent
violently
violet
violé
Viper
Virchow
VIRDEN
vires
virgin
VIRGINIA
VIRGINIUS
virile
virility
virtual
virtually
virtue
virtues
virtuous
virulence
vis
Visayan
VISAYANS
Visayas
VISCONTI
Viscount
visible
visibly
vision
visionary
visit
visitation
visited
visiting
visitor
visitors
visits
vista
vistas
Vistula
vital
vitality
vitals
VIth
vituperation
vive
Vivendi
Vivid
vividly
vividness
Vivien
Vixen
viz
Vizcaya
vizier
viâ
Vladika
Vladikas
Vladivostock
Vladivostok
Vocal
vocation
vocations
Vogel
Vogt
vogue
voice
voiced
voices
void
voir
vol
Vola
volcanic
volcano
Volga
Volkspartei
VOLKSRAAD
Volksraads
Volksrust
volley
volleyed
volleys
Volo
Vologda
voltage
voltaic
volte
volts
Volume
volumes
voluminous
voluntarily
VOLUNTARY
volunteer
volunteered
volunteering
volunteers
von
Vonizongo
Voorhees
Vorarlberg
vortex
Vorwärts
Vossische
Vote
voted
voter
voters
votes
VOTING
votive
votre
vouched
vouchsafe
vouchsafed
vous
vow
vowed