Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed (27 page)

When
Solitaire
left her home port she had been very much like a five-year-old family car entered for a round-the-world rally. Since sails take the place of a gearbox in a car we could claim she had a five-gear box. First and second gears were new but the third and fourth gears had been used already in one 34,000-mile
rally and both were damaged. As
Solitaire
had no large running sails perhaps you could claim she had no fifth gear. The bolts that held the gearbox in place – the rigging holding the mast – were the wrong type and had been used already on one world trip. And we were about to try to drive out of a land that existed only in a madman's nightmares. The trouble was the mountains were ice-covered and the screaming winds would try to push the car sideways. Our tyres were bald and we had no brakes. Any car driver would say the answer was simple: at the top of the mountain change into bottom gear to control the descent; at the bottom change into second and drive yourself back into position ready for the next mountain. But even in perfect conditions, with both sails in position, it would take me around ten minutes to make the change. With waves continuously breaking over the decks I would be lucky to hoist a sail in half an hour.

If I used the bigger working jib there was a chance it would rip to pieces on the exposed summits or the rigging, and then the mast would go over the side. If I used the small storm jib there would be no power to control
Solitaire
in the calmer valleys. I had heard of yachtsmen running under bare poles in storm conditions but had been unable to understand how it was possible in a rough sea. I had heard of running with twin-head storm jibs poled out, but in these conditions it would have been highly dangerous to dive down one of these mountains. At the bottom of the valley the yacht's bow would dig in and the stern would come over like a pole thrown at the Highland Games. If you came off the dead run and the wind moved from over the stern, one of the running sails would back. Heaven alone knew how long it would take to get sailing again, not to mention possible damage. I decided to use the bigger working headsail. True, it might blow out, I thought, but far better that that happen than be rolled out of control in the troughs.

The 30 minutes I reckoned it would take to hoist the working jib turned into an hour and was completed in an air of misery and bad language. At one interesting stage three waves buried
Solitaire
one after the other. The position I took up while this was
happening was flat across the deck, my hand grasping a safety rope on the side over which the seas were breaking. Both legs had gone through the lines on the other side and were hanging in space. Over the past three days I thought I had experienced every possible way seawater could enter my sea boots. The new method was more complicated and took a little longer, but its route was ingenious. It entered by a hosepipe forced up my sleeve, went over the top of my trousers and down my leg.

After scrambling back to the cockpit I slackened the sheet and hauled up the sail. At first I thought it would tear itself to shreds, but after adjusting the sheets the sail, its seams straining, started to pull
Solitaire
stern to wind. Then I adjusted the self-steering and main rudder to hold us on a broad reach, the only possible way I can sail
Solitaire
in such conditions. The main idea is to go down the waves much like a surfboarder, at an angle. The self-steering rudder is not always strong enough to control this type of sailing as the waves take over, trying to push the stern around until the boat lies beam on to the waves. I used the main rudder to control this, its power holding the skid. At the bottom of a run the main rudder helps bring the yacht back onto course ready for the next breaking sea but every manoeuvre has to be just right. Too much correction with the main rudder puts you on the other tack. Usually then the backed sail will tack you again, but the strain on the sails and the forestay sets teeth on edge. Getting it right took frightening minutes whereas normally the time taken is minimal. Of course,
Solitaire
had never tried to sail down the side of a mountain before.

Things looked up. Seas that had broken over us now pushed us forward in wild breath-taking surges. For minutes we would race in spray and a tumbling mass of white water. Advancing cliffs lifted us like a soaring eagle and we balanced above their snowcapped peaks before plunging down into emerald green fields, often out of control.
Solitaire
rushed forward, anxious to find peace and lick her wounds.

I fitted the trailing log line, which curved in a half circle, the weight and spinner like so many flying fish skipping over the
ocean's surface. The plastic compass was returned to its cockpit holder, our course south-east. The northern winds drove us deeper into the Roaring Forties, but we were clawing our way east, working our way around South Africa and its Cape of Storms. Dead on my feet I went back to pumping the bilges. Over the past three days I had often thought that I was finished, that I could pump no more, that I could no longer survive without sleep. The seconds had turned into minutes, to hours, to days. Now if something went wrong I felt I could still carry on. I just hoped to God I didn't have to prove it.

When I started this voyage I thought that I could stand being afraid for five weeks and that at the end of that time I would still be sane and able to carry out normal everyday functions. It was a thought based on my past experience. I had not anticipated a situation when for three days I would believe every moment, every breath, could be my last. Oh well, three days gone!

After a while
Solitaire
settled down to look after us both. A few rogue waves still struck our beam. Now and again we would have 6 or 9in of water on the cockpit floor, but no longer were the seas flooding the lockers. Below, I stripped off every stitch and felt the glory of rubbing myself down with a dry towel, putting on a clean shirt, trousers and sweater and, for a special treat, donned Rex's thermal jacket. My wet weather gear I turned inside out to drip dry, had a cup of sweet tea and found some chocolate which I ate at the chart table with my head in my arms.

My mother was shaking me. I was 14 years old and it was time to get up, go downstairs and eat my morning porridge, time to put on my overalls and join the bus with half-asleep men, nodding, coughing, grey-faced men moving through their lives like zombies. I did not want to leave my bed to live this nightmare, tried to pull my legs into my chest to squeeze so small I would never be found, but my mother was banging my head. My mother never bangs my head.

I shocked awake, moving through 40 years in a second, exchanging one nightmare for another.
Solitaire
was in the teeth
of a wild beast viciously shaking her from side to side, and she was leaning the wrong way. On this new tack I had slipped sideways. My legs had jammed under the chart table and my head was beating itself to death on the engine cover. When I had freed myself I stood on weak legs, trying to take in through blurred eyes what was happening. I slid back the hatch cover and looked into the face of a breaking wave, slammed the hatch shut and staggered back, only to fall on top of the water containers. From there I heard the wave hit and saw jets of water penetrating the hatch boards.

I threw off my jacket and sweater, for there was no point in getting them wet. It was then that I felt
Solitaire
start to swing onto her correct heading. Her backed headsail and the self-steering were striving to bring the wind on the right side of her stern while the main rudder that had been set to prevent her skidding and broaching would be working to keep the wind on the wrong side.

For a lifetime she seemed to balance on a knife-edge, rolling from side to side. I watched the breaking seas through her windows, first on one side, then on the other, feeling like a gambler who had bet his last dollar on the turn of a card. If she fell one way I would not have to go on deck but could have a hot meal. If she fell the wrong way I would have to put on wet storm clothes and return to hell.

If
Solitaire
could correct a backed headsail on her own it would mean I could sleep knowing she would take care of us. I tried to hedge my bet by throwing my weight behind it, bouncing off the starboard side as if I was trying to drive a hole through it. The bet paid off and
Solitaire
came back on course. The working jib swung across the deck with a shuddering whack whose vibrations ran through us for a full 60 seconds.

It was nearly noon so I must have been asleep for some four hours. I quickly inspected the deck and headsail by holding on to the mainsheet and popping my head around the pram cover. All seemed in order, although the sail looked as if it might rip at any second. The storm jib was still tied securely to the pulpit. The ropes securing the mainsail to the boom were holding.

But the conditions remained terrifying. Any man who claimed that he was unafraid I would have dismissed as a liar.
Solitaire
still slid down the sides of mountains and at any moment might broach. Once she had rolled on her side at speed she would simply keep rolling. Even if we survived it would be difficult to reach land without a mast. After we had passed South Africa our chances would improve as the motor could then be used to stagger us into port under jury-rig. At the moment if we tried to reach land, the Agulhas Current would sweep us into the South Atlantic.

I was afraid, but that was something I could live with. My fears were less constant than they had been in the past three days, coming and going now like storm clouds. There were even moments of pleasure. Not to be soaked and frozen was a delightful change. There are ways of finding sanity even in a world of horror. You can do normal everyday things, like paying more attention to the trivial than you would at home, despite the fact that your house might turn upside down at any second. Part of this fantasy was the cabin floor carpets. One of life's pleasures is sinking bare feet into a soft pile carpet when you leave your bed, maybe because as a boy it was always cold boards. Carpets can be used as a barometer, to gauge the weather and your own feelings. When they are warm and dry you are in trade winds and spirits are high. When they are damp you have the miseries. When they have 6in of water over them you are scared silly. With 6ft of water your worries are over.

At present there were two pieces of carpet on the cabin floor. One I could do nothing about since it was beneath the water containers. The aft carpet I decided to wring into the bilges, at the same time taking up the inspection cover to see how much water we had taken in the last four or five hours.
Solitaire
's capacity to hold water before her cabin floor consists of a sump at the back of the keel that extends to its bottom, holding approximately 20 gallons. In normal conditions I pump it out once or twice a week, if only to remove smells and any gas that might have leaked from the stove. There is room for around another 40 gallons on top of the lead keel, bringing the water level to about 5in below the floor.
With this 60 gallons on board the bilges require pumping in any bad weather or it will splash through the inspection panels.

If in the Southern Ocean we took no more than 120 gallons a day we could manage quite well; pumping first thing in the morning and last thing at night would be sufficient. When I checked the bilges I thought we could last another two hours before I had to go on deck. Later I would fibreglass in the lockers, but that task I wanted to leave until as late in the voyage as possible. With both lockers sealed it would be difficult to dismantle the bilge pump to clear the blockages as I was unable to reach the seacock on the exhaust outlet.

For the first time since the storm I started to think of food and decided on a tin of stew with peas, and grapefruit for afters. I used to show my friends the logs of previous voyages, some of whom remarked how strange it was that in storms my writing became so much neater. I think this is similar to wringing out carpets; I try to hide my true feelings even from myself. If I write clearly I'm unafraid.

My log for that day read:

Managed to start sailing at 0500 hours GMT this morning. Working jib. Seas quite high and breaking. Self-steering holding reasonable course. Badly need sights for navigation. I don't want to go too far south because of ice. At the same time am concerned about the Agulhas Current.

After another stormy night the next day's log contained even fewer words: ‘Still storm conditions. Rain, high seas. Not very nice.' During the night the winds dropped and dawn saw us becalmed in a massive swell, the sky still hazily grey and suspect. As I started to clean up the mess and dry the carpet I received a kick in the stomach. The ship's log records:

Now for the bad news. Seawater from the exhaust pipe has flooded back into the motor. I have drained the oil from the sump and turned over the motor by hand to try and clear the pistons. No spare engine oil. So in a day or two will use the old oil when it has settled and try to start the engine. This voyage is not going too well at the moment.

In fact I took off the side plate of the motor, first removing the starter. The day was spent turning the engine by hand to wash out the pistons with diesel fuel. As it worked its way through to the sump I cleaned it with toilet paper. I had counted on the engine to carry us at least 100 miles if the rigging gave way! I checked the seacock on the exhaust pipe but it seemed to be tightly closed. By afternoon I felt I had done all I could, so I re-assembled everything hoping that my first voyage experience of having to make do without the motor was not to be repeated.

Soon after I had finished drying the carpet, strong gusting winds returned to confuse us all: the sea,
Solitaire
, and the self-steering. Finally they settled to their old habits and direction, like some monster that had dropped off to sleep for a few hours and had awoken irritably, roaring its displeasure. The heaving seas took fright and ran before it with spray flying. Within a few hours we were back in the same old conditions, chased by white cliffs, surging forward on rolling surf – and I was back to kneeling on the bunks, my head hard against the cabin roof, trying to see the mad outside world. The one consolation was that my constipation was a thing of the past. Now my only concern was that there would be enough plastic bags to last the voyage.