Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed (9 page)

The sea was still brown but Orland had shown me on the chart in his office that if I sailed north I would soon find deep water. Moreover, I now had the two charts the fisherman had given me and a list of RDF call signs all the way to Panama. Although I had no harbour charts, the ports I was considering would be well-buoyed, with Cayenne, 650 miles away in French Guiana, the first.

The first 24 hours were nerve-wracking, what with gusting winds, choppy seas and the bilge pump packing up, thanks to a ripped diaphragm.
Solitaire
needed pumping dry twice a day so I made do with a bucket and sponge until I contrived a new diaphragm from some plastic ‘rubber' left over from the seat covers.

My noon sight on November 19th, put us 22 miles below the Equator and as we made our first intentional crossing that night, the wind came light from the east enabling
Solitaire
to broad-reach contentedly for Cayenne, dozing along under main and working jib. I should have put up a larger headsail but relaxed with 80 miles a day, plus another 20 miles or so from the favourable current. My nerves steadied, the cool sea breeze refreshing my scarred skin. To celebrate crossing the Equator I dined on spam and chips.

As the days slid by the winds continued to decrease but I refused to fly more sail for I was enjoying this voyage too much. I found some flour in a plastic bag inside a box of sponge mix, and made my first-ever pancakes, spreading them with my favourite marmalade as the radio started to pick up delightful French music.

One morning I saw what I first thought was a low flying aircraft coming over the horizon, followed by another and another. As they neared, I could see they were modern fishing trawlers with their arms extended. All day, stretching from horizon to horizon, they streamed by
Solitaire
. With darkness they became a blaze of lights, making me think I was sitting on a main street. Then, like a body of soldiers, they turned together, headed out to sea and disappeared. A last arrival came scurrying by, late for parade. ‘Get a move on, you hoooooorible little man...' I cried in my best sergeant-major voice. When he had gone we had the night to ourselves, and a French woman sang me to sleep with love songs.

On Tuesday, November 25th,
Solitaire
lay a couple of miles off Cayenne. I could see trawlers heading inshore but could pick up no RDF signal, although Paramaribo in Dutch Suriname was coming in loud and clear from 160 miles away and, since it had a lightship to help with the landfall, I decided to sail there instead.

We arrived late on Thursday and lay off, keeping the lightship in sight until morning. Although I had tried to hold our position,
Solitaire
had drifted to the north with the current and had to be forced back. Again the waters were chocolate-coloured but a clearly-buoyed shipping lane made navigation easy. A strong outflowing current slowed progress and as ocean-going ships were
using the main channel, I pulled to one side, dropped sail and anchored for the night. Food was getting short so dinner consisted of a tin of mixed vegetables, salad cream and an orange, as did breakfast the next morning.

We arrived in Paramaribo fairly quickly and rode the broad river on a favourable tide. The port seemed prosperous enough, with clusters of docks housing fleets of shrimp trawlers, the town a mixture of old Dutch buildings and modern stores, a bustling fruit, fish and vegetable market on the dockside. Flags and bunting were everywhere as a week earlier Suriname had gained its independence from the Dutch. The harbour itself was spoilt by a massive cargo ship parked in the middle, upside down, scuttled by the Germans during the last war. I felt
Solitaire
shudder when she caught sight of it but I hastened to disclaim any responsibility.

However, I soon managed to get us in trouble again. I dropped the hook about 20ft from a structure of girders but was suspicious of
Solitaire
's position in the fast current. If I attempted to lift the anchor again or she started dragging, we could find ourselves trying to climb over the top of the sunken German ship. On the girders, wearing green overalls and plastic helmet, stood a black man, looking for all the world as if he had been working on a New York skyscraper when it had sunk.

After my experiences in Brazil I knew you could work wonders with the odd packet of English cigarettes, so I waved a pack in his direction, making a diving and swimming action with arms, shouted ‘Amigo' and waved him over. His eyebrow merely lifted, whereupon I increased my offers to two packs, still without joy. Perhaps he could not swim? The solution was easy: I would throw him a rope which he could tie onto a girder. I would then pull
Solitaire
over and he could lift the anchor while I steered. My throw was perfect, landing plumb at his feet at which he raised the other eyebrow. We both watched with interest as the current slowly snaked the rope back again. After three more perfect throws I grew despondent.

‘For Pete's sake, will you please tie the rope to the girder,' I cried.

To my surprise he picked it up and secured it. Roy turned out to be the dockyard foreman and spoke excellent English, Paramaribo's second language, probably because the Americans run most things there. Roy took me to the Dutch manager who could not do enough. The structure Roy had been standing on was part of a dry dock for lifting prawn trawlers.
Solitaire
could be hauled out at the same time at no expense to me but I turned down the kindly offer, wanting to push on to Panama.

The only other cruising yacht in port at the same time belonged to a Frenchman, Stephen, who with his wife and young daughter was preparing to leave on the out-going tide when I arrived. I was invited on board to share their last meal before they sailed: steak, salad and bread washed down by fresh milk! They put me ashore with the last of the steak in a crusty roll. As I let go their lines, Stephen asked what my next port of call would be.

‘British Guiana,' I replied.

Stephen's mournful plea came back: ‘Oooooh, Leslie, don't go there. Very bad people. You will be robbed.'

So I said, ‘Right, I'll go to Trinidad.'

‘Oooooh, Leslie, don't go there. You'll be robbed.'

So I asked where they were going.

‘Grenada in the Caribbean,' they said.

‘Right,' I shouted, waving goodbye with my steak sandwich. ‘I'll see you there.'

My stay in Paramaribo, thanks to my first real taste of American hospitality, was longer than expected. They were either visiting
Solitaire
or taking me to a barbecue party, the movies or whatever. I bought what tinned food I could afford, always looking for the cheapest buy which did not always pay off as I had to throw away a dozen tins of canned mackerel. The Dutch manager presented me with oranges and a sack of grapefruit. My last day in Paramaribo was spent chiselling through
Solitaire
's cabin floor and reinforcing the cracked hull with fibreglass.

The 500 miles voyage to Grenada took eight weary days. The currents between the islands are strong and as Grenada had no
RDF station and those available on other islands were weak, dead reckoning became paramount. The last two days brought heavy rain with bad visibility which cleared up at midnight on December 16th when a large black cloud appeared on the horizon with a star in the middle – Grenada with a house light high up in the hills.

At dawn I motored to St George's main anchorage where I performed my usual party piece of putting
Solitaire
on a reef. To be fair I don't think we should count this one as another yacht was coming out, leaving insufficient room for two boats to pass.
Solitaire
, the perfect lady, stepped to one side and we had virtually stopped when there was a crunching sound and
Solitaire
rolled from side to side, shaking her mast as if to say, ‘I don't believe it.'

Instantly a flotilla of small craft, power boats, yachts, gin palaces, even rowing boats, tore out as if they had been awaiting our arrival, the air filled with flying ropes and people clambered over our decks attaching them to every conceivable place. Within minutes,
Solitaire
was swinging to her anchor, dazed by so much attention. Where, I wanted to know, had they been when I needed them in Brazil?

We had just got shipshape when I heard ‘Ooooh, Leslie' from a dinghy racing towards me. ‘Ooooh, Leslie, I've been robbed,' said Stephen, which had me in stitches.

The following night I was laughing on the other side of my face. Men would silently raft around the anchored yachts by night intent on robbery, so it was unwise to leave craft unattended. New arrivals were quickly made aware of the danger and, in turn, I had already warned another crew that day.

I had met David, an American, through his English crew member, and had been invited to his yacht
Rolling Stone
for dinner that night. David had built his boat in England before sailing across the Atlantic to pick up his parents and a girlfriend for a holiday. I thought
Solitaire
, anchored no more than 40 yards away, was safe enough since I could still keep an eye on her and, for added protection, fitted strings to the deck light switch and attached them to the sliding hatches. There was a good crowd on
Rolling Stone
and for a while I sat drinking in the cockpit, watching my boat. Finally we disappeared below for a curry meal although every few minutes I would pop my head outside to make sure everything was all right. Then
Solitaire
's lights came on.

David and another large American, Tom, rowed me over. I thought the thieves might still be aboard but the hatch cover had been ripped off and every locker, drawer and door opened, including the oven's. I would not have thought it possible to wreak so much malicious damage in so short a time. The engine's instrument panel had been uprooted and the spare money I kept there stolen. My portable radio, clothes, tools and two torches had vanished. The ship's papers, my passport and £80 in travellers' cheques should have been at the back of my chart table, but they had gone, too. It was a kick in the crutch. I could sell my outboard motor, WC, even the stove, and still continue around the world but without a passport or ship's papers, I was stuck.

I told David and Tom the reason for my looking so sick, whereupon they started pulling out the charts... and found my wallet with the papers and cheques which meant that I could leave for Panama in the morning after all! My visitors had kindly left my RDF sextant and compass and had also missed a camera. The police were called but showed perfunctory interest and I was still upset next morning, as if
Solitaire
had been violated. David suggested I hang on for a couple of days and tie alongside
Rolling Stone
for protection, and again Americans came to my assistance. Tom and his girlfriend, Karen, presented me with a large bag of food, claiming that it had been stored in the bilges too long and was going bad. On inspection I found a recent label from the local supermarket!

Christmas was but a few days away. David and his family were sailing to Prickly Bay, 6 miles along the coast, where it would be quieter, with less chance of being broken into, and
Solitaire
accompanied them, feeling that one violation in a girl's life was one too many. I did not set off for Panama until a fortnight later but in the interim became friendly with more Americans, including Bill and his girlfriend, Dean, who had started on a world voyage
but had been forced to give up the idea. Since they couldn't go, they decided to help me on condition I wrote to them detailing my progress with pre-addressed envelopes they supplied!

One other thing the Americans in Grenada offered was advice: stay at least 20 miles off the Colombian coast and ignore distress rockets. Pirates were using them to attract unsuspecting yachts, then murdering the crews and using the craft for drug trafficking. Finally, take care walking the streets of Colon, even in daylight, as muggers formed queues to rob tourists.

Solitaire
set off on January 10th, logged 1,124 miles and arrived on January 23rd, 1976. Sailing to Panama is like entering the neck of a bottle: trade winds that have swept thousands of miles across the Atlantic can become quite strong and compressed; steepbreaking seas build up but fortunately for us they were from the east and hence over our stern. I left Grenada with a comfortable Force 4 from the south-east but by the third day winds had increased and we were down to working jib only, breaking seas speeding behind us. At times
Solitaire
would find herself surfing on them: at others, unable to move fast enough, she would receive a firm pat on her stern, and would turn indignantly as if to say, ‘How dare you, sir.'

On one such occasion a wave shot a bucketful of water through the open hatch, soaking the cabin carpet again. Thereafter I kept the hatch boards in, closing myself below and emerging only to take noon sights for latitude, obtain fixes, or check sails, rigging and self-steering. Most of the time I spent reading the books Bill and Dean had given me and eating strange American foods including stuffed tomatoes, which I had never heard of!

The night of my Panama Canal landfall I panicked. As I had been warned to keep 20 miles off the coast, I played safe and doubled it, then when it was time to turn towards land, I had the Cayenne problem over again: I could not pick up the Canal's RDF signal. However, call sign TBG came in loud and clear, indicating the island of Taboga lying at the Pacific end of the Panama Canal, and since it was in the right direction, I set course for it.

At about the time I had estimated, I saw the loom of a light in the night sky and made for the glow, which swung up and became two blooming great headlights. Pirates! Turning off my lights I started the motor to shoot off back the way I had come, only to find another set of headlights blocking
Solitaire
's escape. At that moment I saw the Canal lighthouse flashing and made for it. Astern were two looms of lights in the sky; I'm sure now they were fishing boats using their lights to work by. Maybe I scared them more than they scared me. Maybe.