Tales of the Incredible Hoke Robertson

Many of our friends know that my wife Arminta and I took a cruise last month, and what an experience. It all started with my old friends from our 1964 America's Cup winning team. I was one of the designers of our ship and manned the helm in that memorable 1964 regatta. Who can forget it all coming down to that very last race and our final tack giving us the advantage to beat the previously unbeatable British team. If not for my fortuitous knowledge of the shifting currents and winds of the Irish Sea learned during my childhood, we might have gone home without the Cup and never appeared on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

Anyway, our old crew periodically gets together to remember the old times, and this year we decide to test our aging seaman skills once again; this time on a powered boat. We pooled our money and had a three-hull boat built (from my designs) and decided to try to set the world speed record for crossing from Africa to South America. Arminta and I flew to into Lagos, Nigeria a week ahead of time to prep the boat and get it fueled; boy, you think gas prices are high here, try Nigeria! We took the lead in preparations because of our fluency in the local languages of Hausa, Igbo, Yorbo, Ibibio, and of course that difficult tongue-twister Kanuri. As everyone knows, the official language of Nigeria is English, but to get things done you have to know the “village speak” so to speak. Anyway, with the ship all ready to go and the rest of the crew on board we set off at 6 am on April 27.

I must admit that some of the crew has aged a bit, and so it ended up that I had to take a few more shifts than normal, but enjoyed the thrill of guiding the 75 foot craft through the deep blue waters of the Atlantic. To lessen the weight and improve our speed, we took less food than we needed, relying on our ability to catch fish along the way. Each night I would turn the helm over to someone else and then stand on the bow with a torch and a trident. As the various fish would come up to the light, I would throw my spear and reap the rich rewards of the reticent deep. Yes, visions of Moby Dick would creep into my mind!

Well, we were making pretty good time and it looked like we were going to beat the old record. However, one night we experienced an unknown "bump" and grinding sound. The next morning I dove under the boat and found the tell-tale evidence indicating we had been visited by a Physeter macrocephalus; the mighty sperm whale of mariner lore. The sly cetacean had tried to bite the boat, perhaps because the large eye we had painted on the vessel in homage to Greek sailors of eons past had confused him into thinking we were his common prey, the giant squid.. Measuring the diameter of the tooth marks, I estimated he had been one heck of a large whale. I doubt trying to chomp on the fiberglass and titanium hull had done him much good; it certainly did not inure to our benefit. The holes had pierced our fuel tanks, and we were in a bind. The only solution was clear. I rigged up a make-shift sonar broadcaster and called in a favor from my old Navy buddies. Like clock-work, a Los Angeles class attack submarine, the USS Greenville surfaced four hours later and refueled us. It may have been a slight breach of protocol, but they were glad to help. To this day an eight inch whale tooth adorns the control room of that stalwart protector of freedom.

Anyway, we made up for lost time and did indeed pull into Rio in time to set a new Atlantic crossing record. When I get some time I will write up the free-dive I took along the way and how incredible it was to observe the giant squid in its natural habitat. The conclusion of the adventure was Arminta and I paddling a dugout canoe through the Panana Canal, but that is another story. HOKE ROBERTSON