Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed (22 page)

Her surrender, when it came, was not because of any lack of determination on her part. On a brief visit below I found seawater streaming down the mast support and believed that the deck had cracked. It was my first panic of the voyage. I had to take the pressure off her but as I dropped her reefed sails she came beamon to the seas, which slammed into her side. She rode the blows, giving ground and heeling to protect decks. With
Solitaire
looking after herself I made a closer inspection of the damage by torchlight. The mast is deck-stepped into a shoe secured by six bolts through the deck onto a steel plate and the top of the keel. After wasting
time trying to find the source of the trouble I pumped out the bilges and lay down to sort out my thoughts. Had I put sealant on the securing bolts?

With dawn on Tuesday, July 15th, came light and lovely north-westerlies. I discovered that the mast shoe itself had cracked, but by making a plate to fit over it I felt confident we would see the last of the leaks from that direction. I was unable to get a morning sight due to overcast skies, but by noon they had cleared and the latitude taken put us approximately 60 miles west of Cape Finisterre. My log for the first six days showed 632 miles, despite making only 35 in the last 24 hours thanks to the storm but we were still ahead of our 100 miles a day target to the Cape of Good Hope.

That night I wore pyjamas for the first time on the trip. When a few gusts of wind threw
Solitaire
off course, I removed them to go on deck wearing just a safety harness. Having dropped the mainsail, I replaced the pyjamas and snuggled back into my sleeping bag listening to the contented murmurs of my faithful companion no longer fighting the sea but living with it in peace.

Our first week at sea ended on Wednesday, July 16th. By noon we had logged 750 miles. I should have reset the main, but on broad reach, with just the number two genoa up, it would have blanketed the jenny as I had no whisker pole to hold the headsail in position and it would have slammed every time a wave passed under us. Normally this is acceptable but as the genoa was already weakened I did not want it to take too much punishment. I started to realise how different things would have been with a new number two jenny. Ah, well!

For all that, I was happier than I had been since completing my first voyage.
Solitaire
bubbled along, sharing a contentment that came from doing what you wanted to do in ideal surroundings. At the day's end a simple meal. Margaret had given me bread rolls that could be popped in the oven and baked, and as each NATO pack contained a small tin of cheese, hot baked bread, cheese and onion followed by delicious coffee, it provided all I needed. As I watched the sun set, my cup and belly were full. Deep satisfying sleep!

In our second week we covered 780 miles and the log is full of contented entries. It was not simply finding one's sea legs, the pleasure went deeper than that: it was a feeling of belonging, of walking into a strange room and knowing that you have been there before, of meeting a stranger and recognising a mutual bond without a word being spoken. To have taken me from the sea and placed me in a square box miles inland would have brought as much confusion as if you'd done the same thing to
Solitaire
herself. That week's log read:

Thursday, July 17th
.
Eighth day at sea, good night's sleep. Not a cloud in the sky. Winds light from north-east 3 to 4. Number two genoa only as, with main up, it is blanketed causing it to slam and wear. I'm not complaining, guardian angel working well. Distance last 24 hours, 124 miles.

Friday, July 18th
.
Ninth day at sea. Wind about 25° off the stern, should do more sail-adjusting but content to read, eat and sleep. Logged 986 miles, 112 miles in last 24 hours. Position for the amateur yachtsman, 170 miles due west of Lisbon. Big head!

Saturday, July 19th
.
Tenth day at sea. First 5 gallons of water used. Winds becoming lighter. Have hoisted main and tried to use the heavy aluminium pole to hold out the genoa but too much strain on the sail. Lovely warm conditions. Winds from the east, Force 3. Few scattered clouds. On book five. Very happy. Logged 104 miles in past 24 hours.

Tuesday, July 22nd
.
Thirteenth day at sea. 0915 Madeira approximately 35 miles to port side. Starting to warm up, could be changing to shorts tomorrow. On my sixth book.

Wednesday, July 23rd
.
Fourteenth day at sea, 1,530 miles travelled, 109 miles a day average, better than expected. Celebrated by using two cups of water to shave and trim my beard and wash all over. Basked in the sun in shorts with a cup of delicious coffee.

The following week brought sunburn, progress and setbacks: the first because I spent too much time in the cockpit wearing only shorts; the second when we passed 110 miles west of the Canaries; and the third started on Saturday, July 26th. First the skies turned
grey, giving the impression an atomic war had just finished. For a while we had a milkily faint sun, then the wind started to increase, gusting from Force 6 to 8 with
Solitaire
surfing on a broad reach, the odd wave breaking over her. I should have changed down to the working jib, but I thought I'd try for a fast sail to make up for two days' lack of wind. And make up for it
Solitaire
surely did with a run of 141 miles. Sunday night was a bit hairy with
Solitaire
still going like a dingbat, the old genoa straining out its heart to keep ahead of breaking seas.

I had been checking the sails during the night with a torch, but when dawn broke on Sunday I saw that the 2-inch seam along the bottom of the genoa had ripped and was trailing over the side: I replaced it with the working jib and hoisted the main when the wind abated. The rest of the morning was spent repairing the genoa by folding the seam twice and wrapping it in the first panel of the sail. The log, however, showed that our mad ride through the night had given us a run of 121 miles, a ride I was to spend two days paying for, sewing sails until Monday night. From now on I would treat the number two genoa as though it were spun from pure gold for use in ultra-light winds only. On Tuesday, July 20th, I started to record the sails I should have had, with a feeling of having let down
Solitaire
, asking too much of her without giving her a fair chance. By noon that day the log read 2,175 miles, 86 miles in the past 24 hours:

Conditions a little better. Hazy sky. Pretty good sights. Will continue heading westerly to clear Cape Verde Islands. Number two genoa in use with main. I'm afraid we have little chance of establishing any records thanks to our lack of sails, poles, etc., but happy to potter along in my own sweet way. Still not eating much, but thirst back with a vengeance. So far have eaten four tins of fruit and have been swilling down Margaret's fresh fruit drinks. Antifouling coming off self-steering blade. No undercoat applied could be the reason.

Wednesday, July 30th
.
Despite the ripped sail we have still managed 760 miles this week. Have cleared Cape Verde Islands,
and now on course 220°, blue skies, lovely weather.
Solitaire
broad-reaching well. Genoa seems OK after repair. Will not mess about with poles any more but keep them for jury-rigging (I hope not!). Still not eating well, another tin of stew yesterday followed by tinned grapefruit. I should be baking bread but the thought turns me off. I can't understand my lack of appetite. It could be the 25,000 miles still to travel, missing friends, concern for
Solitaire
and her lack of equipment. Perhaps it's reaction to delay in starting the voyage, or just my oversize waistline bouncing about. I'm even worried it might mean the start of appendicitis. I'm not lonely, I'm enjoying the voyage. Maybe with a few more miles under our belt I'll start eating. We have RDF signals from Cape Verde Islands so no navigation problems. New sextant works like a dream. 1340 GMT: noon position 31°N 24°50'W, log reading 2,291 miles, 116 miles in 24 hours, which could have been much better with decent off-wind sails. Will bake bread for the first time, lovely with sandwich spread and fresh onion. We are 250 miles due north of Santa Antao, Cape Verde Islands. Should clear on this tack with luck. Going well. Good old
Solitaire.

This was one of the longest entries I have ever made in the log. I was confused by my feelings and thoughts but by putting them into words they would perhaps sort themselves out. When I lived in Canada I had a similar experience and went off my food for no reason at all. On my return to England I found that my mother had been seriously ill then; I had not been told to save distressing me.

The damage to our only reasonable running sail was a setback. If we had nothing bigger than a working jib in the Southern Ocean we would be cutting speed by a third, but none of this accounted for my unease. Before setting out I had estimated my chances on a voyage of some 28,000 miles. I believed that with the strong winds in the Southern Ocean pushing us along we should make our 100 miles a day, say 270 to 290 days at sea. The difference between a broad reach in Force 5 to 6 using a genoa (140 miles on a good day) and smaller working jib (95 miles a day) was 45 miles. But the longer we spent at sea the more chances there were of the rigging
going and I was uncertain how long the masthead connections would last. From the records of other Cape Horners I knew I could expect at least one roll over; one roll over
Solitaire
might survive, but not two or three. I had known this before leaving and accepted the risk, so I could not understand my new apprehensions, or why I had become so finicky over food, eating tinned stews and fruit, which should have been kept for the later stages of the voyage.

July 31st, saw the start of the fourth week at sea, with flying fish rising from under our bow. I have no idea why they were so called as they don't flap wings but simply leap along the tops of waves to get up speed, then launch themselves into the air to glide on delicately transparent wings. There's intense pleasure in watching them, particularly when a setting sun showers them with colour, and I felt like apologising as
Solitaire
's eager surge displaces them in a shower of noise and panic. By night they flew into the sails. In our early days I would crawl about in the dark trying to reunite them with their families but they damaged their wings too badly to return them to the jungle that is the sea. I remember holding one, its eyes popping, gasping for breath, or should that be water? I heard a voice say quite clearly, ‘Don't just lie there, say something', and was even more surprised to realise the voice was mine. I believe they lock away people who talk to fish. That Thursday there were six on deck, a record. I have read of seamen breakfasting off them, the fish fried in butter with browned potatoes and onions to accompany them. Had they been served that way I would have eaten them with relish, but having heard their death struggles my entry in the log simply read, ‘Six large flying fish came on board during the night. Very sorry, I hate to see anything die.'

By that point I was on my eighth book,
The Master Mariner
, one of the finest books I have ever read. Its pages would become worn as I read and re-read it.

‘
Friday, August 1st
. Grey skies, sun about to pass directly over my head', was all I noted. It would be two or three days before we could get a decent sight for latitude. We would then be facing north when we took our noon sight instead of south, which I would
have to watch out for when applying declination, remembering my first boob and my subsequent appearance in a Brazilian maternity hospital. I made a large note of the change in the ship's log.

Next day
Solitaire
was approximately 100 miles west of Santo Antao in the Cape Verde Islands. Because the noon sun was still above us I did not try to pinpoint our latitude. What interested me was
Solitaire
's longitude, 27°45´W. After leaving England
Solitaire
had headed south in a gentle westerly curve to sweep around the tip of Africa and the Cape Verde Islands. Now that we were well clear, we could start to swing back for our first major turning point, the Cape of Good Hope.

On Sunday, August 3rd, the sailing was marvellous, with Force 3 easterlies, the waves small compared with the past weeks perhaps due to their coming from the coast of Africa and feeling its protection. Blue skies with a few scattered clouds to make it interesting, but no dolphins. I remembered reading that Japanese fishermen were killing them off by driving them ashore. Bloody fishermen, I muttered. I started drinking tea again after two weeks of not being able to stand the stuff. And a further note, ‘Remember, clown, that the sun is now north of us.'

Next day, calm conditions gave me a chance to lean over the side and check the antifouling. There was no slime or growth, although the paint had changed in colour from a reddy brown to light fawn, the seas having stripped the topcoats. I checked the motor, sprayed it with oil and turned it by hand for the first time in three weeks. I was saving it for the doldrums we would soon be entering. As I was taking my noon sight my old pals, the dolphins, showed up for the first time, so the bloody fishermen had not killed them off after all. To prove the point they came back again that night to put on a special performance. The last two days of our fourth week brought lighter winds and slamming sails in a high swell, a final day's run of only 44 miles. Nevertheless we still managed to make good 692 miles for the week, 2,983 miles in 28 days. Not bad going.

On the last day of our fourth week something terrifying happened. We sighted our first ship for two weeks, not that that
scared me. I started the engine and the fan belt broke. That did not worry me either as I soon fitted a spare. By afternoon the wind had dropped completely and I was forced to lower all sails. Then I found that I had read 19 of my supply of books. None of these things caused much concern. But what did petrify me was that I nearly committed hara-kiri by ripping open my belly. It was one of those stupid things you do when not concentrating on your job. I had been trying to cut a piece of canvas with a particularly sharp knife and, like a fool, was cutting towards me. The knife slipped and next second I was looking at a 6-inch pocket I had made in my shorts. When I removed them I found I had blood running down my stomach. Fortunately it was only a scratch, but half-an-inch deeper and I could have been in real trouble. Three inches lower and I would have been the laughing stock of Birmingham.