Sospan Fach: The Saga of the Little Saucepan (Australia/New Zealand Edition)

Introduction

On the 7th of April 1974, a thirty-eight-foot ferro-cement yacht called the Sospan Fach left Auckland, New Zealand, headed for Sydney, Australia. The yacht carried four people.

The equipment on board included a nine-dollar compass, an inexpensive sextant, one set of sails, one doughnut-shaped life preserver and a lifeboat designed to carry one person. The usual books of tables and logarithmic calculation devices required were totally absent. There was no auxiliary motor, no radio, and no pair of binoculars, nothing in the way of instrumentation: no wind speed or direction indicator, no thermometer, and no barometer.

The skipper/owner of the yacht had received a sailing lesson of two hours around Auckland’s Waitemata Harbour, during which he three times ran aground. The vessel was not certified for deep-sea travel because it could not meet Category One seaworthy requirements. It was not registered, and no official notification was given to maritime authorities about the planned sea voyage.

None of the crew had any deep-water sailing experience. The skipper’s navigational plan was to sail north for three days and then turn left towards Australia, the rationale being that Australia was so large nobody could miss it. The Sospan Fach (little saucepan in Welsh), ended up marooned on Middleton Reef, in Australian national waters, where the four survived on meagre provisions and their wits for six weeks, amidst ever-impending mutiny.

What follows is fact-based fiction—an historical documentary. It is a story of incredible stupidity and blind, dumb luck.

Chapter 1

Commander, it’s Mr. Lundquist again.

The voice on the intercom in Nigel Anderson’s Maritime Operations Centre office reminded him that he still had no news.

Anderson and three of his assistants pored over reports in their weekly meeting. Two of the four had loosened their neckties, and all four mopped perspiring brows with pocket-handkerchiefs. Anderson butted out a cigarette in one of the available ashtrays.

Rising from the conference table, he collided with a pile of reports on a credenza, spilling them across the polished floor. He approached the telephone as his assistants busied themselves retrieving the mess. Nigel thanked his secretary and pressed the button that opened the line. Good day, Mr. Lundquist.

Is there any news, Commander?

Mr. Lundquist, there are a million square miles in the Tasman. It’s an impossible task. I recognise your predicament, sir, but don’t you think that if we had heard something we would have contacted you?

I know, I know, Commander. It’s just that we must keep up hope. Mrs. Lundquist is worried sick.

Anderson debated whether or not to acquaint the distraught father with reality. Sir, he said, you should perhaps consider preparing Mrs. Lundquist for the inevitable. If they haven’t shown up somewhere in thirty days, it’s highly unlikely that….

I can’t accept that, Commander. There has to be some news. There just has to be.

I understand how you feel, sir. We are doing everything we can. Are you certain there was no indication as to the route the Sospan Fach was to take?

I have been over and over the letter Philip sent, Commander. He talks about the boat—and some of his concerns. I tried to call him several times at the number he left with us for the Youth Hostel in Auckland. Nobody is certain, but some of the people staying there think that he left on that boat.

Nigel Anderson withdrew a file folder from his desk drawer. It told the story—or at least as much of it as he had been able to learn from Philip Lundquist’s father. Even though Anderson had heard all this before, he let the elder Lundquist talk because he knew the distress this family was feeling. Anderson himself had lost a brother to a shipwreck years before, and he recognised the agony for what it was.

Anderson had been able to obtain the merchant service records of the Sospan Fach’s skipper. The file had some information not known to Stephen Lundquist, but Anderson was not about to tell Philip’s father anything he didn’t have to—at this stage.

Can you add any information about the boat? Anderson asked.

All we know is that the man who built it decided to sail it to Sydney. Stephen Lundquist paused. Oh, there is one new piece of information, he said. "The boat was built according to the specifications of a company named Hartley Boats. We contacted Hartley Boats and they deny selling the plans to Mr. Nickelson.

Also, continued Lundquist, "we are aware that the members of the crew, Philip included, were interviewed on television and by the newspapers the night before they left, the 7th of April. We contacted New Zealand authorities, who suggested that we contact the New Zealand Herald. The response from them was that the boat did sail and that there were at least four aboard, including our son."

Yes, responded Nigel, and the Tasman hasn’t been quiet since. There’s a cyclone working its way east right now.

I know, responded Philip Lundquist’s father, and that has us concerned.

Have you any further information about the skipper? continued Nigel. Didn’t you tell me his name was Nickelson?

Nickelson, Ithnan Nickelson. We know very little about him, responded Stephen Lundquist. We know he is Welsh and that he was working as a carpenter there in Auckland. Beyond that we know little.

You said before when we talked that there were some problems with the vessel?

Philip told us in the letter that he was taking this trip against his better judgment. He mentioned that the boat didn’t have a motor or a radio. He was a little concerned about the setting of the tiller and rudder. I’ve since learned that the boat had but one set of sails. I’m afraid my son is a bit naïve. Then he added, He told us that he thought he had more sailing experience than the skipper.

Does he?

He’s been out on the bay—but to the best of my knowledge, he’s never been on blue water.

And the skipper?

Philip told us in the letter that Nickelson had told him he had a lot of experience sailing on blue water because he’d been in the British Merchant Service. The newspaper did say there was some question as to how the boat and its people were prepared. We have requested back issues of the newspapers to be posted by air.

Anderson could contribute nothing new to the conversation, and it hurt that he had nothing encouraging to offer other than to state again that bulletins had been passed to ships at sea and to aircraft that flew east from Australia. Beyond that there was little that could be done but to be patient and hope for the best. He wasn’t about to share that the chances of locating the group were very close to nil.

Stephen Lundquist thanked the head of the Maritime Operations Centre for his time and effort and said goodbye. Anderson listened as the connection broke, and then turned to the others in his office. Every day I hear from this man. Every day! I think it’s just about time that he and his wife come to grips with reality. His son is lost at sea, and may never be found—alive, at least. Maybe his body will wash up somewhere. I hope it does—it will at least give the family closure. But then again, one never knows. Stranger things have happened.

Anderson lifted the flap of his uniform shirt and once again withdrew the box of Players, flipping open the top, removing one cigarette, and returned the closed box to his pocket. He picked up the table lighter from his desk and lit it. Take a break, fellows, he said. It’s too blasted hot to get us worked up. By any chance, when you picked up the pile I knocked over, were you able to return it to sequence?

They acknowledged that they hadn’t done so. Anderson took a couple of drags and then flipped the lit cigarette through the open window onto the well-manicured lawn below.

That’s not going to make the groundskeeper happy, said one.

Blast the groundskeeper! spoke Nigel in an elevated voice. Blast the Minister who with the stroke of a pen has given us all this work! He waived his arm through the air, surveying the piles of paper. And blast the Welsh idiot who thought he could slap together a boat and sail it across the Tasman. I’m going to take a leak! With that he left the room, closing the door firmly. Nigel Anderson was an unhappy man, and events on the ocean made the malaise worse.

He walked out of his office to where his secretary Alice Benson was working. She looked up. Having a heat stroke? she asked.

Yes, isn’t it miserable? Have you been able to contact that mechanic about getting the air turned back on?

I’m afraid I can’t be more encouraging. The air’s been turned off all over the government. It’ll be six months before it’s put on again. You’ll have to do, I guess. Did Mr. Lundquist have any further news?

No. The same. He’s looking to us to provide news, and there’s no news to give him. Bugger has to have spent a fortune in long distance calls, Anderson ventured. I wish there were something I could tell him.

The Teletype machine in the background was making its normal chattering sound. But today wasn’t an ordinary day. The Sospan Fach was missing. There were a hundred controlled ships off the east coast of the continent. Every damn time the machine chattered, it meant that there was something else that had to be done, and with the pressure from the Minister, when could it be done? There was the usual activity of a busy office, but today it seemed that its music was pure cacophony, and it was getting on Anderson’s nerves. A bell rang to indicate the completion of the message. Alice rose to tear off the paper, but Anderson beat her to the machine, went to pick up the paper, only to discover that several messages had arrived and the paper had spilled to the floor at the rear of the machine. Alice’s responsibility was to rip off the messages as they arrived and to route them to the appropriate supervisor. It was obvious that she had not done so this morning. Anderson’s first impulse was to speak to her about her responsibilities, but he decided that he should not do so. Not this morning. No doubt she would have an answer anyway—she always seemed to.

Quickly he scanned the contents of the gathered paper. One by one he observed movement reports of vessels inbound to and outbound from the Australian continent. Customary stuff. Hum drum. Contact from Perth about the yacht Australia—Dennis Connors was at it again. Contact from Darwin about troopship rotations to the Vietnam War. He recognised that he needed to know that information, but it disquieted him all the same.

His attention fell on the last four inches of paper, the most recent Teletype report from the search effort on the Tasman. It reported the sighting and rescue of four people from a yacht out of Auckland. The Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF) was standing by, as was the Royal Australian Navy (RAN). Some fishing vessel had located the castaways on Middleton Reef. He read the dispatch in a loud voice that all could hear. He tore off the small message and handed the rest of the maritime reports back to his secretary. Distribute these, please.

Perhaps you’ll have something to tell him very soon, Alice said.

Yes, I may very well be able to give Mr. Lundquist some good news for a change, he said. He moved back into his office, consulted his Rolodex file, and dialled the Lundquist home. Nobody answered. Perhaps the man had taken his wife out to breakfast to assuage her grief. He’d try later. He took out a punch, put holes into the report, and filed it. Anderson was, after all, a bureaucrat, and bureaucrats first and foremost write and file reports.

Chapter 2

It was one devil of a storm. The Hammerblitz had been blown more than four hundred miles away from its refit port of Ballina, New South Wales, by the force of tailwinds from a cyclone working its way east from the Australian continent. This was the third cyclone since the beginning of May, and it had raised havoc with the tests the Hammerblitz had begun at sea, blowing it more than four hundred miles towards Middleton Reef.

Middleton Reef, Elizabeth Reef, and Lord Howe Island (north to south) are three coral atolls history has recorded as the final resting place for hundreds of sailing vessels. Of the three, Middleton Reef has by far the worst reputation. It lies one hundred-forty miles north of Lord Howe Island and four hundred miles east of Brisbane at 29º27`S Latitude, 159º07`E Longitude, and is known as The Graveyard of Ships. The reef has trapped more than twenty ships and taken more than a hundred lives. This coral reef, roughly five miles in length by three miles in width and kidney-shaped, rises almost vertically out of six hundred feet of water. It lies directly on the shipping lane from Brisbane to New Zealand. Awash at high tide, it’s almost invisible until it’s too late to avoid it.

The whistle broke the operating noise of the bridge, signalling a call from a crewmember. Cap’n, it’s Kaka.

Captain Wagner left the table where he had been poring over charts of the northern Tasman Sea, adjusted the watch cap back squarely upon his head, and picked up the microphone that hung on the wall. Yeah, Parrot, what’cha got?

The excited voice of the crewman responded, Put your glasses on the Runic, Cap’n, and then look to the right and behind.

Wagner returned the microphone to its hook, retrieved his binoculars from his chest, where they hung from a lanyard, and moved to the starboard window. He looked out at the rusting hulk located a dozen miles away. Slowly he moved his gaze to the right, focused on the ruins of the Fuku Maru, the former Japanese long line fishing trawler—which lay behind and slightly to the right—and then again further right, and there spotted a smaller vessel lying on its port side.

He was joined at the window by another crewmember, Stefan Bauer who, with his own binoculars trained on the Fuku Maru, exclaimed, There’s somebody on her, Cap’n.

Are there any reports of a missing craft, Stef?

Aye, Cap’n. A sloop out of Auckland. Wait a sec…. Bauer moved to the desk at the side of the cabin, extracted a report, scanned it, and returned. It could be the Sospan Fach. It was reported missing in early May. Has four aboard, two men and two women.

Wagner picked up the microphone again. Kaka, what do you see?

There was a pause, while the crewman returned to the microphone on the deck. I’m seeing a flash like maybe somebody is signalling with a mirror, Cap’n.

Wagner replaced the microphone and returned to the window. Bauer said, I can see the flash, Dieter. If you look carefully, you’ll also see something floating from the mast. About halfway up. Looks orange.

Wagner turned to another crewmember on the bridge and began to bark orders. The sea anchor was pulled—it hadn’t been very effective during this storm anyway. The long-range lights were turned on. Hopefully they would be seen. The rescue flags were hoisted, though if the castaways had no binoculars, the flags wouldn’t be seen. The Hammerblitz moved to the channel just inside the reef, to a distance of about three miles from the Runic. It would be too dangerous to move closer.

Again, Wagner picked up the microphone: Kaka, what are you doing right now?

The response came back, I’m about to drag the catch, Cap’n.

Drag the catch, Kaka, Wagner said, and as soon as that’s clear, get the skiff prepared to travel. Three of you are going onto the reef tomorrow morning.

Aye, Cap’n.

Wagner turned to his first mate, Stefan Bauer. That assumes the sea decides to take a rest. We’ll get there as quickly as we can. You’d better call Canberra. Then help Kaka get the rescue effort organized.

Aye. Stefan went to the radio. It would be necessary to relay the message by way of another vessel and Brisbane. Within the hour the Maritime Operations Centre in Canberra had received the message via Teletype. A Royal Australian Air Force Hercules was put on alert to deliver supplies and rescue equipment to the reef on the following day.

Chapter 3

Sunday, June the 9th, 1974, was a day not unlike the previous forty-two they had stayed on the wretched reef. It was sixty-four days since this nightmare had begun, almost six weeks since the four of them had taken up residence aboard a burned-out, rusted-out fishing trawler, the Fuku Maru 7. Today, the wind was blowing with gale force.

Ithnan Nickelson, called Nick by the others, was the first to rise. On his end of the room, all he could see was Lundquist, lying on the mat, his mouth open, breathing heavily. The women had separated themselves with sailcloth strung across the room for privacy. Even considering the fact that he reeked of body odour, he was still conscious of the odours of the other three. He went out onto the deck. Outside there would be fresh air.

The sun was bright, and reflected from the surrounding water between the caps of the waves tossed by a churning sea. Nick stretched his arms into the air and rotated his body to loosen his back muscles. He reached into his trousers and massaged his genitals. How interesting this voyage might have been with different and willing partners. He moved to the rail, spat over the side, and then relieved himself into the ocean.

Following Ithnan, one by one the others rose and moved to the deck. Philip made a half-hearted attempt at callisthenics, as he had in the first couple of weeks, but lethargy was beginning to take its toll. The women had no similar interest. Georgina squinted against the glare of the sun on the ocean, but moved down the rope ladder to the rock, where she brushed her teeth with her forefinger and ocean water. Colleen just looked out over the water with the same vacuous stare she used to greet each day.

The four gathered on the deck—Nickelson in an advanced state of angst while the other three took turns managing the still and swapping fishing lines in an attempt to land yet another meal. When the tide arrived, Colleen took a line and tried to catch a specific cunning old mackerel with scars on his head that had hung around the wreck, just begging to be caught.

Something caught Philip’s attention. What is that? he asked, arms waving excitedly. He pointed toward the large boat that lay about five miles to the east.

Nick ran back to the wheelhouse and returned with flares. He lit a red one, but it was hopeless, an ineffective firecracker. He tossed a smoke flare into the water as the instructions had directed, but the wind was blowing so strongly that the orange smoke was pressed flat across the water. He turned the air blue with his epithets and slammed an open hand against the wheelhouse. The sound reverberated throughout the derelict’s hull.

Get the shower curtains, shouted Colleen, and she, Philip, and Georgina hung the orange cloth on a hastily improvised clothesline. With no means to secure the fabric, the strong wind quickly ripped away the cloth and sent it out over the ocean—in the wrong direction.

Wait! cried Colleen, who dashed back into the cabin and returned with a couple pieces of a broken mirror. Here! she said, and handed one of the pieces to Philip. The two of them flashed the gathered sun in the direction of the boat. After several minutes, Philip said, I think this can only be seen by someone looking through binoculars.

Philip, Georgina, and Colleen began to pray intently. Surely, the people on the boat must see them.

Tension was high. The fish caught that morning were now ready to eat, but the group was much too excited to sit down to feast. In the excitement, the fish was burned, but that was all right; they stuffed it into their mouths as they stood at the railing, attempting to get as close to the rescuers as they could.

Colleen bumped into Ithnan and accidentally dropped the piece of fish that was to have been his. Nick flew into a rage, mashing it into the deck. Colleen apologised, and as they had done for several days, the three of them ignored the agitated older man. Nickelson wasn’t about to be ignored.

What’s the matter, Nick? Philip snarled. You out of gold caps? You need to get high and you’re running out of stash? If you need to get high, we can’t do anything for you, Nick, but if you wanna get off this rusting tub, you’d better get a grip on yourself. Out there may be the only way we are about to get off this God-forsaken chunk of rock in the middle of this God-forsaken ocean! Ithnan backed away and eyed the crew with a sinister sneer and hollow eyes.

They hung all the coloured clothing they could find on a piece of rope they stretched across the Fuku.

All we can do is wait until dark and hope they stay, Colleen said, biting her fingernails. We’ll try another red flare and possibly a fire, which will be more visible tonight. That boat is not going to go away without making contact. Perhaps we can do it when the wind dies down.

When it was dark, the wind hadn’t died down. If anything, its ferocity had increased. Another flare was wasted, and the decision was made not to begin a fire. There, across the water, the ship remained. Now the castaways could see small bright lights. These lights meant salvation—life, shelter, food, fresh clothes, and safety. They were so close, yet so far. Perhaps they hadn’t been seen, but if they were not, there was nothing much could be done tonight, and the wind speed was steadily rising.

Throughout the night the rising wind came at their home like a battering ram, making it nearly impossible to sleep. Fuku Maru was positioned solidly upon the