The autopilot quit within hours of leaving Almerímar, which meant a
whole overnight leg to Los Escullos steered by hand, in the dark, by a
crew who had rather hoped to be doing other things with their evening. I
did not have a name for this sort of behavior yet. I have one now. At
the time I simply stood over the tiller, unseen as usual, and watched a
perfectly good electronic helmsman give up the moment the work started,
which strikes me as a fairly reliable definition of cowardice in any
century.
I will say this much in its defense: at least it had the decency to fail
early, before the wind picked up, rather than waiting for the worst
possible moment to make its point. That refinement, I gather, came
later.
Someone at the tiller all night is proper old-fashioned sailing, the
kind I was built for, and I stayed close the whole way in, which is
more than the autopilot managed. The anchorage at Los Escullos, in front
of its old fort, was a fine reward for it. A long night, a tired crew,
and a good hook down at the end. I have seen worse trades.
