TOM CUNLIFFE
THE BRILLIANCE OF BRILLIANT A rollercoaster voyage on the schooner Brilliant with philosopher, seaman and friend George Moffett ILLUSTRATION CLAUDIA MYATT
I
first met the schooner Brilliant back in 1983 in Mystic Seaport, Connecticut, USA. She was 51 years old and was working as a sail-training vessel. The following morning, I was aboard racing round the cans. This was long enough ago for her skipper to have done time as a Grand Banks schoonerman. He was a hard case and we eclipsed the opposition, mainly through the tireless efforts of George Moffett, the skipper’s number two, who had the hands switching fisherman staysails the size of a pub car park at each tack to keep those vital topsails pulling to leeward of the fore gaff. When I stopped sweating after this workout, Moffett and I began one of those saltwater friendships that holds for a lifetime. In 1931, Olin Stephens, then only 22 years old, was commissioned by Walter Barnum to draft a yacht capable of being rolled over in a hurricane and coming up intact. Equally demanding was the statement that every piece of material, whether wood or metal, be literally perfect for the use intended. Brilliant was launched in the depths of the depression by Nevins on City Island, a stone’s throw from Manhattan. Barnum knew what he wanted and added that the yacht be as fast, weatherly and handsome as possible. Nevins didn’t let him down. Nor did Stephens, but after crossing the Atlantic in under 16 days, she was soon commandeered by the US Coastguard for war service before
being bought by Briggs Cunningham, a man of many parts who I once watched racing a sports car against Stirling Moss at Oulton Park in the 1950s. He gave her to Mystic Seaport Museum in 1953. The next time I shipped out in Brilliant was in the autumn of 2000. Now under Captain Moffett, she had just won the transatlantic Tall Ships’ Race and was homeward bound. I was signed on as ‘pilot and watchkeeper’. First impressions are important, and as I strolled down the dock in Gosport I saw that George had not let things slip. No ‘gold-plater’ in Saint-Tropez could beat the perfection of her varnish, unblemished after 4,000 stormy miles. Her pre-war bronze winches shone like the sun while her gold-leaf cove line looked fresh from the painters. Brilliant’s race crew had paid off. A fresh team flew in from the States that night, augmented by a Brit or two, and we left in the morning, bound for Cowes. The weather served up just what nobody wants with a green crew. Some of the deckhands had never sailed before and hardly any had operated a big schooner. Christine the mate rose to the challenge with a briefing I wished some of my Yachtmaster Instructors could have heard, and away we went into a rising force seven with driving rain and visibility you could cut with a blunt saw. My job was to keep Brilliant in deep water while George and Christine somehow managed the willing hands into setting a
