Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed (37 page)

On the day I returned from my circumnavigation Keith Parris was the first to greet me. He followed me into the marina toilets where I was anticipating my first hot shower in a year, still questioning me about the voyage. Without thinking I undressed and heard a gasp. Turning, I caught his disbelieving eyes and a quick glimpse in the mirror revealed a horror of skin and bone. I apologised for my thoughtlessness, at which he made a joke about my appearance, said he would fetch his camera and returned instead with a saucepan of vegetable soup. It was the last time I would take off my shirt in public for two weeks, by which time flesh had started to cover the bones and my weight had increased from less than 9 stone towards its normal 13–14 stone.

After an initial hunger for fresh fruit and vegetables, I slipped back naturally into my old life of food and conversation and at a Welcome Home party that first night ashore, I found my verbal diarrhoea had returned with a vengeance. But fresh water I still used sparingly, reluctant even to wash
Solitaire
's decks with it; to see a running hose untended filled me with a sense of panic.

Next day I phoned my solicitor thinking that I had proved beyond doubt my knowledge of what was required in the way of sails for a non-stop voyage. In the hope that I would soon be off again, I contacted George and his wife, Antje Fisher, whose yacht had lain in the berth next to
Solitaire
's before we set off. Among their many acts of kindness they had made copies of my first voyage's log. Now I asked if they would make ten copies of the second. Later I put them into folders, together with photographs, for family and friends, in the belief that this would be all I could offer as a memento of our voyage.

Then a visit was made first to the local Job Centre where shrugging shoulders greeted me, followed by the dole office and the searching questions of a girl not yet old enough to vote. For one triumphant moment I brought confusion to calm.

‘When did you leave the UK?' she asked. ‘And by what means?'

‘By sea, eleven months ago,' I replied.

‘What countries did you visit?'

‘None,' I replied, and brought the system to a grinding halt.

My voyage had attracted little publicity. For anyone seeking fame and fortune from the sea, the first thing you need is a good public relations man who, if he is good at his job, will find the second requisite, a wealthy sponsor. The third essential is a powerful transmitter to keep in touch with the first two. If you progress this far, then it's time to find a suitable craft... Bob Fisher had interviewed me on TV before the voyage and a BBC TV crew had followed me down into the Solent although, to be honest, I have no idea how they discovered I was leaving.

A couple of days after my return Des Sleightholme, editor of
Yachting Monthly
, turned up personally and asked for a couple
of articles.
The Observer
newspaper made me Sports Personality of the Week and sent enough champagne to enable me to give a party for the people in the marina. My hometown newspaper kept the story going for a few days and arranged for me to meet the Lord Mayor. Accounts were published in the USA, South Africa and Australia, and within a couple of days I had congratulatory telegrams from friends who had read the story, one of the first from my American pal, Webb Chiles, who had spotted the news in a local paper while sitting in a café in Darwin, Australia.

One lasting friendship emerged from this attention. Dennis Skillicorn had interviewed me for the BBC before my departure and soon after my return arrived on board, where I nearly strangled him. After settling in
Solitaire
's cabin, the first thing he did was to insult her. Only the twinkle in his eye saved him! Since then I have spent many happy hours with him, his wife Marie and his family. Dennis is one of the very few people allowed to insult
Solitaire
. There was talk between us of a book but this costs time, effort and money, and my real interest was to sail first to America, then to the Christmas tree in Hobart Square, Tasmania.

As so few people knew about the recent voyage, I was surprised to receive a visit that Christmas from Errol Bruce who said I had been nominated by the Yachting Journalists Association for the
Yachtsman of the Year Trophy.
Had it been anyone but Errol, I would have suspected that I was on
Candid Camera
. I had not even heard of the trophy and when I discovered that the previous holders read like a yachtsman's
Who's Who
and included Chichester, Knox-Johnston and Alex Rose, I had even more doubts. Later I was to learn that the choice lay between Chay Blyth and myself. I was selected by a single deciding vote because Chay had won it on a previous occasion. Had this not been the case, I would have been a non-starter. The award gave me a great deal of satisfaction, if only because so many had said I had been fool-hardy and had given sailing a bad name. Like the chappie released from a mental home, I now had a certificate saying I was not completely bonkers.

My departure for America was delayed on three counts, the
first sickening. My solicitor reported that the sailmaker had been unimpressed by my voyage and although the duff sails had been left in England, they were available for use and therefore had been accepted as satisfactory. The firm also claimed that the time allowed for their return had been exceeded. It was to take until early 1982 to have a court hearing, where I was promptly awarded the return of the purchase price with costs which by now were higher than allowed at this court level, the difference to be borne by L Powles Esq. The case had lasted nearly three years and cost Lord knows how much time and money. What really hurt was that if I had left on schedule, I would have been with my mother before she died.

The second reason for the delay was an act of generosity. The Lymington Yacht Haven, learning of my financial problems and in recognition of
Solitaire
's voyage, gave us a year's free berthing. The third pleased me most. By waiting until the following March, Rome and I could leave together. He had sold
Solitaire
's sister vessel and bought the hull of a 13-metre Colin Archer sloop. By now Annegret had given up her work as an air hostess and had returned to Germany, but before leaving she had helped to fit out Rome's new boat,
Arolia
, which now lay only yards away from
Solitaire
. The plan was that
Arolia
would cruise in the Mediterranean before setting off for Cape Town, where I would join Rome.

He left on time with a young Australian nurse and Ian Large as crew.
Solitaire
sailed a week later on April 3rd, 1982, just ten months after her circumnavigation. Apart from a new number two genoa from Peter Lucas and an 18-gallon fuel tank made by Brian Gibbons to replace the old 7-gallon container, little had changed. We still had blistered topsides and the worrying rigging connections. Having sold my backup self-steering gear and been paid for my
Yachting Monthly
articles, I had about £600 in the kitty.

My first stop was Dartmouth to visit Richard and Anne Hayworth and to antifoul alongside the harbour wall. A week later I sailed for Newport, skirting the Azores to pick up warmer weather, which I reached on May 20th, 1982, logging 3,775 miles in 39 days. We hit a storm on entering the Gulf Stream and as
there was no sense in beating into it with our weak rigging, we lay hove-to for three days.

Peter Dunning, who ran the Goat Island Marina in Newport, and was largely responsible for the success of the transatlantic races, gave me a free berth for the night to allow me to clear Customs and then let me use his own mooring, which lay within a stone's throw of the marina facilities.

Reluctantly
Solitaire
left this hospitable harbour some five weeks later to cruise down Long Island Sound, through the centre of New York itself, her ensign waving at taxi drivers and joggers alike. After passing under the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges and circling the Statue of Liberty, we made our way to Cape May at the southern tip of New Jersey and turned into Delaware Bay. At its northern end we entered the canal, which links Delaware with Chesapeake Bay, and then joined the intra coast waterway at Norfolk in Virginia to leave it at Beaufort in North Carolina on September 27th, 1982. The hospitality I received throughout was beyond belief. Part of my time was spent giving lectures, the first a few days after my arrival at Goat Island. I had been to a barbecue at the yacht club in time to hear that some interesting character was giving a talk that weekend. Turning to my companion I said I would really like to be there.

‘You'd better be, you're giving it!' was his reply.

My last talk was at the Museum in Beaufort. I arrived to find I could not get in and struggled through the crowds, trying to explain that it could not start without me! My cruise down the American east coast had lasted three months.

Rome wrote to me from Gibraltar suggesting we met in Antigua for Christmas and with this in mind, I set sail on October 6th for Bermuda, some 600 miles to the east, and arrived on October 15th. The Sports and Dinghy Club gave me a splendid berth on their pontoon and I received a letter from Rome's mother dated October 24th (my birthday), saying Rome had made a radio link call reporting he was 50 miles off Cape Town, where he would arrive the following day.

On November 3rd Keith Parris rang me from Lymington to say Rome had been missing for eight days. Next day my golf partner in South Africa, Frank Minnitt, sent a telegram from Cape Town to say wreckage had been found but no liferaft, so there was still hope. On November 5th I phoned Rex Wardman to learn the search had been abandoned.

Grace's daughter, Terry, had died of cancer within a month of my circumnavigation. Now Grace had lost Rome too. I thought I could be with her over Christmas and set sail next day but Atlantic winters are always bad and, after a week out,
Solitaire
was pounding through head-on storms. During the night I heard what sounded like guitar strings breaking but, despite searching by torchlight, I could find nothing amiss. Early next morning I found that one of the Talurit connections I had worried about for so long had given way. The forestay in use had shredded at the top of the mast, the strands wrapping around its twin, which I cleared by using a halyard to pull up loops of rope. My worry now was how long the twin forestay would last. There was no way I could reach England before the spring, so reluctantly I turned
Solitaire
before the wind to run to St Martin's in the Caribbean, arriving there on November 29th, 1982.

During the winter I worked on local charter boats before sailing non-stop for England on April 6th to arrive on May 16th, 1983, after logging 3,636 miles.

Rome's body was never found. In his last letter to his mother, sent from the Canary Islands, he sounded confused and undecided, and even talked of sailing to Recife in Brazil. At this stage he was single-handed in a boat designed to carry a crew. A vicious storm had hit the South African coast just after his last broadcast, but what went wrong we shall never know.

On my return to England a large envelope greeted me. On it Rome had written, ‘These are all your letters from the first voyage. They might be of use in writing a book...'

Lymington – Larnaca, Cyprus

May 1988 – May 1990

Full of guilt that I hadn't been with my mother when she died and unable to help my friend when he needed me, I wrote the original version of this book, then called
Hands Open
, which was published during 1987 and dedicated to Rome.

During the years before publication my life seemed to revolve around Rome's mother, Grace. Wednesdays and Saturdays became sticky bun days. Over coffee and buns we would talk about Terry (Rome's sister), and Rome and Grace's home in South Africa. Once a week fresh flowers were taken to Terry's grave. When the loneliness became too great, Grace would turn up at
Solitaire
.