Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed

by Les Powles

  For my younger brother, Royston. A loving and devoted son.

  CONTENTS

  Foreword

  Part One First Time Round

  Chapter One On a Whim or a Wind’s Whisper

  Chapter Two Which Way Barbados?

  Chapter Three the Hallelujah Chorus

  Chapter Four Tying the Knot

  Part Two Squaring the Account

  Chapter Five Land of Hope and Glory

  Chapter Six Feeling the Old Freedom

  Chapter Seven Screams in the Rigging

  Chapter Eight Christmas Alone

  Chapter Nine Lost

  Chapter Ten Yachtsman of the Year

  Part Three Third Time Lucky

  Chapter Eleven Hands Open

  Chapter Twelve Breaking Out

  Chapter Thirteen No Regrets

  Epilogue Away Again

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  by Paul Gelder

  Editor of Yachting Monthly, 2002–2012

  This book should probably carry a government health warning. It could change your life. For many people, sailing beyond the horizon is the ultimate adventure, whether alone, or with a partner or crew. The inspiration to cast off comes in many forms. For some it might be a book, like this one, or a hero they have met, or some more intangible, divine intervention. Intrepid solo sailor Mike Richey once said it was ‘the splendid company at either end of a solitary voyage’ that gave him part of the reason. The ocean in between gave him ‘a kind of harmony with the universe’.

  Les Powles’ Eureka moment happened as he walked along a yacht club’s pontoon. He realised a sailing boat symbolised escape: freedom from mortgage, the bank manager and a career, plus a means to transport himself and a set of golf clubs around the globe.

  He spent £7,000 and two years building a bullet-proof 34ft yacht named Solitaire, after the card game. But the cards were stacked against Les from the start. After logging just eight hours’ sailing time, only two of them solo, he impetuously – some might say recklessly – set off across the Atlantic in 1975, bound for the Caribbean.

  He described how he sailed to the wrong hemisphere in his first published article, ‘Barbados or bust’, which appeared in Yachting Monthly magazine. The sub-title was ‘Les Powles has trouble at the 19th hole’. His landfall turned out to be in Brazil, some 1,000 miles south of Barbados! The magazine’s editor, Des Sleightholme, was careful to add a footnote: ‘A highly amusing account that could have been far from funny. Mr Powles was lucky to get through with his life and his boat and learned from his experience. We would not condone anyone attempting anything similar to this voyage.’

  Never underestimate British pluck and the spirit of adventure. We breed intrepid lone voyagers – from Francis Chichester and Robin Knox-Johnston to Chay Blyth, Mike Golding, Ellen MacArthur and Dee Caffari. A psychologist has profiled this unique band of brothers and sisters as ‘impulsive, certainly eccentric, though not entirely barking mad’. Though it’s surely no coincidence that the title of one best-selling sailing book is A Voyage for Madmen.

  After surviving his first circumnavigation (1975–8), Les set off two years later on a second (this time non-stop) and returned in 1981 to be awarded the Yachtsman of the Year accolade by the Yachting Journalists’ Association. He joked: ‘Like the chap released from a mental home, I now had a certificate to say I was not completely bonkers!’

  In June 1988, aged 67, he set off on his third solo circumnavigation, returning eight years later in July 1996, to be awarded the Ocean Cruising Club’s Award of Merit. By now dubbed ‘the Ancient Mariner’, this third epic voyage was, as usual, packed with incident. He was knocked unconscious, ran out of food and lost 5st, having rationed himself to a quarter of a tin of corned beef and two teaspoonfuls of rice a day. He was given up for dead before he eventually sailed into Lymington, four months overdue, to a media frenzy. Newspaper headlines proclaimed ‘Alive! (thanks to a teacup in a storm)’ and ‘Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated’. The Daily Mail reporter said: ‘He is so thin you could play a sea shanty on his ribs.’ As weather-beaten as his 34ft sloop, Les, 70, finally declared: ‘I’m not going round the world again. Three times is enough. You start to get giddy.’

  It was fear, as well as a crazy kind of courage, that inspired Les to sail around the globe three times. He had no desire to be one of ‘tomorrow’s people’ – whom he characterised as ‘We’re off tomorrow... when we’ve bought a new mainsail. We’re off tomorrow... when we’ve painted the topsides. We’re off tomorrow... when we’ve bought a bigger boat.’

  He foresaw the final excuse: ‘We’re off in a hearse.’

  Now aged 86, Les still lives on his boat, in Lymington Yacht Haven, on the Solent, where he has a free berth for life. He has recently been seen re-painting the decks of Solitaire. He still calls himself an ‘amateur sailor’ and he still has that knowing twinkle in his eye. Above all else, he still remains an inspiration.

  Part One

  First Time Round

  Chapter One

  On a Whim or a Wind’s Whisper

  Lymington

  1975

  From a deep sleep to panic: Christ, she’s aground on the reef again! Struggling from my bunk on legs that will not respond, I hear a baby’s cry and a man’s soothing voice, speaking in a language I cannot understand. Trying to pierce the gloom through sweat-filled eyes, I realise I am no longer aboard my sinking boat, but bed-bound in a small white room. Moonlight through a window touches wall-mounted posters about pregnancy before outlining rafters that disappear into blackness. Then memory floods back.

  The population of Tutóia, a small fishing village on the Brazilian coast, had increased that day with the birth of a child howling its first protest at the same moment that a wreck of a man lay near to gasping his last. I had been half carried, half dragged from my boat and into their hospital, blister-faced, with feet infected and groin swollen. Sailing, I had once read, was a peaceful pastime punctuated by moments of extreme excitement but after my experience on the reef a week earlier ‘extreme excitement’ seemed the ultimate in understatement. As to those pregnancy posters on my wall the only thing I’d given birth to was a yacht called Solitaire or, as she was registered, Solitaire of Hamble.

  She was conceived in South Africa towards the end of 1968: before this I had spent two years working as a radio engineer in South Yemen where I had taken to golf. But knocking little white balls over the desert held no future and I had flown to South Africa to practise my newly-acquired skills on grass, which led first to employment by an electronics company and then, indirectly, to sailing. One morning I wandered along Point Yacht Club’s jetty in Durban where cruising yachts from all over the world had come to rest, colour splashing from their fluttering flags, and was struck by their freedom. They were not shackled to land by chains whose links were forged by careers, mortgages and fashion: their mooring lines were but spiders’ webs so fragile that they could be broken on a whim or a wind’s whisper. Suddenly I wanted to throw my arms wide and scream at the heavens, ‘YaaaaaaaaHoooooooo!’

  But an Englishman of course doesn’t do that sort of thing, not at ten o’clock on a Sunday morning, not in Durban.

  I gave thought neither to sailing nor to the vessel itself, simply appreciating that a boat could be both home and transport for self, suitcase and a set of golf clubs from A to B at minimal cost. Early 1969 found me back in England with only £2,000 to my name, a sum that was hopelessly inadequate for the sort of boat I coveted. So I took a contract in Saudi Arabia as an aircraft radio engineer and pushed my savings
up to £4,500, only to return home to yet more inflation. At this stage I met a young English couple just back from two years’ sailing in the Mediterranean, who were now off around the world in a beautiful 45ft sloop. Believing them to be experienced I considered myself lucky when asked to act as crew, but we motored most of the way to Gibraltar and I can recollect no single incident or experience that proved useful on subsequent voyages, unless it was a strong desire to sail alone. I would make blunders but they would be mine rather than someone else’s: they were certainly not the yacht’s and never the sea’s, whose roar can burst an eardrum, but, when it comes to excuses, is profoundly deaf. No, I would sail single-handed. Alone.

  After another stint in Saudi Arabia the beginning of 1973 found me possessed of the respectable sum of £8,500, by which time the price of the type of boat I wanted had jumped to more than £12,000. Then I chanced on an advertisement in a yachting magazine: ‘Come to Liverpool and build your own Nor-West 34, hull and deck, £1,300’.

  I promptly made an appointment, and one cold morning in January drove through Liverpool’s leaning dock gates, easing the throttle to prevent tyre slip on the oily cobblestones. The dock’s stagnant waters housed a waste of pans, cans and blackened bottles and on the adjacent rusty railway lines weeds flourished. A mouldering brick building, about 900 x 90ft, with a high sloping roof showing gaping holes, was the boat builders’ headquarters. Two modern cars, parked by high sliding doors, hinted of better things to come inside.

  I edged mine alongside, wondering whether to brave the drizzle that was turning to rain. Making a dash for the doors, I grabbed the padlock and heaved. Nothing happened. Minutes later I was still attempting to get in, only now I was being tried out for Arsenal and taking running kicks at the door. All I wanted was to force my way inside and tell them what they could do with their stupid boat.

  A polite cough as an immaculately-dressed man emerged from a side door. ‘Mr Powles? We’ve been expecting you. My name is Keith Johnson, managing director. This way, please.’

  And he escorted me into this derelict slum as if it was a Hilton Hotel. Inside were two enormous plastic tents. ‘This is where we lay off the hulls: the plastic prevents dust falling onto the resin.’

  All was spoken in a serious voice, despite the heavy rain still soaking us. We moved further into the building in search of a drier spot where, in Nelson’s time, the floor might have been of stone and was now, after centuries of dust, but a puddled dirt surface.

  The managing director still rattled on: ‘We have two plugs for building the hulls, one used by the company, the other for do-it-yourself people. The company can build a hull and deck for £2,500. Have a look: as it happens a couple of our self-building customers are just about to remove the plug from their hull.’ With that he pointed to the far end of the shed where a crane hovered over the vague outline of a boat.

  It was love at first sight. Instinctively I knew this I had to have.

  ‘What’s the specification, Keith?’

  ‘She’s a Bermudan sloop in foam sandwich and glassfibre designed by an Australian, Bruce Roberts. She’s 33ft 6in long, 24ft 6in on her waterline, with a beam of 10ft 6in and a draft of 5ft 6in. Classed as a cruiser racer she can sleep up to seven people.’

  She would have more room than the Contessa 32 that I had seen at the London Boat Show but could not afford, but had the same clean lines as the Contessa with a fine entry, keel and skeg. Though I could not see my wanting ever to sleep seven people aboard her.

  ‘What will she cost complete?’

  ‘Around £4,000 to £5,000, but that’s up to the individual. We charge a basic £1,300, which includes the use of the plug for a month, a female mould for the deck and all building materials, a set of plans and fitting-out instructions and free rent for a month. After that there’s a small charge if you remain longer.’

  I would need a place to live. ‘If I bought a small caravan, could I keep it alongside the hull?’ I asked. A quick nod to that. ‘If I gave you a cheque for a deposit today, when could I start?’

  There was a pause. ‘It’s short notice but you could start in a month’s time.’

  I wrote a cheque for £400.

  The womb that was to develop Solitaire’s embryo would not be safe and warm, but she could still be a beautiful baby and with my £8,500 I would give her the best start I could in life. On the 80-mile drive back to my home town of Birmingham I considered two priorities: first I had to buy a caravan, second I would need help for a few days.

  Having bought a second-hand caravan for £200, I arranged for a school-leaver to spend a week with me, contracting to feed him, to take him to the cinema once, and to pay him £10 in wages. A couple of home-town mates agreed to spend a long weekend helping me to fibreglass in return for a slap-up meal and all the beer they could drink. Ken Mudd and Tony Marshall were both quality control engineers, Ken with British Leyland, Tony with Lucas Electronics. Ken I had met when I worked on guided missiles after returning from Canada in 1956 following the breakup of my first marriage. Tony came on to my scene in 1970 together with his wife, Irene, and their two lovely blonde daughters: their home was to become a workshop and a haven where I was always welcome.

  The plug, or former, looked like an inverted hull built of wooden laths with half-inch gaps. While upside down, sheets of polyurethane foam (up to 3 x 4ft and half an inch thick) are sewn onto it, using a forked ‘bogger’. String is forced through the foam and between the laths, forming a loop into which nails are placed. When tension is applied the nails prevent the string pulling out, forcing the foam hard against the plug, much like a bobbin in a sewing machine.

  The building of Solitaire, as I had already named her, went to schedule. After nine days, thanks to the help from one boy and two friends, the hull was covered with rough fibreglass, which left three weeks of my month for the miserable part – screening and sanding. Talcum powder and resin are mixed to form a paste, then a catalyst (hardener) is added with which to plaster the rough hull.

  For smoothing I hired heavy industrial sanders with vacuum attachments but white dust flew everywhere. I had to dress in overalls, taping the cuffs and trouser bottoms, and wear a face mask and hat. Ghost-like figures would move as if they had fallen into flour vats, self-raising puffs for their feet or shimmering haloes round their heads, careful never to leave the building in their disguise by night lest the local people be diminished by cardiac arrest.

  As the weeks passed the weather warmed and more people started building. The shed became a village community with its own characters: some, like driftwood, bumped alongside briefly, leaving but a faint impression before disappearing. Others would weave themselves into the fabric of my life with acts of kindness and consideration. I would make my own voyages and have my own moments of glory but without such friends it is difficult in retrospect to see how.

  Stan turned up one morning in a 20-ton tipper to build his hull. Until then there had been no facility for removing the mountain of rubbish in the middle of the floor. The rats that infested it grew tame, no longer scurrying away at the approach of a human but stopping to clean their whiskers, lift a paw to their forelocks and give an apologetic half smile, as if to say, ‘Morning, gov’nor.’ This always started my day well, for I would nod and even consider raising a hand in the weak-wristed wave favoured by royalty.

  The yacht builders arranged for a tractor to load our mountain onto Stan’s truck, to be carted away when he left. From then on we threw our waste directly into his lorry. At the end of ten days, Stan’s hull looked great. He and his father had worked hard and had benefited from the experiences of previous builders, even using steel rollers to smooth out the raw fibreglass. Glittering, it stood there, still wet, waiting for the catalyst to dry and harden it. Next morning it was still golden, gleaming and wet, but streams of yellow syrup were falling from its edges into gooey pools. After a week of trying everything including heat and nearly pure hardener, it was finally agreed that the resin was faulty. Since
Stan had already lost three weeks’ work with his truck, he asked for a replacement hull already brought to the same stage as his own. The company offered to supply a man and materials, whereupon Stan rebelled. Next day his tipper had gone, having upended our mountain on the floor, bigger than ever. Only the rats were smiling.

  Bing, a scientist, was helped by two teenage daughters. His keel had been formed along with the hull and was a box section some 8ft long, 3ft deep and 9in in the middle, tapering to rounded ends. This box took two tons of ballast which would prevent the yacht, with sails raised, from flopping onto its side. In theory you could stand the boat on its nose, roll it upside down, or simply drop it from an aircraft and it would still bob right side up. There was a disadvantage: if you ever put a large hole in the bottom of your craft, your life savings would go down like a brick.

  At this time we could use two materials for the keel: iron or lead. The first to build a hull (Berny and Vic) had made a plaster mould of the inside of the keel from which a local foundry would make a 2-ton iron casting for £90. Lead, which took up less room and gave a lower centre of gravity (thus making for a stiffer boat), would have been preferable, but the price was more than double – £250.

  Bing called a meeting and described how we might use the non-active atomic waste, heavier than lead, which the British government was dumping in the North Atlantic. Bing thought we might get a load cheap. We were all keen on the idea until someone asked, ‘Since we will be walking over the stuff, what would happen if it became active?’

  Without hesitation Bing replied, ‘It would have the same effect on your sex life as the loss of your testicles.’

  As I hurried away I said to a newcomer, Rome Ryott, ‘I don’t mind risking one but not both.’

  ‘I’m risking neither!’ said he.

  Rome had arrived in my life with dash and style, driving directly into the building in a sporty red Capri, complete with beautiful blonde passenger. He was tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped and as he walked in with quick, bouncing steps, full of purpose, I fully expected to hear James Bond theme music. His first words were not ‘Anyone for tennis?’ as I had anticipated, but enquiries about the boat he was due to start building the following week. His soft, educated voice had a Wodehouse stutter assumed to give him time to choose his words. He became my closest friend.