Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed (45 page)

As week 17 came to an end, we were slipping by Rio, 460 miles to the west off our port side, heading for home. Perhaps that was the magic word driving us: ‘Home!' Being British was in my blood. My father, his father, and for as far back as there were records, my family had been born in Herefordshire, in the heart of England. After being away for eight years, I needed to walk in its green and pleasant lands, and stand in an English pub and talk to the weird and wonderful characters the country seems to produce.

The young man had sailed past Rio on Tuesday, March 31st, 1981. His log showed that he was 600 miles off the coast, 140 miles further out to sea. He had gained an extra 10 days since we had rounded Cape Horn and was now 22 days in front.

Week 18 started with light winds, the temperature going up into the 80s. I removed my shirt and changed into shorts. There was about 10 gallons of water in the tanks and 4 more in a plastic container. We were getting squalls with a light drizzle and fresh gusting winds. There was hardly any water off the end of the boom. What there was was too salty to drink. The fuel lift pump was still leaking. I kept wrapping tape around it, then covering it with sealant. The thing slowly turned into a rubber ball, but it still leaked.

The week ended with a distance of 490 miles completed. I was now constantly hungry. But with hours spent in the cockpit,
temperatures in the mid 80s, I felt more content. I started putting notes in the ship's log to remind me how much bread and rice I was eating. The week's run had been 490 miles. With a latitude of 16°57´S and longitude of 32°40´W, we should be in the south-east trade winds and making better progress. I'd given up believing in pilot charts years before. I was just pleased to still have a mast and be going home.

At noon on Monday, May 6th, I made the entry in the ship's log:

Spent 19 weeks at sea! Covered only 242 miles. Becalmed for three days. Let's hope these light southerly winds mean we are now coming into SE trade winds. Work carried out during the flat calms. Changed the Hydrovane's self-steering rudder for a smaller spare. More work on lift pump, managed to stop the fuel leak and start the engine.

Week 20 was a good week, despite the fact that I lost my last remaining bucket, and a very powerful spotlight that Chris Parry had given me blew its bulb. The light had been used coming down the Red Sea to warn shipping that they were too close. This had been the first ship that came close enough at night to give me concern since I left New Zealand. My tri-navigation lights at the top of the mast had stopped working after our knockdowns and I'd been hoping to use the spotlight while going up the English Channel. The temperature had increased to 95°F. We logged 657 miles in the south-east trade winds.

If week 20 was a good week, week 21 was even better. On Tuesday, May 14th, we crossed over the Equator at 8.08pm. When I used the GPS it gave a reading of latitude 00°08´N, longitude 028°52´W. To celebrate, I used the last few granules of coffee to make my last cup.

When I checked on the young man, he had crossed over the Equator on Wednesday, April 15th, 1981, and toasted the crossing with a wee glass of sherry. He was now 29 days ahead of me. Food-wise he was much better off than me. That week I had cut my daily ration of rice down from five to four tablespoons.

Despite the fact that the young man was still pulling away from me and I'd been forced to cut down yet again on my rations, I would look back on that week and the days May 17–19th with greater pleasure than I had experienced on any previous voyage. On those three days we had monsoon rains with just enough wind to hold a good course with a full main. For the past two weeks I'd been getting a sucking sound from the water tanks that had make me think twice before making a cup of tea. There had been a threat of rain with heavy black clouds. Then we had the first heavy drops hitting
Solitaire
and bouncing off her decks. For a few minutes I watched the rivers of water run down the sail to rush along the boom and gush forth like a torrent from Niagara Falls. Never seen anything like it in all my 70 years. Never known such pleasure. Stark naked I stood in the cockpit and washed the salt from my tired body.

Having given time for the salt to be washed from the sail, I fitted my Mk1 water-catching funnel to the end of the boom. Water shot out of the end of the hosepipe as though it was connected to some high-pressure tap. Back in the cabin I dried myself. Then, selecting one of my plastic containers, I held it on the companionway steps with my stomach. When I fed the hose in, the vibrations started to say, ‘Cups of tea, cups of tea!' By golly, I thought, this isn't as good as holding a woman, but it runs a bloody close second. I collected 40 gallons that day and then spent some time on deck, transferring the water into the tanks. The following day I filled the containers again. Our water problems were over. I now had enough to see us all the way back to England, enough even to clean my teeth and shave. At the end of our 21st week at sea we had only made 450 miles, but the water really lifted our hearts.

By the end of week 22, we had logged a further 540 miles. The winds had been mostly from the north-east and since our course for Horta was due north, we were sailing as close as possible into wind. The cracking from the beam was becoming even more worrying. Every time I put an inch too much sail up, I thought the mast was coming down. The winds were forcing
Solitaire
's track to curve to the west, away from the Islands. With our weak
condition, I didn't want to waste too much time tacking back and forth. At the end of the week, Horta was still 1,500 miles away.

At the end of week 23, we logged 650 miles, but lost over 100 miles as we were pushed to the west of the Islands. Instead of Horta being 850 miles away, the port was in fact 960 miles. More and more time was spent with my hands on the beam, trying to find where the break was. By now they didn't seem to help. If only the winds would swing away from the north and we could come onto a reach, things would improve, I thought. Nerves were really starting to show the strain. On Thursday, May 30th, I baked my last bread. All I had left was four small burnt cobs.

By the end of week 24, things were no better. We had sailed 400 miles. Horta was 660 miles away. The Island of Santo Cruz, with its Port of Flores, the most westerly of the Azores Islands, was closer at 640 miles. On Wednesday, I'd just cut my ration down to three spoonfuls of rice a day, when a 65ft red yacht came tearing across our stern. All the crew were on deck shouting. I was doing my own shouting (and waving): ‘Food! Give me food!' But in the blink of an eye, they were gone.

The following day, Thursday, June 6th, after winds gusting from Force 2 to Force 7 from the NNE, I wrote in the log: ‘If these winds continue, I will pass well clear of the Azores to their west and try to reach England non-stop.' Food was a real problem. Even a small tin of sardines was having to last for two days. I found a small tin of chestnut puree, which tasted terrible, but with three spoons of rice that was my ration for another two days.

During week 25, the tins of corned beef went down to a ration of a quarter tin. I found a few dried beans. Soaked overnight, they would swell to twice their size. As we came into the high-pressure area that lies over the Azores, the winds became fickle with long calm periods. I started to run the motor with the autopilot steering. Short of diesel, I could only do this during flat calms. Week 25 ended on Monday, June 17th. We had logged 445 miles. Horta was now 310 miles away, Flores 235 miles.

Week 26 was a great week. I cut down on the rice to two
spoons a day, but found that the dried beans ration could be increased to three spoons. A tin of chilli lasted five days. For the first time since leaving New Zealand, the winds started to read the pilot charts and blow from the right direction. On Wednesday, June 19th, 1996, we sailed past Flores – 55 miles to our East. All that was ahead of us now was home and England.

In the ship's log I wrote that day:

Still it continues: grey skies, some drizzle, but constant winds from the west at Force 5. Due to the conditions over the past few days we will now try to make it all the way back to Lymington. The last few days we might be without food, but it will be well worth it, just so I can think I told New Zealand's Safety Officer Russell Kilvington to get stuffed.

By the end of the week, we were running short of dried beans, so I opened up a tin of pineapple and had half a tin of that with half a tin of tuna and two spoons of rice. At the end of the week we had made 670 miles, all in the right direction. Falmouth, the first possible port in England, was now only 860 miles away. The noise from the broken beam was increasing, but now we were in the Gulf Stream with friendly winds. Even if we lost the mast
Solitaire
could find her own way.

By the end of week 27, Falmouth was only 285 miles away. We had logged 570 miles for the week, all in the right direction. I'd been back to wearing heavy sweaters since passing the Azores, with heavy weather gear. A great comfort was the lovely music I'd started to receive from an Irish station. The good old BBC was now coming in loud and clear too. The weather report was for strong winds and rain for the next three days, not the best conditions for sailing up the English Channel. I had managed to get the ship's steaming and deck lights to work, but the all important navigation lights at the top of the mast were still not working. It would mean that, apart from dashing below for a quick cuppa, I'd be spending all my time on watch in the cockpit.

Week 28 was to be our last week at sea. All that I had left now for food were two tins of mixed fruit and a few dried beans.

Tuesday, July 2nd
.
Winds died during the night, hardly making steerage way. Wind Force 2 to 3 from south-east. Full genoa and mainsail. BBC forecast strong winds later. Good radio reception from Islands BBC and Devon. Fishing boats came close during the night. One came over this morning. Ration for the day: half a tin of mixed fruit with two spoons of dried beans. Falmouth 215 miles. Distance logged 70 miles.

Wednesday, July 3rd
.
Winds from the south-west, Force 4 to 5. Broad reach with genoa. Very bad visibility, drizzle and rain. Seas very green. Good progress in the past 24 hours. Using the GPS more to keep track of our position. Falmouth 115 miles, Lymington 270 miles. Distance logged in 24 hours: 100 miles.

Thursday, July 4th
.
English Channel. Strong winds from the West, still good sailing, two-thirds genoa. With luck we should be close to Lymington by tomorrow night. Then, lovely food. Lymington 170 miles. Distance logged 100 miles.

Friday, July 5th
.
Noon, winds from the west, gusting Force 2 to 7. Should be able to enter Lymington Yacht Haven tomorrow morning.

I was sure I had caused my many friends unnecessary worry, but was just hoping that they would appreciate how sorry I was and that it had not been done intentionally. With the perfect winds blowing us up the Channel, our first sight of England was Portland Bill.

Next came the Isle of Wight and then we were sailing by the Needles into the Solent. Old Crack-Crack made his final weak complaint. This time there were no popping eyeballs, only a smirky smile as I thought, ‘You're dead, mate.' Safe in harbour, I would sort him out for good.

I started to get fenders and mooring lines ready. I stowed all sails and hoisted the yellow quarantine flag. My intentions were to stay in the Yacht Haven for two nights. Then, after contacting friends, I'd go down and tie alongside Lymington Town Quay.

As
Solitaire
made her way up the river to the Yacht Haven, a yacht passed, going out. Her skipper shouted across, ‘Are you Leslie?'

I said, ‘Yes.'

The guy said, ‘We'd been worried about you!'

I shouted, ‘I was worried about me, too!'

The guy told me I was dead and it was then I learnt that I'd been in the national press, and on radio and TV, reported as missing at sea. My first thoughts were that I was in worse trouble than I'd realised and I wasn't even being given the chance to apologise.

The man I'd met going out was Peter Smales. He followed me back to the visitors' berth, where he told me he was the Haven's PR man and Dirk Kalis had left instructions that when I turned up I was to be given a year's free berthing. Richard and Audrey Chase took my lines. Audrey asked if there was anything else I wanted. I asked for a piece of bread. Later Dirk Kalis came down to tell me that a mistake had been made about my year's free berthing: it wasn't for a year, but for life!

The young man had arrived back in the Lymington Yacht Haven on Wednesday, June 3rd, 1981. We returned to the Yacht Haven on Saturday, July 6th, 1996. Our race from New Zealand had finished with him beating me by 33 days. The 15 years difference in our ages was no longer important, nor even who won the race. All that was important was we had both completed our voyages and were safely back home.

That night I was wearing pyjamas when I went to sleep on
Solitaire
, sure that it was all a dream and I would wake up to find I was once more in the Southern Oceans, tied to
Solitaire
's mast support, a bottle of painkillers in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other.

Next day, the newspapers and broadcasters started a mini media frenzy, reporting how ‘the starving Ancient Mariner sailed home'.
The Times
reported on my ‘full English breakfast, followed by strawberries' as I did my best to restore the 5st I had lost. The
Daily Mail
's David Munk wrote: ‘He is so thin you could play a sea shanty on his ribs.' My weight had been reduced to 8st.

Even though I had returned from the dead I didn't expect the media attention to last for more than two or three days. In fact, it
went on for quite some time. The BBC asked me to go to London to do some filming for a TV show. I was told I would be paid my expenses. On arrival at the studio I was asked for my railway ticket – a cheap one-day return, costing £19. I watched in amazement as 19 one-pound coins were counted into my hand. No taxi fare. Not even a couple of bob for a cup of tea!