Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed (43 page)

During that first week at sea we passed over the date line. On December 29th, 1995, our longitude went to 180°E. The figures changed to the west, reducing as we headed home. The young man didn't cross over the date line until January 5th, 1981. We were a full week in front of him. He did have the advantage of being further south by 540 miles. With our larger furling headsail and strong winds from the west, we would be well in front of him when our paths crossed.

The second week at sea was an even bigger disaster. Instead of winds roaring like a lion, we had a pussycat that spent most of its time cleaning and purring. When we did get a breeze, it was hardly enough to fill the sails. At the end of our second week, we had made only 264 miles. The young man covered 682 miles.

The third week was even worse, with days of complete calms followed by gale force winds from the south-east. While trying to beat into one of these storms, the mainsail was ripped. It took all day to repair it, a day when we were blown 4 miles back towards New Zealand. During the long calms, I went back to trying to bake bread, this time making the dough into round cobs. The results were the same: I kept opening the oven door and they became flat burnt offerings, which only made me pleased that for this voyage I had plenty of other food on board. We made good only 397 miles. The young man 640 miles. By the end of that week, I had to admit that he had passed me by at least 200 miles, according to our longitudes, and was still 120 miles south of us. The thing I found annoying was that he was complaining about his slow progress. I said, ‘You should be in our bloody shoes!' and slammed his stupid log down.

The fourth week was one of the worst I could remember at sea. The winds kept swinging around the compass. Storms from the south-east would tear into us at gale force and we would have to reduce sail to prevent them being torn to shreds. Then they would back to the west, where we wanted them, dying in strength as they went. Finally, when in the perfect position, they'd die to a complete calm. Once more we would stow all sails to prevent them being damaged by the monstrous seas. That week we logged only 192 miles. I finished my report with the prayers: ‘Please God, send us the westerlies!'

Solitaire
crossed the path of the young man at the end of our fifth week at sea, on January 29th, 1996. The trouble was that he had arrived at that position on the 19th, a full ten days before us. He could have been much further ahead, but he had eased his way further north – not out of any concern for me, but simply to stay above the extreme limit of the icebergs.

Week six ended with more of the same frustrating conditions. Sick of the slow progress, sick of always complaining, my only remarks were that we had reached the 2,000 mile mark to Cape Horn and that during the calms, with nothing better to do, I'd taken sights with my sextant. It didn't help any; I got only the same depressing news that the GPS gave.

During week seven we were halfway to Cape Horn and for a while I thought the end of our voyage was near, and possibly the end of our lives. To add to the misery of the days of calms, we seemed to be in a world of fog and drizzle. Even without the wind the seas were heaving as though some monster was about to break the surface. Our latitude was now 49°40´S. We were just about to enter the Furious Fifties. It was a glorious day with a blue sea and sky. We had very light following winds and a high swell that kept backing the genoa. In the end I just had the main out as far as possible, with a preventer on a broad reach. The wind increased towards dark and I stowed the main and went to a full genoa. By the morning of the 9th, we were in a full gale and reduced to only a few metres of the headsail. I couldn't make any sense of the conditions and screwed all the cockpit plywood covers in place. Still uneasy and apprehensive, I strapped the plastic water and food containers to the ringbolts in the cabin floor. During my last voyage through the Southern Oceans, I'd always kept some sail on, if only a storm jib. To go to bare poles, I'd always considered, was to put
Solitaire
at the mercy of the seas.

Just after midday,
Solitaire
started to shake like a rat that some dog had by the scruff of the neck. The wind in the rigging went to a high-pitched scream that vibrated down the length of the mast. For seven weeks I'd been crying out for more wind. It now seemed that during all that time the winds had just been building up for this, for this one supreme, killing blow. When I went on deck,
Solitaire
was being buried by mountains that were attacking from every direction. If I didn't do something the mast would go. I furled in the last few feet of genoa and removed the wind vane from the self-steering. Terrified that I had made my final mistake and condemned
Solitaire
to her death, I went below.

I was sitting on the starboard bunk, and was just about to go back on deck to check the rigging, when the lockers on the port side seemed to lift above my head. I finished up lying on my back with the sensation that we were flying. Our landing would have done credit to Concorde. There was one heck of a crash. All the lockers burst open. Books and stores shot across the cabin, punching me with heavyweight blows. The plastic containers had been retained by their lashing, but they were now lying at all angles. Struggling out of the mess, I started to straighten the boat out. When I finished, I once more sat on the lee side. It was then I realised that
Solitaire
had completed a 180-degree turn as she came upright. I'd hardly caught my breath when the same thing happened again. Frightened and in a daze, as I was clearing up after the third knockdown, everything went blank.

When I regained consciousness, it was dark. So I guessed I'd been out for at least five or six hours. For weeks, I'd been wearing heavy weather gear with a towel wrapped around my neck. When I put my hand on the towel it seemed to be covered with wet tacky jam. Tracing its source, it appeared to come from a hole somewhere in the front of my head. My legs and part of my body were trapped under the water containers. When I tried to move my legs, I felt like someone had kicked me in the back. Paralysing pains shot through me, finishing at my fingers and turning them into clenched fists of agony. I thought my ribs were broken and the rough bones were trying to grind their way into my kidneys.

To add to my discomfort, I heard one of the big rollers crash into
Solitaire
's side. Half the cold Southern Ocean flooded through the hatch, straight into my upturned face. I could see that the hatch was closed, which meant that the first line of defence, the canvas hatch cover, had gone.

I would like to be able to say that it was only British determination that forced me to grit my teeth and crawl up the companionway steps. The truth was, it was the normal strong desire to see if there was anything I could do to remain on this planet for a few more hours, minutes, seconds.

When I managed to pull my eyes to deck level, I could see that the canvas cover was in fact ripped in half. Worse still, the new rigging, fitted in New Zealand, had stretched and the mast was swaying from side to side – dancing to a Latin rhythm only I could hear. There was nothing I could do to adjust the rigging screws in the dark. The job would have to wait for dawn. I just hoped we would still be here to see it. By this time, I'd found that if I stayed on my hands and knees I could just about crawl.

As I went back to wrap my safety harness around the mast support, I stopped long enough to grab a bag of medical supplies and a bottle of whisky. Secured to the support, the first thing I took out of the bag was a bottle of iodine. Since I couldn't locate the hole in my head, I poured the full bottle over the top. This turned it into a raging furnace. Leslie, I thought, that wasn't the most brilliant idea you've come up with. At least you've found out where the hole is and it's taken some of the attention from the pain in the back. I started taking painkillers and antibiotics, but gave the whisky a miss since I can't stand the taste of the stuff. There was a loud double crack, as though someone had fired a rifle off the starboard side. At first I thought the stainless steel rigging shrouds were breaking away. Then, thinking of the double crack, I decided that the heavy teak beam that holds the rigging U-bolts had broken. When the sound was repeated louder than ever, I forgot my dislike of whisky and took a long hard pull from the bottle.

Dawn arrived on Saturday, February 10th, to find me still tied to the mast: freezing cold, huddled, trying to stop my teeth from chattering – partly due to the cold, but more because of fear. Water was still streaming through the hatch as the waves continued to pound into
Solitaire
's side. Seawater was running from the electrics into the radio. They would be gone for sure. Most of the terror came from watching the cabin floor. By this time, the bilges would be nearly full. At any moment, I expected to find icy waters oozing around my legs. I was still taking painkillers and swigs from the whisky bottle. It didn't seem to be having any effect. The day
before I could crawl; now I couldn't even move from the mast support. I had decided that I would save half the whisky to take with the rest of the painkillers once my legs were covered with water. If I hadn't fitted the plywood hatch covers that would have already happened. I kept mumbling, ‘Thank God, thank God.'

Sunday, February 11th, I was still attached to the mast support. The storm force winds seemed to be as strong as ever. The only difference was that the seas were more uniform and coming from the one direction.

For nearly two days I'd become a part of the mast support, unable to move, to find food. To pass water, I was using a bottle. Even moving that through my wet weather gear and my trousers was painful and there had been accidents. Due to the fact I wasn't eating, the whisky and painkillers had started to take effect. I felt light-headed and at times floating. I kept hearing someone grumbling and was surprised that when I tried to sing, the complaining would stop. I don't have a singing voice, so just remembering the words and saying them seemed to help: ‘It's been a hard day's night and I've been working like a dog!'

By this time the bilges were full with about 60–70 gallons of water. The carpets had always been soaking; now it was oozing through them. The pains in my back were as bad as ever, but I did seem able to move my legs without too much trouble. I vaguely remember crawling into the cockpit and pumping out the bilges, but I don't remember much else that happened that day. It was much later, when I read the ship's log, that I realised that in my drunken state I'd carried out a good deal of work. The entry in the log for Sunday, February 11th, read: ‘Still in storm conditions, lying a-hull and taking a hammering. Need to work on rigging, but it's impossible. GPS position latitude 49°19´S, longitude 125°17´W; Cape Horn 2,085 miles, bearing 95°.'

Monday, February 12th, came at the end of our seventh week at sea. It was the day that I did manage to get
Solitaire
moving again. Yet apart from the date and a scrawl that said ‘Severe gales', nothing else was reported.

I knew that at some time I would have to readjust the six rigging screws. There were three either side of the boat and two in the stern. To adjust each screw, you had to straighten and withdraw two small split pins. Having adjusted the screw, the pins had to be replaced. It was more or less like trying to thread a needle. In the comfort of your own home it was easy. On a rolling, pitching boat with seas breaking over it, it was another kettle of fish. When I took a long swig of whisky and a couple of painkillers, and stuffed screwdrivers and pliers in my pocket, I knew the job was impossible. All I intended to do was check on the self-steering gear and pump out bilges. As I went through the hatch, I was singing one of the drunks' all time favourites: ‘Show me the way to go home!' By the time I'd done the pumping, I was ready to crawl back and hug my friendly mast. One wave had already clobbered me, pushing back the hood on my jacket, soaking all my inner clothes. The salt water had mixed with the iodine in my hair and was making its way into my eyes. My reading glasses were covered with spray. Half blind, the sensible thing would have been to try again the next day, but there again, by then I might be sober!

As each wave hit
Solitaire
, the water would be thrown into the air, falling to flood over her decks. Spray would follow, until the next wave arrived. With each roll,
Solitaire
's lee side deck was completely under water. At times, the rigging screws would disappear. When I crawled along to the first screw, I knew I couldn't do the job. When I pulled the first pins out, I knew I couldn't do it. When trying to make adjustments and my hands, screwdrivers and rigging screws went under water, I sat waiting for them to come back – I knew I would fail. And when the pins were back and it was time to go onto the next one, I knew I couldn't do it. Slowly, I found the rhythm that
Solitaire
was moving to. I started to keep time with her. With each roll we would both hesitate for a few moments, then move at a slow steady pace. When it was time to move over to the windward side, with the breaking waves, I thought it would be more difficult. In fact, once I picked up the new beat, it wasn't so bad. I would hear the waves
roaring in, hold onto the rigging and duck my head. Once they had gone through it seemed the decks would dry faster and last longer.

The whisky had started to wear off as I went back to the cockpit. I was about to risk a few feet of the genoa when I thought of the two rigging screws for the backstays. At least I would be working from the cockpit this time. After these final adjustments, I eased out enough genoa to allow
Solitaire
to make steerage way on a broad reach. I put back the self-steering wind vane and once more we were in control.

Apart from the stretched rigging, I thought another reason for the vibration was that as the new furling sail was reduced in size, the effect was to move it further up the stay, turning the rigging wire into a bowstring. On my non-stop second voyage, I'd had twin forestays with a storm and working jib hanked on. In use I kept them as low as possible, just clearing the pulpit. In future I would be forced to use smaller sails earlier and put up with slower speeds. By this time, the young man we had been racing against was miles ahead. I no longer felt jealous about his achievements and better times. All that mattered now was surviving, and rounding Cape Horn.