Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed (36 page)

Friday, May 29th
.
Becalmed since dawn and all I have left is half a gallon of water, half a tin of mince and less than two cups of rice. And, unable to get them out of my thoughts, I'm worried sick about my family. All morning I have been trying to catch the attention of fishing boats for whom I have made up more messages and charts, asking them to contact my family. They come within a few hundred yards but when I start
Solitaire
's motor and try to close them, they pull away. After a few minutes' chase I lose ground, switch off the engine and lie lonely in a world of mist and lifeless sea.

Dead reckoning shows Land's End approximately 160 miles away bearing 075°, with Bishop Rock in the Scillies on the same bearing 30 miles closer. Had I a good directional radio there would have been no problem pinpointing our position as we were now well within range of British and French stations, but mine was playing up. There was a faint chance it might give some indication when close to the station and assist our Channel passage. For dinner, half a cup of rice with mince-and-curry-powder gravy.

Donning my warmest white sweater I sat in the cockpit while the boat idled on an oily sea, the only sound the faint rattle of her rigging caused by my own movements and disease. I was attracted by movement at the bow which at first I thought was a butterfly but, as it neared, I could see was a small land bird, black in colour with bright blue markings. For a while it performed acrobatics then, having sung for its supper, landed on the foredeck and walked towards me hesitantly, bowing shyly as if unsure of its reception. I slipped below for food, trying not to disturb
Solitaire
for fear of scaring away our visitor. There was little with which to tempt him but a few grains of rice and sugar, which I put on a piece of paper, filling a saucer with fresh water.

Back in the cockpit I feared it had flown away until its head popped from around the mast as though it had been playing hide
and seek. The bird took an age to reach the cockpit, sometimes standing for minutes looking around, ignoring me completely. After gaining a few feet, it would scurry back in panic while I sat motionless. Reaching the cockpit it flew directly onto my knee from where it stared at me, head to one side, then ducked under my sweater and worked its way up until it lay above my heart, its own rapid beats demanding care and protection. Nothing could have made me move, neither storm nor tempest. For hour after hour I sat, unmoving, worried about my family but strangely comforted. For the first time in nearly 11 months,
Solitaire
and I were no longer alone.

Shortly before dark it came out of its hiding place and flew into the cabin. I put on the kettle and worried when the bird settled on its handle, as if still deprived of warmth. I made a nest of cotton wool and placed the food and water beside it.

Then a faint wind sprang up and as I hoisted main and genoa,
Solitaire
started moving, trying to hold a heading for home. With thoughts of more fishing boats in the area I switched on our running light, lay on my bunk and to the faint accompaniment of passing waters, slipped into a restful sleep. I awoke to find
Solitaire
's cabin pitch black. The wind had strengthened and we were moving quickly but the sea was flat so nothing was straining. I checked our course and looked around for shipping before remembering my new shipmate. Finding a torch I searched the cabin, only to discover a fluffy mound on the chart table, head to one side, its eyes finally closed.

Saturday, May 30th
.
No noon sights possible. Since raising sail yesterday we have been beating hard on a Force 5 south-easterly through drizzle and fog, trying to head eastwards but slowly being pushed too far north. Despite being becalmed in the early stages, we have managed to log 100 miles in the past 24 hours and have also picked up faint RDF signals putting us 20 miles north-west of Bishop Rock, which means
Solitaire
will now have to sail 40 miles south in poorish conditions to round the Scillies. The winds are gusting and swinging a good deal with mist and rain, so visibility
is minimal. Instead of cutting through the shipping lanes at right angles, we will be sailing down them. It's going to be a bad night. To prove it, I dine on half a cup of rice and the last of the mince – with curry powder. All I have left now is half a cup of rice.

Sunday, May 31st
.
Some 87 miles logged in the past 24 hours but thanks to tacking back and forth, our forward progress has been only 40 miles. At noon we are 30 miles south of the Scilly Isles, becalmed and bewildered, sails sagging under a blanket of drizzle. For dinner, a quarter cup of rice mixed with sugar and powdered milk, which makes two mouthfuls. Thank goodness I can still enjoy a cup of tea.

Monday, June 1st
.
Logged 81 miles with more tacking into strong gusting winds from the ESE accompanied by heavy rain.
Solitaire
is sailing as close to the wind as possible but a short, choppy sea sends up sheets of spray. Water is now very short but unless I turn and run with the wind, there's no way I can catch any. Noon position by faint RDF and dead reckoning shows us 10 miles beyond and 30 miles below Lizard Point, with Lymington less than 150 miles away. Both RDF and portable radio have heavy background noise, which suggests there's a storm about. For dinner another quarter cup of rice mixed with curry powder to make a weak soup, a terrible recipe! Wind is still increasing as I try to round Prawle Point but, without tide tables, find it impossible to calculate the current. With luck I'll be with friends and talking on the phone to Mom and Dad very soon. I propose lying alongside Lymington Town Quay until I have talked to Customs about the money I owe them.

Tuesday, June 2nd
.
At 0400 GMT Prawle Point light is flashing 5 miles due north and with dawn the outline of land appears, the first I have seen for 326 days. Since noon yesterday conditions have been ghastly and the radio is reporting the worst storms for 20 years with lightning turning night into day. Strong winds have died, only to allow heavy downpours of rain. Our deck and running lights vanish as a blinding zigzag flashes across a black sky, destroying my night vision. I imagine
Solitaire
being found at dawn,
her mast struck by lightning, a burned, shrivelled figure at the tiller. My trailing log line was cut during the night and I had no spare, but we were only 90 miles from Lymington and once past the Portland Bill tide race, we could move inshore and follow the coastline.

Scenting she was nearly home,
Solitaire
moved effortlessly over a flat sea and as the wind fell, the mist lifted. Then Lyme Bay fell away from us and we could no longer see the land. As we neared Portland, the Royal Navy started to appear and a couple of submarines swept down our side. By noon we were 20 miles from Portland Bill but land was still invisible. Late that afternoon the wind dropped completely, the sun emerged and the mist lifted. For the first and only time in the English Channel I took a sun sight, which put us east of Portland, time to come on course for Lymington.

No matter what happened I wanted to be home the following day. For dinner I had eaten a spoonful of rice with powdered milk and sugar. Now there was nothing. As the sun set we picked up a faint breeze from the west and
Solitaire
crept home like a runaway child, uncertain of its reception.

My own feelings, too, were confused. I dreaded my return to bureaucracy with the problem of deciding how
Solitaire
and I should spend each day. Once alongside, and after phoning my parents, my every move would be controlled by strangers. Customs officials would see a battered salt-encrusted yacht with a skeleton trying to form words for the first time in nearly a year, trying to explain that he had no money with which to pay the duty on torn sails. They might feel sympathetic but, responsible to higher authority and books of rules and regulations, what could they do?

After that I would have to phone the solicitor. Had there been any way of avoiding courts I would have taken it, but I was in too deep. The best I could hope for now was that, since I had sailed non-stop around the world and proved my point about the rejected sails, the manufacturer might wish to settle out of court. If I could get back my money speedily and sell my spare self-steering gear, I could leave England for America in two to three months' time.
By August
Solitaire
and I might be free. Some time before I had decided that for my next voyage I would sail to Newport, Rhode Island, following the course Rome had taken on his transatlantic trip. After that I would sail down the inland waterway and cruise in Chesapeake Bay before setting out for Cape Town and the Christmas tree in Hobart Square.

I started the motor, reduced the throttle until it throbbed in a contented tick-over, and held a close-hauled course for the Needles, 25 miles away. The 3 knots we were making meant a dawn arrival. Perfect. I spent the night in the cockpit watching the shore lights to port and ships' navigation lights to starboard. I was tired and the slow beat of the engine made me feel sufficiently secure to nod off from time to time, only to jerk upright. Just before the dawn I must have drifted into deep slumber for on awakening all signs of life had disappeared.
Solitaire
's engine still held its constant beat as she pushed through banks of fog but our course had changed slightly, taking us farther south into the shipping lanes. Without a trailing log I had no idea how far we had travelled, but when I tried the RDF I heard a weak signal from St Catherine's Point, halfway down the Isle of Wight, and decided to home in on it.

With dawn the sky lightened and the fog eased. When we broke out of one bank the white cliffs of St Catherine's lay off our bow, and the greens and golds of patchwork fields greeted me for the first time in 329 days. In the small box-like homes ashore well-fed people drank water that flowed from taps, talking together with faces that showed love and kindness and caring. After so long with only the background noise of wind and sea and the expressionless front of a portable radio, we were close to the old sounds, of a footstep, the bark of a dog. When the wind blew, it would no longer start the blood racing; we would hear only the rustle of leaves in bending trees.

I turned
Solitaire
north-west, following the island's shoreline to the Needles Channel 10 miles away. Tipping the last of my water into the kettle, I washed my face with some and boiled the rest to make a final cup of tea with my last tea bag. Now we had
neither food nor water, just half a cup of sugar and a quarter tin of condensed milk.

From the Needles I turned into the Channel past Hurst Castle, where I dropped the mainsail and put on its sail cover, then stowed the headsail and sheets, making ready the berthing lines and fenders.

At 9.15am on Wednesday, June 3rd, 1981,
Solitaire
nodded to the line of buoys she had last seen on July 9th, 1980. I intended carrying on to the Town Quay, with its public mooring, but the thought of the people in Lymington Yacht Haven proved too tempting. As I neared the entrance I weakened, pushing over the tiller, and
Solitaire
swept down the lines of moored yachts towards the visitors' berth.

A solitary figure awaited us. Keith Parris had been the last person I had spoken to when I left; it was appropriate he should be the first to welcome me home.

‘Where the hell have you been?' was his greeting.

People were lining the upstairs' balcony, many of them old friends. When I arrived in the office, they had already phoned Customs. The good news was that the VAT I had been worrying about since round Cape Horn was payable only on the sails' value and, after a voyage around the world, that was nil.

As soon as practicable I rang my family. My father, over the moon, spoke first, having long since given me up for lost. Then I asked to speak to my mother, only to learn that she had died eight weeks earlier.

Keith gently wondered if there was anything my friends could do. They had all known about Mom, but not how to break the news to me. So I returned to
Solitaire
and made my last entry in the log:

Wednesday, June 3rd, 1981
.
0915 GMT. The end of week 47 after 329 days and 28,496 miles at sea. Arrived Lymington Yacht Haven and learned that my mother has died.

Solitaire
had shown me the world. Now I was lost.

Lymington

1981–3

When bound for sea, or immediately after returning from it, there is a period of transition between the known hazards of life ashore and the less predictable problems of those afloat. For me the process had reversed: I accepted the solitary life of single-handedness that posed questions without always providing answers, an existence that for me could mean a shortage of food and fresh water, the rancid smell of unwashed clothes, with a circling albatross or a dancing dolphin my only companions. I was less certain of existence back ashore.