Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed (5 page)

After leaving the English Channel I stopped using the number one genoa. It provided insufficient extra speed for its size and, hard on the wind, with the foot running along the deck inside the stanchions, it restricted my forward vision. I was to become lazy at sea. If I could make 100 miles a day I would be content and, should I fail to achieve this distance, who cared? When I found
Solitaire
slamming into heavy seas, I would drop all sail, batten myself below and read or sleep. If the winds turned into storms and they were aft of the mast I would simply run with them on a broad reach under working jib. I was never frightened and indeed found comfort in gales by thinking either of Chay Blyth, who had rowed the Atlantic, or Bombard, who had crossed it in a rubber dinghy.

My boat was strong so why should I worry? I enjoyed the solitude and there were plenty of books to read. I had never to be in a certain place at a given time, the crazy world could wait until
I chose to join it again. Meanwhile I had friendly dolphins who entertained me nightly with their ballet dancing. Like a king before his court I sat back applauding, enjoying a last cup of coffee at the end of another halcyon day. Navigation was proving easier than expected. I had stayed as far out of the Bay of Biscay as possible and still received limited RDF signals from England, Spain and Portugal. Two or three such bearings gave me a reasonable fix, which was confirmed by dead reckoning using a £20 bosun's compass and the trailing log for distance travelled.

When I had been at sea for ten days I read the instructions in
Reeds Almanac
and used my Ebco plastic sextant to take my first sight for latitude. It took longer than is normal as I had no accurate timepiece aboard. My old car clock lost 40 seconds or so a day which meant I had to guess when the sun would reach its maximum height, following it on its upwards curve to the top of its arc, and only too relieved when my calculations tied in with the pencilled RDF positions. For a few days I continued this cross-checking until we were 300 miles into the Atlantic, when the signals faded. Now we would have to depend on dead reckoning and the sextant.

Dropping below the Azores,
Solitaire
picked up the beautiful trade winds, constant at Force 3 to 4 over our stern. There were times when I thought she had stopped: surprised by the silence, I would put down my book and go on deck only to find the log spinning merrily away at a steady 5 knots.

In these conditions, I started to learn the importance of a varied food supply. Cooking would have given another interest, another pleasure, were it not that nearly all the food on board was tinned: the fresh food I had bought in Falmouth had been eaten in the first week. One meal I relished was rice and curried chicken, and I regretted having no more. In time I would learn to carry the things that would last and were cheap to buy: rice, flour, onions, cabbage, eggs.

The main event of our Atlantic crossing took place on September 23rd, at precisely 1400 hours GMT. It would be many weeks
before I learned the importance of this day and the changes it would make to my life. All that is recorded in the ship's log for that day is ‘Distance travelled 2,442 miles. Latitude 23°41´North.' From then on things would happen that made no sense. I would go over incidents again and again, sometimes believing I was losing my sense of reason as I tried to understand why, after things had gone so well, suddenly I seemed unable to do anything right.

I kept pushing
Solitaire
south but the reduction in latitude was too slow and simply would not agree with the compass course or dead reckoning. I checked the compass against that on the RDF set but both gave similar readings. I went over my latitude figures repeatedly, always getting the same answer. It could not be my method of working out sights whose correctness I had confirmed long since. I tried to remember where the fast-flowing Gulf Stream started its journey north: I knew its current sometimes reached 5 knots but I had no charts to guide me and the sea tells no secrets. Could it be I was under the influence of the Bermuda Triangle, where ships and aircraft had vanished, perhaps, it was suggested, as the result of large compass variations? Day after day we pushed further south into dangers that would subsequently make me shudder at my stupidity.

As the trade winds began to drop we had periods of calm punctuated by vicious squalls, the first of which started at night. Previously there had been light rain squalls but these were something quite different. I would wake up in the night to an eerie silence. Suddenly, screaming winds would start whistling in
Solitaire
's rigging, whereupon she would come off her broad reach and luff up. I would dash on deck naked, stopping only to throw on a life harness, to find sheets of warm water pounding the sea flat. I would drop the mainsail and within a few seconds all would be normal, with
Solitaire
back on course under a clear, starry sky, as if nothing had happened.

Two days later I saw these squalls for what they were – seemingly atom bomb mushrooms, starting at sea level and spreading upwards to blank out the sun. Normally I would drop
the mainsail as quickly as possible and free the genoa sheets if it seemed the squall would blow for any length of time. Later I was to question many seamen how they reacted. One said he merely allowed the yacht to luff up, arguing that you were through a squall quicker than trying to run with it. Most of those I spoke to seemed to drop or slacken sail. During this confusion and despondency, I learned a lot about the sea,
Solitaire
and myself.

One day we were beating into a breaking sea with a long swell,
Solitaire
's bow being thrown high in the air every now and then, only for her to fall back, burying her nose, waves streaming up her decks towards the cockpit. I needed to take off the large genoa that was driving her into these seas to slow her down, but as I have never been a strong swimmer (a cross between a breast-stroker and a dog-paddler) I did not fancy going forward for a ducking. In the middle of a sail change
Solitaire
started to lift and, just as I thought she was about to take off in flight, we started down again. Seas broke over the bows, whirling first around my feet and then my chest. I grabbed the forestay in panic, drawing in each breath as though it were my last, before sinking into a green world, which sucked me away from
Solitaire
. Water filled my nose and I choked. After what seemed like a lifetime I was lifted clear, terrified, trying to draw breath into burning lungs, spitting out mouthfuls of neat sea.

At that moment, strangely, I stopped being afraid. My fear was replaced by anger and I screamed obscenities, using every backstreet gutter word I could remember, even managing to invent a few. Within minutes using hand-like steel claws, I had changed sails and was back in the cockpit, sucking the salt from my lips which I spat over the side.

‘You bloody bitch,' I said. It was not until I had towelled myself down, and was sitting with a cup of tea, that my hands stopped shaking. Then I began to think about the strange chap I had met on the foredeck, this Jekyll and Hyde character. If I could control him and harness his anger to give me the strength to survive, I would have learned another valuable lesson which must serve me well.

At ten o'clock that night, October 13th, after being at sea for 57 days and having logged 4,340 miles, a lighthouse flashed which should not have been there. By dead reckoning, we were still 200 miles from Barbados. Our noon sight that day had put us 14°40´N, more than 80 miles above the island. My sole chart, which covered the whole Caribbean, reduced Barbados from 20 miles to one inch, and showed two lighthouses but no flashing codes. I decided to sail down the island to pick up the other light but soon thought better of it and headed out to sea to await morning.

Dawn found
Solitaire
sailing on a southerly course parallel to an island with sandy beaches, palm trees and hills in the distance. A few dhow-type vessels about 40ft long with large triangular sails made of odd pieces of material were in sight, each with two or three dark-skinned men on board whose curiosity made them come alarmingly close. By noon, sea and sky had taken on the same shade of blue, the horizon hazy.

Despite problems in getting a decent sight it appeared to confirm the previous day's latitude. Using my RDF set I was surprised to pick up a loud SLI Morse signal, which indicated I had sailed above the Barbados Islands and was cruising down the coast of Martinique with St Lucia to the south. Although I had no radio codes for the area, that would surely account for the SLI call sign. Barbados then was 90 miles to the south-east. Although it meant retracing my steps, I decided to sail there because a young girl had once said it was 100 miles to Falmouth and her laughter still rang in my ears.

Since we were sailing into open seas I slept well that night. In fact I even had a lie-in, made a leisurely cup of tea and came out of the cabin yawning. A glance at the compass revealed we were still on course with the trailing log behaving satisfactorily and the self-steering working well. To starboard I was surprised to see land about 3 miles away but, over the bow,
Solitaire
was facing huge breaking seas. The cup scalded my legs as I dropped it scrambling over the hatchboards. I was halfway to the tiller when the air filled with flying spray. As there was no time to tack I fled below,
slamming the sliding hatch: for a moment silence endorsed a shortlived sense of relief, then the earth spun out of orbit as
Solitaire
was lifted sideways. Believing this a new game, she went willingly, flying in her eagerness to please until struck viciously by a gigantic hammer, which stopped her dead, knocking her legs from under her. And I heard a baby howl...

In the cabin movement was too fast for the eye to register. As the boat fell on her side, I found myself on the floor: lockers burst open and I was bombarded by books, tins, bottles. Whatever could fall fell and sea water gushed in.

The seas had her, like a tiger bringing down a fawn, swinging her in a complete circle. She shrieked. I tried to escape through the hatch but solid water flung me back to the floor, the cabin darkened by green shades that covered its windows. Now she was dragged sideways, leaving skin and blood on jagged rocks, and crying in her agony, but there was nothing I could do for her. Trying to restore sanity to this madness, I picked up a book from the shambles to blank out her screams.

Then her cries changed to defiance, although the sea still pushed her sideways. Now she was riding with the blows, staggering to her feet after each knockdown. She would take stumbling steps, sit down, then quickly push herself upright, complaining the while at such treatment. Again and again she was slammed down but with each knockdown her stubbornness increased until, after being turned again in a complete circle, she finished up standing when the noise subsided. She stood there swaying, quietly sobbing, but on her feet and proud.

I slid back the hatch cover and emerged shamefaced, embarrassed by the dangers I had left her to face alone and bitterly repentant of my hope that some small part of her would be found so that my family would not spend years wondering if I were alive or dead. From the cockpit her decks appeared to have been swept clean: dinghy, fuel containers, spray dodgers... all had disappeared. Later I found them hanging over the side secured by old bits of lashing. The mast still stood, heavy spray running off the untorn sails
like rivers of tears. The battens in the main had broken and the headsail sheets flew free but were intact.

A glance into the cabin showed the wreck that had been my home. Rubbish floated in deep water, not as bad as I had thought, locked below, when I would have sworn she was half-full. That had been with
Solitaire
on her side. Now that she was upright water ran to her bilges, reducing the level. The boat was held in soft sand. The reef she had survived lay to one side, the distant shore to the other, the sea brown and shallow. After hauling everything back on board and securing, I started pumping, but as it took an age to clear the water in the cabin, I feared her hull might be cracked. The tiller was jammed to one side, but by pushing with both feet I managed to centralise it and the plywood weather vane on my self-steering gear had broken but I could soon fit a spare.

Solitaire
started to come alive again, and with a little encouragement she might even be away. I thought of using the motor, but after that pounding doubted it would ever start until I turned the key. The engine gave a half-turn and roared into life.
Solitaire
shuddered with pleasure and as I pulled in her sails she leaned, sighed and moved. I felt her sweating forehead on my cheek as she whispered in our secret language, forgiving me my faults and weaknesses. Life was full again – the music of Bach, the birth of Christ. It was Christmas, Christmas Day in October. We were off to Barbados.

Solitaire
edged her way nervously back along the reef where the echo sounder gave no reading. The distant water seemed even shallower, so we stayed close in, eyeing the sea warily lest it brought on fresh assaults. Salt water and spray still showered us but as we rounded the end of the reef the air cleared and I could see again.

The first thing I spotted was a green and white sail. ‘Americans,' I thought, setting off in hot pursuit. I wanted to inspect for damage and clean up the mess below so, as she was holding a good course, I switched off the motor and let the self-steering take over. Water oozed through the cabin floor and worriedly I started pumping again. We were still in sandy seas that stretched to the horizon, the
echo sounder occasionally registering a few feet. Old Green Sails was even closer inshore. Still trying to catch him, we rounded a headland with a lighthouse perched on it but the other craft pulled away and disappeared. Where had this land come from? I tried the RDF again and the SLI signal came through loud and clear as ever. I checked the chart. Martinique had coral banks halfway down its east coast: a lighthouse was shown a few miles north of these. Maybe we had hit these banks and rounded the light so I decided to follow the coast.