Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed (35 page)

I still felt cheerful. The number two jenny had lasted much longer than expected and, if the problem arose, was still repairable. But I would have to cut back to my old food rations, for there was no hope of fishing in this expanse of weed. Thursday was spent working on the jenny and by clearing weed from the self-steering blade, we managed to push 80 miles through the jungle of floating Sargasso.

By Friday morning the headsail was repaired and ready to offer a few more hours of its valuable time, at which point the wind died to a faint breeze, barely giving
Solitaire
steerage way. To make up for the slow progress, I had a celebratory ‘parcel' dinner, half a tin each of pilchards and coleslaw, the closest thing I had had to fresh vegetables since South Africa. From the BBC I learned that a certain Bobby Sands was deliberately starving himself to death.

Saturday was gloriously sunny but we made only 16 miles in 24 frustrating hours.

Sunday, May 3rd
. We still had 600 miles to go before clearing the high-pressure area. Although supposed to have only two per cent calms, we spent hour after hour rocking in great puddles of
flat water, rising and falling with the islands of yellow weed. I started the motor, which at least charged the batteries as we found a path through the islands, jumping from one puddle to the next, the sails still flapping. Once more I cut my ration to half a cup a day, with a small tin of beans for luck today.

Monday, May 4th
. In 24 hours
Solitaire
had moved only 10 miles through an oily sea with not a ripple on its surface. I hoisted the sails a dozen times but
Solitaire
was asleep. Dinner was half a tin of mixed vegetables and my rice ration. The entry for the day ended, as had so many, ‘Worried about Mom and Dad. I must get word to them somehow.'

Week 43 ended on Tuesday, May 5th, with a mere 395 miles on the clock and with another 670 to the island of Flores in the Azores, plus 1,700 for Lymington. Our chances of being home by the end of the month were fading and food was at a premium. Although I dared not risk losing more weight, I felt reasonably fit and since my fish banquet had no further problems with teeth and eyes. If I did not fancy climbing the mast, at least I felt I could – at a pinch.

Week 43 was depressing. On Wednesday I heard on the radio that the imprisoned Bobby Sands had died and remembered that I had been in Birmingham on the night that the IRA killed 22 young people there. I could feel no sympathy for him. Since the start of my voyage on July 8th, 1980, four leaders in their own fields had reached the top of the tree only to find there a pool of blood: John Lennon, ex-Beatle, shot and killed; President Sadat of Egypt, shot and killed; the Pope, shot; President Reagan, shot.

I had watched nine security guards accompany ex-President Ford around a golf course, condemned, as all presidents are, to being watched over for the rest of his life. Millionaires live in secluded fortresses and spend fortunes protecting their families; bank managers work all their lives to be rewarded with a gold watch and a first-class funeral. I wanted no part of their world, my epitaph read.

Dinner consisted of half a tin of beans with rice and it was while eating it that I heard that Bobby Sands had died of starvation. Bloody amateurs!

That Saturday, May 9th, I celebrated our tenth month at sea, sailing 26,368 miles, by deciding to wash my shoulder-length hair. I remembered that Annegret had been the last person to cut it before I left England and I hoped she might be the first to cut it on my return. With this in mind, as a treat I added tomatoes to the beans and rice before lying on my bunk to hear the Cup Final.

Next day the winds increased at the wrong time from the wrong direction. We were sitting on top of the mid-Atlantic ridge when clouds from the north raced over in evenly spaced banks and as the day wore on, the howling in the rigging started to revive old memories of air-raid warnings in the last war. The storm could not have come at a worse time. The seas that had travelled for a thousand miles now hit the shallow banks surrounding the Azores where
Solitaire
lay, burying her bow and running down her decks in gurgling rivers. I reduced sail first to storm jib with two reefs in the main, then just before dark, when I discovered that we were making no forward progress against advancing seas, to just the mainsail with three reefs, pointing into wind and weather but getting nowhere. Here the current flowed south, trying to take us back over hard-fought ground. Had we been 300 miles further north, we would have been in the homeward-flowing Gulf Stream.

The cook belatedly served up half a tin of chicken soup with rice to a crew close to mutiny. Each wave that slammed the boat was answered by a head thrust out of the hatch and an abusive flow of foul language. When another wave was about to sweep over us, I would hurriedly drop below and carry on the diatribe from the safety of my bunk.

The storm continued throughout Monday and Tuesday, when I managed a few poor sun sights, which indicated that we had been pushed back 31 miles over the last 48 hours. The trailing log for week 44 showed 421 miles covered when in fact we had made good only 390. And the blasted pilot charts showed no gales in our area! That I could live with, but the poor food situation and the beating
Solitaire
was taking were raw salt in my wounds. Not that I felt endangered or even threatened. There was little chance that
Solitaire
would capsize so late in our passage or that her equipment would let us down. I could make it non-stop, but my growing concern for my mother and father was rubbing my nerves raw.

Wednesday, May 13th, saw the start of week 45. ‘The storms have died down. I changed up to full genoa and main, then the winds fell away altogether to leave us rocking and rolling in a high swell. By noon we had logged 60 miles, which meant that we were precisely where we had been on Monday; time, food and effort wasted for nothing. One good thing about the high winds is that they have blown away most of the Sargasso weed. If we could start sailing again it would be possible to put out a fishing line.

That morning the first big turtle came drifting down
Solitaire
's side, unaware of the hungry eyes watching it. I could very easily have reached down and patted him on the head, or slipped a rope around his neck. Turtle meat, I'm told, is delicious but as I looked upon its worried, wrinkled brow, I knew I could never kill it. So for dinner I had half a tin of mixed vegetables with rice, after which I wondered if I could catch the damned thing up.

Thursday, May 14th, was no better as we covered only 30 miles in 24 hours. I left up main and number one genoa and sat in the cockpit watching them slam back and forth, oblivious to their wear and tear. What with calms, northerly storms and southerly current, we had made hardly any progress in five days and the food position was now dangerous. I had 14 cups of rice left, which, if I cooked two cups to last three days, meant I would have rations for 21 days. Apart from rice I had six 15oz tins of mince, soup and goulash. A third of a tin a day would feed me for 18 days. Also I had two small tins of mixed fruit that I desperately tried to ignore. They were for emergencies. And I still had 30 tea bags left, with enough sugar and milk.

All in all I felt we could last another 21 days, after which I would have to go without. The sensible thing would be to call into Flores but, having got this far, I put aside the temptation: it had to be England non-stop now, so I would have to put up with starvation.

Friday, May 15th
. At noon the Azores were 200 miles to the east and in another 80 miles we would pick up the east-flowing Gulf Stream. If becalmed after that, we would drift towards home and not back to Cape Horn. Dawn's light winds strengthened to a westerly five and
Solitaire
started to stretch her legs with the smaller genoa. My fishing line found no takers although three or four turtles drifted by, looking so contented that I knew I could not hurt their feelings by catching, let alone eating, them. As we had made good 90 miles in the past 24 hours, I celebrated with goulash and rice.

S
aturday, May 16th
.
Solitaire
had covered 121 miles in the last 24 hours in mixed conditions: heavy rain, drizzle and sunshine. Fortunately the winds that gusted up to Force 7 were from astern and for which I reduced sail to our number two genoa by itself. Flores Island lay 120 miles east of us with Land's End only another 1,500 miles away by crow. Having no wings
Solitaire
would most likely log 1,700 miles but I would pick up BBC local programmes (perhaps Radio Solent with their weather forecasts and lovely, lovely music) after another 1,000 miles or so. I finished off the goulash and rice.

During the night I had to change down to working jib as the fronts passing through were too strong for the weakened jenny, but
Solitaire
still surfed forward on the top of breaking waves. Temperatures were now in the low 60s and I was back to wearing sweaters and quilted trousers which, once more, were keeping my legs hothouse warm. ‘As I am on my last 5 gallons of water
Solitaire
's floor is now unnaturally clear after so many months of clutter.' Sunday night's dinner consisted of a third of a tin of mince with rice.

Monday, May 18th, was bad. The fronts swept through from NNE to north and we made only 63 miles. The waves she rode yesterday now buried her bow with sheets of cold salt as she tried to stagger forward, halting, burying her hull and breaking free only to be submerged again. I had to put three reefs in the main and hoist the storm jib as the BBC reported that gales were sweeping England's south coast. Then my rice deliberately jumped
off the stove onto the deck, so dinner had to consist of mince, brown rice and gritty carpet.

We passed over Chaucer Bank on Tuesday when the winds dropped to 5 but with only 15 fathoms under our keel, the sea ran high accompanied by a heavy swell. Week 45 ended with a run of 572 miles.

Land's End was 1,030 miles away on Wednesday, May 20th, but I smelt green fields despite spending the day under a grey overcast sky trying to place a misty sun on an indifferent horizon. As we cleared the shallows, the wind dropped, the sea flattened and
Solitaire
glided through banks of fog, a ghost ship returning from the dead. I started to tidy up, cleaned the cabin and heads, and found some yellow cloth with which to make a Q flag for the Customs man. Able to spare a little sugar and powdered milk, I fried it into a sticky toffee, not my favourite sweet but at least something to suck. For dinner I opened another tin of mince and took out my rationed third.
Solitaire
made 82 miles in silence.

Thursday, May 21st, saw us glide 113 miles, drifting in peace more or less in the middle of the Gulf Stream to Land's End, 1,000 miles ahead. Dinner: mince and rice.

Friday, May 22nd, bit off another 121 miles despite a stormy night when I reduced to working jib only. During the morning the weather cleared, leaving a high swell behind, but the winds stayed around six and seven. I left
Solitaire
to do all the work while I sat contentedly below as we rolled along under the smaller jenny, thankful for the luxury of a following wind. For dinner, the last of the mince with, you guessed it, rice.

Saturday, May 23rd, saw us bowling along in rough seas under broken cloud, content to sit below out of the flying spray while
Solitaire
chopped 130 miles off our voyage under working jib. For dinner I had a change, one third of tinned beef and...

Sunday, May 24th
. Gale force winds and high breaking waves made sights impossible but we made good progress with just the working jib on a broad reach. Log shows 125 miles in the last 24 hours. Dinner: guess.

Monday, May 25th
. Squally winds from the north as we reached with working jib and three-reefed mainsail. I picked up the BBC last night and for the first time in nearly 11 months, actually heard a local English station. Batteries, like the crew, were nearly worn out. By day I could pick up Irish commercial stations, which proved we were in the right ocean, and managed some sights that confirmed yesterday's dead reckoning. Dinner: minced beef and rice served with curry powder.

Tuesday, May 26th, saw the end of week 46 with 124 miles in the past 24 hours, 801 for the week, 27,856 in all, which
Solitaire
could have bettered with more help from me. We still had the working jib up with three-reefed main as the winds gusted from the north. Were I not so tired we could have been tearing along on a reach with a single reef. I was feeling the cold, perhaps because my blood was so thin. Better that I kept what strength I had for sailing up the English Channel, with its heavy shipping, even if we lost a few miles. Land's End was now only 420 miles away. Soon I'd be with parents and friends, I thought – may they please feed me with anything but rice, bloody rice.

Wednesday, May 27th
. The winds died during the night but still we managed 90 miles turning east for the English Channel. When I tried to start the motor that morning, I found the tank had rusted and lost 7 gallons of fuel. Luckily I had 8 gallons of diesel in plastic containers so I disconnected the fuel line from the tank and fed it directly into one container and, after bleeding the system, the motor started without fuss. The sky became hazy with a weak sun apologetically trying to force a way through. Warmly wrapped I settled in the cockpit listening to BBC music before starting my last tin of mince, after which I would have only rice, the chink in my armour.

Thursday, May 28th
.
Just before dark the wind strengthened and the main started to slam. Instead of dashing on deck I dithered and the sail's seam ripped open just below a reefing point after 28,026 miles of constant use and only a few hundred miles from home. I replaced it with the mainsail from our first world voyage rather than waste time with a repair. Wednesday had not been
one of our better days, what with the fuel tank and then the sail. Dinner consisted of curry powder on mince. Land's End was now 240 miles away.