The Santa Barbara-Honolulu Race
Transpac 1923
This race was notable for the schooner Mariner; she set a new record time of 11 days, 12 hours, 6 minutes, thus improving the time of 12 days, 9 hours and 59 minutes set by the famous schooner Lurline in 1906. This record held until 1949. After the handicap time allowance of nearly two days had been applied, she was declared second overall to the Diablo. The following is largely adapted from Yachting, September 1923, original text by Michael Phillips
The West Coast blue ribbon yachting event, the Santa Barbara-Honolulu yacht race, was won in 1923 by the schooner Diablo, Santa Barbara Yacht Club. Mariner, the big San Francisco Gloucesterman, came second, though she was the first to finish. Mariner lost-out on time allowance to the smaller boat, which is 60 feet to her 106 feet. The schooner Viking IV, Newport, was third and Spindrift, Los Angeles ketch, was fourth.
Two other starters, Idalia, Los Angeles, and Poinsettia, Los Angeles, were forced out of the race early, owing to the mischances incident to so gruelling a race. A gasoline drum on Idalia was chafed through by a steel line a few hours after leaving Santa Barbara, so that the fluid seeped out below decks. A match lighted by one of the crew resulted in an explosion that raised the Idalia’s deck several inches and set the schooner afire. The crew battled the flames for hours and finally brought the craft to the wharf at Venice. The owner and skipper, C. B. Eyer, and his son, Clarendon B. Eyer, Jr., were forced to go to the hospital for treatment for burns, and other members of the crew sustained slight injuries. The big German built yawl Poinsettia blew out her sails the second day of the race in a forty-mile wind, and was also forced to put back.
So much enthusiasm was engendered at Honolulu by the race that the competitors left early in August, after a few days’ rest, to race back to San Francisco for trophies offered by Island yachtsmen. It was the intention of the owners and skippers to enter the San Francisco regatta on arrival in September. A. R. Pedder, of the Diablo, and Albert Soiland, of the Viking IV, came back by steamer, leaving their sailing masters to handle the yachts on the return passage, but L. A. Norris put out past Diamond Head at the wheel of the Mariner. Spindrift was in command of her owner, Overton.
Here is the data on the race where the results are given after application of the time allowances:
Diablo, first. Elapsed time, 13 days, 2 hours and 38 minutes. Handicap over Mariner, 42 hours, 47 minutes, 3 seconds. Corrected time, 11 days, 7 hours, 50 minutes, 57 seconds, defeating Mariner by 4 hours, 15 minutes, 3 seconds. Finished Friday, August 3.
Mariner, second. Elapsed time 11 days, 12 hours, 6 minutes, Finished Thursday, August 2. Mariner defeats Viking IV by 1 day, 23 hours, 18 minutes, 52 seconds, corrected time.
Viking IV, third. Elapsed time, 15 days, 22 hours, 58 minutes. Handicap 59 hours, 23 minutes, 8 seconds. Corrected time, 13 days, 11 hours, 34 minutes, 52 seconds. Finished Monday, August 6. Viking IV defeats Spindrift by 2 days 1 hour, 11 minutes, 49 seconds.
Spindrift, fourth. Elapsed time, 16 days, 30 minutes, 20 seconds; gave Viking IV a handicap of 17 hours, 49 minutes, 49 seconds. Corrected time against Viking IV, 16 days, 18 hours, 20 minutes, 9 seconds.
Captain Norris of the Mariner, with a good professional crew, and with the advice and counsel of the celebrated “Drydock” Smith, engineer and yachting enthusiast, was the only one of the starters to do. the correct thing at the start and stick to it all through the race. He was beaten by the smaller Diablo on time allowance solely through the hard work and resourcefulness of Commodore A. R. Pedder, of the Diablo.
Taking counsel from past experience, for Captain Norris has sailed this race before, from the suggestions of Smith and from Captain Johnson of the steamer Mau, he struck boldly to the west on leaving Santa Barbara. Captain Johnson has sailed the San Francisco-Honolulu route for 30 years, 20 years of it in sailing vessels and 10 in steam; he has a record of eight days in a square-rigger from San Francisco to Diamond Head, and he should know what he is talking about. And when Johnson said to Norris: “Head west and foot for the trades,” the master of the Mariner obeyed the advice to the letter. As a result he found the wind and held it all the way. He was along the steamer lanes while Diablo and the others were at least 200 miles south. And he broke the record which has stood for seventeen years — since 1906, when the Lurline went over the course in 12 days, 7 hours and 39 minutes, more than 18 hours slower than the Gloucesterman’s time.
Pedder, on the contrary, headed far south with the Diablo, and he was trailed by the others. He lost the wind after two days and only won by draping his fast little schooner with every rag he could hook onto her, from a handkerchief up. She looked like a Chinese junk when everything was out to catch the wind, but there wasn’t a stitch that wasn’t pulling most of the time and the Diablo, a ghost in light winds, slipped through the big seas as though she were greased.
The start of the race was spectacular. It was the culminating event of a week of racing, the Southern California Yachting Association having staged its third annual regatta at Santa Barbara during the week of July 15. The Honolulu dash was scheduled to start at 12:30 Saturday, July 21.
There was some question up to the last few hours whether all the yachts scheduled to enter would be in. Pedder had had the Diablo — formerly the Haswell [1], of Toronto — for a short time only. She came up midway of regatta week and he had time only to try her out in the schooner race from Santa Barbara to Santa Cruz Island and return. This is a 58-mile course, and there was a good breeze out in the channel. Diablo won on her time allowance from Mariner, and Pedder was mightily encouraged for the 2190-mile race to Diamond Head.
Poinsettia, with a crew of 18, mostly college boys, and in charge of a new skipper signed on a few hours before starting for Santa Barbara, was becalmed. She took several days getting from San Pedro to Santa Barbara, and did not reach the Channel City anchorage until the noon before the race. Idalia played in even harder luck and was towed in, dropping anchor at six o'clock Friday evening. But all were dolled up for the classic during the next 12 hours.
There was a twelve-mile breeze Saturday noon, and Commercial wharf was black with thousands of people when the judges’ boat took her position a half-mile off the end of the wharf. The inner end of the starting line was a buoy close to the wharf. There was plenty of room for manoeuvering. The judges were Harry J. Doulton, of the Santa Barbara Yacht Club; P. H. L. Wilson, of California Yacht Club, Los Angeles; and Lester Stone, of San Francisco, a member of the Corinthian Yacht Club.
Mariner was first to leave her moorings at 12:10, and slip out across the line for a little preliminary limbering-up. Captain Norris’ crew worked like a well-oiled machine, and the canvas was snapped out with speed and precision. Spindrift put out from the lower side of the wharf, where she had been taking on water and provisions, and approached the judges’ boat to get the position of the line. The black-hulled Idalia, sitting on the water like a pirate craft, took a quarter-mile dash to seaward.
Diablo was next. Pedder ran out for a half mile, turned about and swung close to the wharf, where he waved farewell to the cheers of his fellow-townsmen. Viking IV was having trouble with her mainsail. Poinsettia, meanwhile, was showing the effects of a skipper who had been aboard: but a short time, and a green crew. It was 12:25 before the anchor of the Poinsettia came up. The mainsail was slowly hoisted about the same time. Then the reaching jib was broken out. There were many adverse comments on the patched and dirty sails of the yawl, and the comments were well founded for the canvas on her when she was brought from Kiel blew to ribbons the next day.
At one minute before the starting gun the Diablo was sneaking up quietly toward the stakeboat, on a course parallel with the line and perhaps a hundred yards inside it. Mariner was to port some little distance, and the others were scurrying for position.
The gun went; the flag came down smartly. Evidently Pedder did not get the signal at first and everybody on the stakeboat jumped to their feet to signal and yelled:
“Come on, Pedder. Put her across!” ,
The lean skipper smiled and nodded unemotionally, luffed a bit, slipped over the line and was away, a minute and a half after the gun. Mariner went over a minute behind Diablo. Idalia threatened to go out on the wrong side of the stakeboat, and Eyer was compelled to sail completely around that tubby little craft at uncomfortably close quarters in order to make a proper getaway.
Viking IV raced for the line with the bit in her teeth, and as she came about to cross, Admiral Soiland shouted to the judges: “Our first hard luck; we’ve carried away our peak halyards.” He was given a cheer of sympathy.
Spindrift’s jib topsail sheet was adrift and the crew was working frantically to right things when the ketch went over two minutes later. Mrs. Eugene Overton, wife of the owner and skipper, was at the wheel, and was given a rousing cheer as the Spindrift put her nose toward the deep blue Channel waters.
Poinsettia, sloppily handled, and painstakingly going to biscuit toss of the wharf in order to get around the buoy on the wrong side, was 10 and a half minutes late in her start.
The skippers had made up their minds that the race was to be won or lost on the course chosen after they had left Santa Cruz island astern. There was a wide divergence right from the start. Mariner headed up channel to go around the upper end of Santa Cruz, through the four mile passage between the big island and Santa Rosa.
Pedder headed south by east, having determined to leave Santa Cruz to leeward and to pass to windward of Anacapa. All of the others headed close hauled after the Mariner.
The Diablo’s skipper admits that he didn’t guess it right. He stayed as far away from the lower end of Santa Cruz as he could, edging over to Anacapa, but he struck a flat spot between the two islands, and was becalmed for three hours. He had sailed 30 nautical miles.
It wasn’t long before he was joined by the Spindrift, which came in under Diablo’s lee, Viking IV, under the lee of. Santa Cruz and some distance away, and then the Poinsettia. These had. decided that Mariner's course was wrong and that they would pay heavily when they got the high bulk of Santa Cruz between them and the wind.
The quartet was becalmed from three in the afternoon until 10:30 o’clock Saturday night. The Diablo wallowed about in circles, and was the first to feel the urge of the reviving wind. She slipped away from the others, and Admiral Overton called ruefully to the Diablo crew as they left him behind “She’s sure a witch in weather!”
The breeze steadily increased until it was blowing forty miles. This continued for two days, but the further south the Diablo travelled the softer the airs became until they were mere sighs.
Anxiety grew in the minds of Pedder and his crew. They feared the Mariner, the only yacht to keep to the northern route. They were sure the Gloucesterman had picked up a good breeze. And then it was that the skipper began to show his seamanship.
“Don’t you fool yourself; it was Pedder who won the race with his crafty old head—no one else and nothing else," declared Ralph Coane, one of the crew. “He paced the deck, up and down, studying the rigging until there formed in his mind a plan for using every inch of canvas we had. And then we began to do things!”
During the period of good winds the course was south by west, the sheets gradually slacked until they had the force of the trades either abaft the beam or dead astern on the course to Honolulu. At no time thereafter was the course changed more than a quarter of a point.
The race committee had decided, after exhaustive investigation, that the modified Seawanhaka was the best rule to adopt for the race. This decision was reached after getting opinions of Mower, Gardner, Haddock, and other naval architects and simmering them down. The rule permitted the free use of any and all canvas wherever and whenever, in the opinion of the skipper, it could be used to advantage. The engines, where there was auxiliary power, were sealed or the propellers unshipped.
And here is what Pedder did: He increased the the Diablo’s racing triangle of 2419 square feet of sail area to between 5800 and 6000 square feet of sail area! Diablo’s sail plan, after they had rigged her at the end of the third day, showed how he did it:
Mainsail, foresail, squaresail, club topsail; storm jib under main-boom as water sail; foresail sailcover under foresail boom for water sail; awning under spinnaker boom (spinnaker boom was used as squaresail boom to haul out square-sail); spinnaker set upside down from end of fore gaff; large fisherman staysail set upside down because it would drain better; small fisherman staysail set as topsail over squaresail; baby jib topsail set alongside of fisherman staysail; another baby jib topsail set to catch the spill out of the topsails on the square sail. And the cook, John Orey, former rough rider with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West shows, rigged a squaresail on a boathook at the stern as his contribution toward success!
“All told,” grinned Pedder, when he told about it, "we had sixteen sails on her, thirteen drawing like wildfire any time the wind was abaft the beam.”
The first three nights and two days part of the crew, at least, were sick. The sun was visible only on three days. The rest of the time the sky was cloudy. There would be light squalls at night, with showers, but no hard rain storms.
The difficulty of handling the schooner under the unwieldy and complicated mass of canvas and cordage can be imagined. It is a matter of 30 seconds to jibe under ordinary conditions; but, with the Diablo decorated like a Christmas tree, it required nearly three hours of the hardest kind of work to accomplish the manoeuver. And a slight change in the wind in the next hour might require that it be done all over again.
It was “pajama weather” and the crew wore very little clothing, some of the men making the entire cruise in underclothing. Three watches were maintained, each watch four hours on and eight off during the twenty-four. But no one complained of lack of exercise. As one of the men said: “Sometimes we’d stand watch four hours, and then work the other eight.”
Added to the labour was the mental strain for fear that the schooner would jibe unexpectedly. And that would have meant disaster. The boom would have given way, undoubtedly, and the mast would have been taken out by the strain — which spelled the end of all chance of victory, to say nothing of the personal danger.
“Where’s the Mariner and what’s she doing;" was another burning question which caused much anxious debate. The Gloucesterman was north of them, they knew; and they knew, too, there must be wind to the northwest, because there was a tremendous sea coming down from north by west, while the light trades were northeast.
The persistence of gentle zephyrs when everyone was praying for a real blow flicked the nerves to the raw. The wit and boundless good humor of Cook Orey did much to relieve the strain. Orey came up second morning, pale and drawn, for a whiff of the air which was then moving with so much celerity. “We’re sure goin’ away from here,” was his first observation, as he noted the broad wake boiling from under the schooner’s counter. “An’ I’m goin’ away from here,” he added, rushing to join three others bowed over the rail.
“Met a feller once in the old’ Cliff House, San Francisco,” reminisced Orey, when the paroxysm had passed. “It was the mornin’ after the night before and his hair pulled and his eyes were red and his throat was like a fur-lined mitten. You know — in the good old days when the lights were bright and the liquor was strong. He sat down next me in the dinin’ room and looked out through those great big windows and blinked. He called over a waiter. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointin’ with a wabblin’ finger. ‘That’s the Pacific Ocean,’ says the waiter. ‘Well,’ says the souse, ‘put a piece of ice in it and bring it to me.’
“Boys, there’s been times when I felt the same way. But never no more. This here Pacific Ocean is bigger than I thought she was!”
Now Oahu, the island on which Honolulu is situated, lies with its back to America and its face to the open sea. The race ended when the boats rounded Diamond Head, on which the light house is situated, and which is on the south-westerly corner of the island.
On Thursday morning, August 2nd, at daybreak, after having been absolutely out of touch with the world for 11 days — in all that time they had not even seen the smoke of a steamer—the crew of Diablo sighted land. It was Makapuu Point, the island’s southeasterly point. The course was S.W. by W., 1-2 W., and there was an excited cheer when the cloudlike, formless bank on the horizon took definite shape. Presently, the round, high eminence of Koko Head was defined.
There was plenty of wind, so that the Diablo came in in style. At noon Thursday, the day before the finish, it started to puff; by eight o'clock Thursday night it was piping; by midnight it was blowing. The Diablo was in a trifle too close to Koko Head, and came about to make the run up to Diamond Head. The squaresail was brailed in close in front of the mast, but after the schooner had gotten safely around, it was let out again. The last thrilling hours have impressed themselves clearly on the crew’s memory. Because of the great nervous strain, Pedder and his sailing-master, Carl Miller, alternated in half hour tricks at the wheel.
“Only those who have made the cruise,” he said, “can appreciate the force with which the waves roll and sweep and broach through that passage between Oahu and Molokai. There we were, racing for the line with everything on her, for we knew that seconds might count. Her boom tackle was set up; double preventer backstays were rigged on fore and mainmast; the spinnaker boom rigged to outhaul the square-sail, and all the time the boat just on the tip. A little mischance, a false move, in that wind and sea, and — well, there were thrills enough crowded into it to last a lifetime.”
They looked anxiously for the special white buoy which had been planted to mark the finish line. There it was, and the line was, apparently, well defined. But, contrary to express orders of the Honolulu Committee in charge of the finish, a sampan had been anchored nearby. This was confusing, as it was supposed to have some meaning and there was a debate whether to change the course to pass between the sampan and the buoy. They finally decided to ignore the sampan and this proved to be the correct thing to do. Presently the official boat, the Kukui, a lighthouse-tender, steamed out from the harbor. The line was crossed by Diablo at 3:04:15 in the afternoon.
“Is Mariner in?” was the first question hurled across the water to the Kukui.
“Yes."
“When did she cross?” chimed a half-dozen voices.
The hour was given and there were yelps of delight when hasty calculations proved that Diablo was winner.
The Kukui edged closer. ‘President Harding is dead,’ a solemn voice called across the intervening water. There was a pause of absolute immobility, of shocked disbelief. Then they saw the truth in the serious faces on the other vessel. Every man dropped what he was doing ; hats came off; and for a full minute the victors stood at attention in homage to the dead President.
Then the sails came down and, her labours over, the Diablo was towed to an anchorage by the Kukui. A torpedo boat destroyer came out to act as escort; a cluster of aquaplane beauties joined the train as Waikiki was passed; and as the doughty little schooner reached the harbour, a deafening chorus of whistles and automobile horns sent up their clamor of greeting.
The Diablo’s mileage was as follows: 137 miles, 208, 222, 190, 184, 181, 197, 143, 144, 145, 143, 183, and 182 miles.
“The Mariner sailed a wonderful race and beat the record of the famed Lurline," said Pedder, “but as far as that’s concerned, the Diablo beat all records of all boats of anywhere near her waterline length. The Lurline is an 87-footer, and Diablo is only 44 feet on the water line. At that they only beat our time by about 22 hours.
“I had a wonderful crew, real Corinthians, amateurs who made the trip for love of the game. They are hardworking, conscientious and loyal. Without their cheerful aid and cooperation every minute of every day we would have been nowhere.”
The Mariner crossed the line at 12:36 o’clock Thursday morning, August 2. And the lateness of the hour detracted nothing from the welcome which was extended the big, sturdy yacht as she came pounding through the heavy seas. Honolulu was ready, for it had been advised by a radio message from the steamer Montebello and by the reports of naval airplanes that the schooner was coming in.
Several tugs hovered about the finish line, keeping watch, and dazzling army searchlights played constantly over the waters. Capt. Norris and his men were officially welcomed by the presentation of ilima leis, after the yacht, a stately pillar of white, loomed through the tangle and was uproariously proclaimed by bells, whistles and horns.
Capt. Norris dismissed the trip across as “just a nice little tea party,” and declared it to have been entirely uneventful. He is proud of the record run of 260 miles the second day, which is something even for many steam craft to shoot at. Her daily runs were as follows: 185 miles; 260, 220, 215, 205, 175, 185, 190, 180, 155, 170 and 90 miles to finish.
It will be seen by comparing the records of the two schooners, that Mariner profited materially by better winds on the first, second, fourth, fifth, eighth, ninth and eleventh days. Diablo’s best day, the third, 222 miles, was 38 miles shorter than Mariner’s best, the second. On the third, sixth and seventh days Diablo outfooted her competitor slightly. Mariner’s poorest day, exclusive of the short finishing day, was the tenth, 155 miles. Diablo’s poorest were the eighth and eleventh, 143 miles each.
The Viking IV crossed the finish line at 11:18:55 on the morning of Monday, the 6th, and the Spindrift came in a little over two hours later. The experiences of both boats was about the same—light airs and a deviation from the course in search of wind.
On July 26, when five days out, the Viking IV struck the steamer track, and early that morning sighted a Matson vessel far down on the horizon.
The Spindrift followed the course of the Diablo perhaps longer than the Viking IV, but did not follow the latter into the steamer lane. The Spindrift’s crew saw the Idalia turn back after she had been disabled by fire, but was too far away to learn the cause.
A dinner attended by 150 of the leading citizens of the islands, the skippers and their crews, took place at the Moana hotel on August 8. Commodore Clarence Macfarlane of the Honolulu Yacht Club offered a toast to the memory of the father of trans-Pacific racing, the late Commodore Sinclair.
Skipper Overton of the Spindrift made the hit of the evening when he said he knew more about that race than any of them “because he had been in it the longest.” His humorous acceptance of defeat was applauded loudly. He paid a tribute to the Diablo and to her skipper, declaring “Pedder has a fine boat, and he won the race because he sailed her.” Overton was a member of the crew which finished first in the 1910 race.
“I’ve been first and I’ve been last,” he told them cheerfully, “and I’m going to stick to it until I’ve been first again.”
[ Back ] Footnote 1: The composite schooner Haswell measured 60' overall, 44' 6' on the waterline, with a beam of 14' 2" and drew 8' 6" of water. She was built for Thomas Tiffany of New Bedford, and in 1919 she was bought, and transferred to the Canadian Register in Toronto, by Commodore Aemilius Jarvis of the Royal Canadian Yacht Club; see his book 5,000 Miles in a 27-Tonner, 1922.