Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed (40 page)

Bob and his son Karl turned up with
Lisarne
. Liz would be joining them early in May for a week's cruising holiday. After taking on stores, we headed north for the island of Corfu, our first port of entry. April found
Lisarne
and
Solitaire
leisurely cruising the Greek islands in the Ionic Sea. May arrived with Liz. Bob was hoping that she would stay permanently and, to be honest, so was I. Once more I'd become part of a family. For a while, there had been none of the loneliness of arriving in strange harbours, sitting alone in restaurants at tables set for four, trying to ignore waiters with long queues throwing hurrying glances. Unfortunately, there was a home in Liverpool and a young son to look after. Liz flew back. Bob and Karl set sail for England a few days later.

Feeling a bit down, I decided that if I could receive mail from home, it might cheer things up. I headed for the island of Trizonia. Greece is more or less cut in half by the Gulf of Patras and the Gulf of Corinth. Trizonia Island is about halfway down this channel. The pilot guide said it had a yacht club, run by an English actress – another Liz. I had intended to stay only long enough to receive letters, but it was the middle of August before
Solitaire
made her final departure. The food and company were terrific. The view from the balcony at the end of the day, with a cold beer – fantastic!

Irene and Tony arrived for their holiday and we went back into the Ionic Sea, to visit some of its better islands. Once I'd put my sun-tanned crew on a bus for Athens and home, I returned to Trizonia Island, but only long enough for hugs and handshakes and a last goodbye.

As we passed through the 3-mile-long Corinth Canal and out into the islands in the Aegean Sea, it was as though I'd walked through a door and found only an empty room. The islands on this side of Greece I found to be barren and boring, without colour; few trees, little grass, greys and browns of distant mountains, the whites of a few scattered houses. Day after day I seemed to be passing the same island. The deserted anchorages were lonely places.

It was while I was in one of these gloomy moods that I made a stupid mistake that would take me months to correct. At the time I'd fixed a heavy rope under the boat so I could pull myself down to clean the propeller. Just as I was ready to go over the side, a couple arrived in a dinghy to say they were in the next bay and would I join them for dinner. Without thinking, I started the motor. There was a loud thump and sickening jolt. The rope was wrapped around the prop, jamming it in forward gear and breaking the clutch. In future, every time I started the engine, the boat would start to move ahead. Without a reverse, the only way I could stop would be to let a stern anchor go. There was nothing I could do about it until I took
Solitaire
out of the water in Cyprus.

Our last port of call in the Greek islands was Rhodes. It took two days of tiring walking to visit officials for our clearance papers. I filled the fuel tank with diesel. It wasn't until we were well on our way that the engine stopped and I found half the diesel to be water. We arrived in Cyprus to a gentle breeze during September 1989. I had intended to make one or two more passes across the marina entrance, but I could already see yachties watching me from the outer harbour. I sailed straight in to find welcome hands ready to take my lines. This time there were no long walks. In a very short space of time all the friendly officials had visited
Solitaire
and I was cleared to go through the main gate and into the town.

The position of the marina is perfect. There's a long sandy beach running up to its entrance. Cross the road and you have cheap restaurants and modern supermarkets that sell all the British name brands. The Greeks I found to be honest and very friendly. English was their second language. There's a full social life. Apart from the marina, you have the British Army base a few miles away, with its own cinema, restaurants, gliding and golf clubs. With a rented TV set you could pick up their broadcasts to the services. All the news, sport, soaps and films – direct from UK by satellite.

One of the first things I did was to phone Afaf and John Skelton. Ken Swann had given me their names just before I'd left England. John and Afaf had met while employed as teachers in Lebanon. They were now living in the main town of Nicosia. John had his own company as an agent for ship builders. Over the years they were to become part of the group of people I looked on as being family.

To enjoy a full social life I would need a car. A friend of mine said he had a VW Beetle that had been sitting outside his house for months. It seems that an American had run short of cash and had left the car as a deposit against the price of his airfare home. If I would pay the £200 owing I could become the proud owner. Considering the old ruptured duck Mini I'd paid £50 for, this would be a big leap upmarket. As soon as I saw the car I knew I wanted it. In the first place it was a convertible: ideal for the hot Cyprus climate. The sun had already turned the red paintwork to a matt finish of many shades, but the body was sound, without rust. The top had been left down and the locals had turned it into a rubbish dump. For all that, the upholstery and hood were in good condition. It took me a day to clean it up, change the points and plugs, and run it back to the marina. I bought six cans of spray-on paint and turned the car into an eye-catcher that, wherever we parked, would bring offers to buy. Without the car I would have still enjoyed my stay in Cyprus, but it did make the world of difference.

The hot climate of Cyprus also brought an improvement in my breathing. The nose was still a major problem. Being unable to
sniff or blow, it meant that every time I left
Solitaire
it was with one pocket filled with tissues. As they were used, they would be transferred to the empty pocket. There was a six-month waiting period in England for the removal of the polyp's growth or a payment of £600 for private treatment. When I visited a Greek Cypriot Ear Nose and Throat surgeon, I was told to report the following morning for the operation. I would have to stay for one night in a private room. The cost including any further visits was £100. Since then I've been reliving forgotten smells: the scent of a woman, fresh butter on early morning toast...

Solitaire
came in for a good deal of attention. From Norway came new parts for the Saab engine, clutch and propeller; from Profurl in France, a new furling gear to replace the twin forestays I'd been using; from Hong Kong, a furling genoa; from Scotland, an anchor windlass and 200ft of chain; and a new GPS from America – at the push of a button I would know our position to within a few metres. To replace the plastic water containers I fitted stainless steel tanks. As a backup, should the furling gear break, I modified the top of the mast to take an emergency forestay. A new bow fitting was made to stow the anchor with two large rollers.

Larnaca – Whangerai, New Zealand

May 1990 – December 1995

Our long and contented stay in Cyprus had only two black spots: the first annoying, the second devastating.

Most of the yachts in the marina would cruise the Turkish coast for three months during the summer. This had been on our itinerary and we left Larnaca during May 1990. Turkey had been described as a friendly welcoming country and a gentle introduction to the Middle East. The first sight of the mountains that started at the sea's edge and swept into the distance was breathtaking. Apart from that, the only thing to take my breath away was the blatant rip-offs.

As for a gentle introduction to the Middle East, I would have rather visited Saddam Hussein in Iraq. Only British nationals have to pay for their visas. This had to be paid with an English £5 note. I had only a £10 note, and this was refused. I finished up going to four banks before I got it changed. To get a transit log you end up walking to widely scattered buildings. The process takes for ever. When it was time to leave Turkey and turn in this log, I was told that one of the officials hadn't put his stamp on it. I had been in the country illegally for three months and would have to pay a fine of £50.

When I said, ‘I don't have enough money', I was told not to
worry, they would put me in jail until I found it. ‘While you are in jail, your boat will most likely be broken into.'

I paid the £50.

Later I was to hear from other visitors who had refused to pay these fines and had their yachts tied up for months, with costs running into hundreds of pounds.

The devastating news came by telegram that Sally, Irene and Tony's youngest daughter, had died giving birth to her first baby. The child only lasted a few hours, before following his mother. I tried to talk to them on the phone, but they were too broken up. All the flights to England were fully booked.

Solitaire
was taken out of the water, her topsides painted and the hull antifouled. I borrowed charts to take us as far as Australia and had them photocopied. Stores, diesel and water were taken on board. The old Beetle that had given so much pleasure was sold on to a good home. The TV set was returned. The only thing I was worried about was my Flavel gas cooker. All the burners were in a bad way. In fact the only one working was on the top for boiling water. I'd tried to buy new burners, but the price quoted was nearly the same as for a new stove. It had become too late to place an order. At the last moment, I did find the same type of stove on the boatyard's rubbish tip and managed to salvage the oven burner. We could set sail on Friday, July 2nd, 1993.

The trip to Port Said of 230 miles was uneventful, until we started to enter the harbour. We had a Customs boat with large oily tyres banging into our side. They were shouting for cigarettes. I threw them two packets, but it seems they wanted complete cartons. After that I started doing a bit of screaming myself and was directed to the yacht club. The passage through the Suez Canal was more of the same: presents, cigarettes and money. I was just pleased to have got through without any serious damage.

Our next port of call would be Aden in South Yemen. I'd spent two years (1967–68) working there, just after they threw the British out. You could still see the bullet holes in the buildings and ride in taxis that had previously dragged bloodied servicemen through the
streets by their feet. The question was always the same: ‘When are they coming back?' I was there when the giant Russian transport arrived over the airport to unload crates of Mig fighters. I had watched as the prosperous duty free shops and restaurants closed.

The voyage down the Red Sea had been long and tiring. Mostly with light, following winds that blew exhaust gases into a scorching cockpit that I hardly dared to leave for 1,300 miles of crowded sea. At night, as ships constantly seemed to be heading for us, I'd shine a powerful torch on our sails. Then panic calls over the VHF: ‘British yacht
Solitaire
, do you see us? Do you see us?!' For all that, as I walked through the derelict streets with their boarded shops, the question was still the same: ‘When are the British coming back?' I took on water and diesel, some oil for the motor, a few vegetables. There was very little tinned food and, since I had enough to reach our next port, the Australian Cocos Islands, I didn't bother searching.

The voyage would cover approximately 3,600 miles. We would sail down the Gulf of Aden and into the Arabian Sea, pass through the Maldives Islands, and under India and Sri Lanka into the Indian Ocean. We would head for a position 300 miles north of the Cocos Islands to allow for the strong winds and currents in the area that would try to force
Solitaire
west of the Islands.

We set sail on July 26th, 1993. A week later, while still in the Gulf of Aden, we ran into a bad gale.
Solitaire
suffered a knockdown, which brought seas flooding into her cabin, ripped out both her spray dodgers, broke the battery out of the compartment and sent containers with 15 gallons of diesel flying over the side. The storm lasted for three days, but during that time we made good progress, despite only using a few metres of the genoa. We arrived at our position 300 miles north of the Cocos Islands. Soon after that, we ran into heavy squalls and confused seas. With headwinds and breaking waves, we finished 37 miles to the east of the islands. To waste any further time trying to beat into these conditions I thought was risky. All the water in the tank had gone. We had 10 gallons left in plastic containers. Food
supplies were low. Perth, our main port of call in Australia, was 1,600 miles away. The following night, after giving up any idea of reaching the Cocos Islands, a U-bolt that was holding up the rigging and the mast broke at the lower shroud. I dropped all sail and waited for daylight, when I found an old eyebolt to replace it. The worrying thing was that if the mast went, with the prevailing winds and current, the nearest land wouldn't be Australia, but South Africa – over 3,000 miles away.

The rigging had broken on September 11th. On October 1st, Perth was still 550 miles away. It had taken 20 days of beating strong winds and current to make good only 1,050 miles. Our food was nearly finished, with 2 gallons of water left. The day before I'd topped up the engine oil with the oil I'd bought in Aden. The dipstick now showed a thick treacle mixture and the engine was proving hard to start.