Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed (21 page)

Solitaire
cleared Lymington River into a surprisingly empty Solent and headed for the Needles. Her new self-steering gear had its bright red wind vane set for the first time, already proving it was more sensitive than its predecessor. The trailing log's spinner was put over the side, registering more miles to add to the 34,000 already recorded. Our new mainsail was hauled up, the reefing ropes passing through eyes on the leech of the sail then back through the boom to a block on the foot of the mast, thence to a winch in the cockpit, all designed to make reefing easy. It snagged but needed only a small adjustment. Nevertheless I was glad I hadn't tried to be too clever while friends were around. With the main up more contrasts: pure white against patched grey.

The lines that had tied
Solitaire
to shore now secured me to her, as a priority on leaving harbour was to run them from cleats in the stern along the deck to a bollard in the bow. In the old days I would step into the cockpit and secure my lifeline, but for this trip I had taken another precaution: a large U-bolt had been put within reach of the main hatch so that I could fasten on to this in rough weather before leaving the cabin.

Approaching Hurst Castle there was time to nip below to check for leaks, grab my wet weather gear and get back to the cockpit
with a few minutes to relax and catch my breath. Broad reaching up the Needles Channel to the Fairway buoy, I eased
Solitaire
onto 254° by adjusting the self-steering vane and hauling in the sails as we came onto a spanking reach, day and wind both perfect. I should have stopped the motor and used the large genoa but decided to leave well alone. Maybe I was lazy, but the number one genoa would have restricted my forward vision, and anyway it was best kept for future use. There was a good reason for running the engine: I needed a fully-charged battery to power my navigation lights and give me a better chance of dodging shipping. But the main reason was to reach the open sea. Already I was feeling the old freedom and no longer responsible to the laws of the land. There were no courts of law out here, and if I made mistakes they would be mine with no one else to sit in judgement. Just God,
Solitaire
and me.

Every voyage consists of steps. A year before, when I believed we would be making the voyage fairly well equipped, there had been only two: England to Cape Horn, then an easy step home. Now the steps had become more of a drunken stagger to provide for possible trouble. First, clear the English Channel, then cross the Equator to Ascension Island where, if the rigging broke, the Americans would help. On to Cape Town and the Royal Cape Yacht Club where I could carry out repairs. In Australia, if I had to, I could buy more food and still round Cape Horn. The Falkland Islands, even if I arrived under jury-rig, would allow me to fix up something to get us home. All vague thoughts. Privately I intended sailing around Cape Horn non-stop even if I finished up eating stewed boots and barnacles.
Solitaire
might have to give up if the rigging broke, but as long as she kept going I would not be the first to throw in the towel. Not that she had any thoughts of giving up: romping along, throwing spray in all directions, alive for the first time in months, her joy was infectious.

I started to straighten up the cabin. The two bunks looked like a double bed, singles joined by the water containers, so I completed the picture by spreading my sleeping bags across them.
At the back of the containers was about a yard-and-a-half of floor space, enough for a bit of disco dancing but a tango was surely out. For a moment I was taken back to South Africa and my first thoughts about sailing when I had told people I wanted a boat to carry me, my suitcase and a set of golf clubs around the world, although then I had not meant non-stop. Here I was setting up another record: the first round-the-world non-stop yachtsman to carry golf clubs.

Back in the cockpit with tea and cake I watched a coastal steamer change direction to head towards us, the crew lining the decks and cheering. After waving back with the tattered remains of my red ensign I decided to stow it away and bring it out only for important occasions. The day stayed warm and pleasant, the land standing out clearly but in my wet weather gear I became tired, hot and happy, and to the slow beat of
Solitaire
's motor drifted in and out of sleep. By early afternoon we were 6 miles south of Portland Bill, 34 miles in five hours, not bad going considering the weighty stores on board. Start Point light came in view at 12.10 Thursday morning, July 10th, our last view of England for nearly 11 months.

In the first 24 hours we knocked off 125 miles en route to Ushant; it was 75 miles away and took another 12 hours. At first I thought our navigation had been spot on. I had intended passing no closer than 5 miles then to bring
Solitaire
hard on the wind to cut through the shipping lanes out into the Atlantic before coming onto our southerly course, but the land drew closer and buildings, including the lighthouse, came into sight. Blast, I thought, annoyed with myself. This was downright lazy sailing, dozing when one should have been taking RDF bearings. Ushant was sighted at 9.15pm that Thursday, 36 hours out of Lymington, the last land I would see for 326 days. As darkness fell, coded flashing lights from the lighthouse slowly worked their way to
Solitaire
's stern, then became just a loom on the clouds as man-made lights disappeared, to be replaced by nature's.

Heavy shipping cut off our retreat from the possible storms in Biscay to the open Atlantic, their steady stream of lights making
our sail more like a quick dash across a motorway than a safe withdrawal from danger. A ledge runs around the Bay of Biscay and when seas hit it terrifying waves can build up. The quickest way to get off this ledge was to cut straight across. With constant winds from the present westerly direction we would have them just forward of the mast, making for a fast passage, but it meant staying inside the shipping lanes. Even so I could still snatch a few hours' sleep in reasonable safety. I set
Solitaire
's self-steering to head us 50 miles west of Cape Finisterre, 360 miles across the Bay, and slowly the lights of the ocean-going ships dropped below the horizon. After seeing nothing for an hour I went below to eat, and then to lie on my bunk to think of family and friends.

It has always amused me that on my return from a long voyage I am an immediate expert on loneliness, which bears no relationship at all to being alone. Loneliness is caused by people and places and the real experts are the old-age pensioners who wonder why the children call only once a fortnight and then can't wait to leave; the people with families who wake up one morning to find they have nothing, not even each other. Loneliness is staring into other people's windows at Christmas time, and thrives in railway stations, in airports and divorce courts, but you are never lonely because you are alone. How little people know about themselves surprises me. Few have been alone for more than a few hours, and yet they claim they could never survive so many weeks by themselves at sea because they confuse missing someone with being alone and lonely. I did not miss my family and friends because I simply took them with me and had time to remember them and what they had said, which is no different from re-reading a good book. Indeed in some strange way I became even closer to them at sea.

I had known the other side of the coin: leaving my family to join the RAF, for instance, and a railway station in Toronto when my first wife returned to England. Perhaps the loneliest experience of all is being with someone who no longer wants to be with you.

Friday morning found us 250 miles from our home port ploughing into a choppy sea in a light drizzle with poor visibility. I
was still using local time in the log, navigating with RDF bearings on Cape Finisterre and dead reckoning. Once the weather cleared I would change to Greenwich Mean Time, take my sun sights and log our position every noon. The day was spent sorting out food, which even now seemed to be shrinking as I stored it away. Even the number of paperbacks diminished as I sorted them into boxes. When they had been given to me I had said, ‘I hope you won't mind if once I've read your book I dump it overboard.' As I normally read a book a day the idea of dumping was already forgotten. I planned to read the best first and keep them for an encore towards the end of the voyage.

The food situation was far worse than I had imagined, even though before leaving Lymington I had estimated that the stores would have to be doubled to ensure a non-stop voyage. When I started to receive presents of food, things began to look up and by sailing time I reckoned I had enough to provide a meal a day for nine months. Only when everything was listed and stored did I realise how serious the food problem would become after reaching Australian waters.

Flour 70lb in two 5-gallon plastic containers
Sugar 60lb in one 5-gallon plastic container
Rice 60lb in sealed buckets
Eggs 36, onions 36lb, potatoes 20lb

Coffee and tea posed no problems, because at worst tea bags could be used twice. I had ten food parcels from Rome and Annegret, ten NATO 24-hour rations from my Dutch friend, two fruit cakes and other bits and pieces for special treats.

My diet would be easy to work out, prescribed as it was by the provisions themselves and the time they would last. In the past I had baked six bread rolls every three days. Until we were halfway round, say five months, I could carry on doing that, but after five months at sea the yeast would be useless. So bread would be a basic food until Australia when any remaining flour could be used for pancakes. On the other hand rice would last for ever so it had to be kept for the second half of the voyage. The voyage's first turning point would be when we passed under the Cape of Good Hope, 65 days away if we averaged 100 miles every 24 hours. Meanwhile I could have an egg every other day! Onions last well and make spicy sandwiches with Marmite or Bovril. I intended using the NATO rations early on, since they were a bonus, and the first of Rome's parcels on crossing the Equator. Rivers of rain water, running down the mainsail to cascade off the boom end like a broken house guttering, would ensure a water supply. As we carried nearly 80 gallons there was no need to replenish until we were homeward-bound.

The winds were from the west just forward of the beam across a flat sea as we approached the middle of Biscay Bay with 2,000 fathoms of water beneath us. Saturday, July 12th, our third day at sea, I spent adjusting the rigging and making up a new kicking strap. I had Peter and Fanny's salmon for dinner that night accompanied by onions and boiled potatoes.

On Sunday the weather brightened and I brought
Solitaire
hard onto a light Force 3. I should have hoisted the number one
genoa but there are times when things are so perfect that you hardly breathe lest you spoil the balance and speed seems of no importance. For the first time I removed my wet weather gear and shoes and socks. Freedom! I changed the ship's clock to GMT and at 7am took my first sun sight for a position line and made a cross on it after my noon sight for latitude. Thanks to my new sextant I had no more worries about loose handbag mirrors or whether the elastic bands would hold long enough for me to take a sight. More freedom! Catching the sun in its flight and controlling it in a slow descent onto the horizon I turned the delicate micro adjuster with reference, like a jewel thief about to break into a safe. A perfect day with a perfect end: stew with extra potatoes for dinner.

I was wary of saying in the log how well things were going because when you are on top of the world, and start shouting about it, someone inevitably comes along to knock you off, but my extended stay ashore had made me forget that lesson. My feet started to slip early on Monday morning after I had woken to find strengthening wind, breaking seas and poor visibility. By noon we had two reefs in the main with the wind backing south-west, and were being pushed towards the land 30 miles away,
Solitaire
taking punishment as she tried to smash through fast-breaking waves. If we continued on our present course we would soon be in the shallower seas around Cape Finisterre. When night fell phosphorescent seas continuously buried the boat, allowing her only seconds to clear herself and gasp for breath.