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Authors: Peter Nichols
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was a hell of a place to take off from. To get there, Ridgway had sailed his little 30-footer almost 1,000 sea miles from its builderâs yard in Portsmouth, down the English Channel, across the Irish Sea, up the wild western coast of Ireland, taking himself far to the north of the departure points of all his rivals, and in the wrong direction for his route down the Atlantic.
He and Chay Blyth had made landfall on Inishmore at the end of their epic row across the Atlantic almost two years earlier, and Ridgway told the reporters who had gathered to record his departure that he felt an affinity for the local islanders, âwho live so closely with the sea, good people, who know what suffering isâ. The locals reciprocated his feelings. They had erected a plaque in Kilronan Harbour to mark the spot where he and Blyth had come ashore, and danced jigs and reels in his honour at the local parish hall the night before he sailed. But Ridgway had not come all this way to make Inishmore his port of departure entirely for sentimental reasons. This was a talismanic choice, its inconvenience and geography strongly at odds with the hard pragmatism of his army training, and in making it he proved himself as classically superstitious as all those seamen who will not begin a voyage on a Friday, or who stab their knives into wooden masts for wind when becalmed. He had come all this way for luck.
Sailing Route Down the Atlantic Ocean
But minutes after leaving his mooring he found bad luck at sea. A BBC camera boat, trying to outmanoeuvre its rival ITN boat, came too close and hit the stern of
English Rose IV
. Ridgway, already anxious and struggling for composure in front of cameras and well-wishers, lost control and screamed abuse at the BBC boat. There appeared to be no damage.
About twenty minutes later, the ITN boat, a chartered 25-ton trawler carrying his 23-year-old wife, Marie Christine, and a boatload of press and well-wishers, ranged up alongside
English Rose IV
, and the sea swell threw the two boats together, making a heavy bump felt by those aboard the trawler. This time, Ridgway was so upset he couldnât talk. But his silence was admiringly noted by newsmen on the trawler, who took it as an indication of considerable aplomb, a glimpse of the tough silent stoicism with which he would meet graver conditons later on.
This collision split
English Rose IV
âs wooden rubrail near the rigging, superficial and mainly cosmetic damage, but it left Ridgway badly unnerved: âI looked down at the splintered strip of wood ⦠defeat filled my mind.â
Ridgway finally left the pestering boats astern as he sailed out into the empty Atlantic. His voyage had begun inauspiciously, and he couldnât forget it.
Chay Blyth, John Ridgwayâs partner on the row across the Atlantic, was a man in whom the Ulysses factor coursed thick and strong. He was the perfect example of the way this factor excites and stimulates others who wish to see such a man rise tohis singular calling, who gather around him and urge him on to do something none of them would dream of doing themselves.
Much shorter than his 6-foot-tall captain, stocky, and inferior in rank, Chay Blyth was no less an adventurer. He was mentally tougher, and far less given to doubts and introspection than Ridgway. Years earlier, paired as a team, the two had won an arduous 75-mile overnight army canoe race only because of Chay Blythâs unfaltering determination. After capsizing in frigid water and being flushed through the white water of a lock and almost drowning, emerging only to face the quick onset of hypothermia, Ridgway suggested they give up. âNo! Weâre going to win,â said Blyth. He pushed them on and they did win. It was a revelation to Ridgway, the degree to which Blythâs absolute mindset had so altered their apparent situation. Before their transatlantic row, the two had shared survival training in Middle Eastern deserts and
He and Chay Blyth had made landfall on Inishmore at the end of their epic row across the Atlantic almost two years earlier, and Ridgway told the reporters who had gathered to record his departure that he felt an affinity for the local islanders, âwho live so closely with the sea, good people, who know what suffering isâ. The locals reciprocated his feelings. They had erected a plaque in Kilronan Harbour to mark the spot where he and Blyth had come ashore, and danced jigs and reels in his honour at the local parish hall the night before he sailed. But Ridgway had not come all this way to make Inishmore his port of departure entirely for sentimental reasons. This was a talismanic choice, its inconvenience and geography strongly at odds with the hard pragmatism of his army training, and in making it he proved himself as classically superstitious as all those seamen who will not begin a voyage on a Friday, or who stab their knives into wooden masts for wind when becalmed. He had come all this way for luck.
Sailing Route Down the Atlantic Ocean
But minutes after leaving his mooring he found bad luck at sea. A BBC camera boat, trying to outmanoeuvre its rival ITN boat, came too close and hit the stern of
English Rose IV
. Ridgway, already anxious and struggling for composure in front of cameras and well-wishers, lost control and screamed abuse at the BBC boat. There appeared to be no damage.
About twenty minutes later, the ITN boat, a chartered 25-ton trawler carrying his 23-year-old wife, Marie Christine, and a boatload of press and well-wishers, ranged up alongside
English Rose IV
, and the sea swell threw the two boats together, making a heavy bump felt by those aboard the trawler. This time, Ridgway was so upset he couldnât talk. But his silence was admiringly noted by newsmen on the trawler, who took it as an indication of considerable aplomb, a glimpse of the tough silent stoicism with which he would meet graver conditons later on.
This collision split
English Rose IV
âs wooden rubrail near the rigging, superficial and mainly cosmetic damage, but it left Ridgway badly unnerved: âI looked down at the splintered strip of wood ⦠defeat filled my mind.â
Ridgway finally left the pestering boats astern as he sailed out into the empty Atlantic. His voyage had begun inauspiciously, and he couldnât forget it.
Chay Blyth, John Ridgwayâs partner on the row across the Atlantic, was a man in whom the Ulysses factor coursed thick and strong. He was the perfect example of the way this factor excites and stimulates others who wish to see such a man rise tohis singular calling, who gather around him and urge him on to do something none of them would dream of doing themselves.
Much shorter than his 6-foot-tall captain, stocky, and inferior in rank, Chay Blyth was no less an adventurer. He was mentally tougher, and far less given to doubts and introspection than Ridgway. Years earlier, paired as a team, the two had won an arduous 75-mile overnight army canoe race only because of Chay Blythâs unfaltering determination. After capsizing in frigid water and being flushed through the white water of a lock and almost drowning, emerging only to face the quick onset of hypothermia, Ridgway suggested they give up. âNo! Weâre going to win,â said Blyth. He pushed them on and they did win. It was a revelation to Ridgway, the degree to which Blythâs absolute mindset had so altered their apparent situation. Before their transatlantic row, the two had shared survival training in Middle Eastern deserts and
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