Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed

by Les Powles

  The main event of our Atlantic crossing took place on September 23rd, at precisely 1400 hours GMT. It would be many weeks before I learned the importance of this day and the changes it would make to my life. All that is recorded in the ship’s log for that day is ‘Distance travelled 2,442 miles. Latitude 23°41´North.’ From then on things would happen that made no sense. I would go over incidents again and again, sometimes believing I was losing my sense of reason as I tried to understand why, after things had gone so well, suddenly I seemed unable to do anything right.

  I kept pushing Solitaire south but the reduction in latitude was too slow and simply would not agree with the compass course or dead reckoning. I checked the compass against that on the RDF set but both gave similar readings. I went over my latitude figures repeatedly, always getting the same answer. It could not be my method of working out sights whose correctness I had confirmed long since. I tried to remember where the fast-flowing Gulf Stream started its journey north: I knew its current sometimes reached 5 knots but I had no charts to guide me and the sea tells no secrets. Could it be I was under the influence of the Bermuda Triangle, where ships and aircraft had vanished, perhaps, it was suggested, as the result of large compass variations? Day after day we pushed further south into dangers that would subsequently make me shudder at my stupidity.

  As the trade winds began to drop we had periods of calm punctuated by vicious squalls, the first of which started at night. Previously there had been light rain squalls but these were something quite different. I would wake up in the night to an eerie silence. Suddenly, screaming winds would start whistling in Solitaire’s rigging, whereupon she would come off her broad reach and luff up. I would dash on deck naked, stopping only to throw on a life harness, to find sheets of warm water pounding the sea flat. I would drop the mainsail and within a few seconds all would be normal, with Solitaire back on course under a clear, starry sky, as if nothing had happened.

  Two days later I saw these squalls for what they were – seemingly atom bomb mushrooms, starting at sea level and spreading upwards to blank out the sun. Normally I would drop the mainsail as quickly as possible and free the genoa sheets if it seemed the squall would blow for any length of time. Later I was to question many seamen how they reacted. One said he merely allowed the yacht to luff up, arguing that you were through a squall quicker than trying to run with it. Most of those I spoke to seemed to drop or slacken sail. During this confusion and despondency, I learned a lot about the sea, Solitaire and myself.

  One day we were beating into a breaking sea with a long swell, Solitaire’s bow being thrown high in the air every now and then, only for her to fall back, burying her nose, waves streaming up her decks towards the cockpit. I needed to take off the large genoa that was driving her into these seas to slow her down, but as I have never been a strong swimmer (a cross between a breast-stroker and a dog-paddler) I did not fancy going forward for a ducking. In the middle of a sail change Solitaire started to lift and, just as I thought she was about to take off in flight, we started down again. Seas broke over the bows, whirling first around my feet and then my chest. I grabbed the forestay in panic, drawing in each breath as though it were my last, before sinking into a green world, which sucked me away from Solitaire. Water filled my nose and I choked. After what seemed like a lifetime I was lifted clear, terrified, trying to draw breath into burning lungs, spitting out mouthfuls of neat sea.

  At that moment, strangely, I stopped being afraid. My fear was replaced by anger and I screamed obscenities, using every backstreet gutter word I could remember, even managing to invent a few. Within minutes using hand-like steel claws, I had changed sails and was back in the cockpit, sucking the salt from my lips which I spat over the side.

  ‘You bloody bitch,’ I said. It was not until I had towelled myself down, and was sitting with a cup of tea, that my hands stopped shaking. Then I began to think about the strange chap I had met on the foredeck, this Jekyll and Hyde character. If I could control him and harness his anger to give me the strength to survive, I would have learned another valuable lesson which must serve me well.

  At ten o’clock that night, October 13th, after being at sea for 57 days and having logged 4,340 miles, a lighthouse flashed which should not have been there. By dead reckoning, we were still 200 miles from Barbados. Our noon sight that day had put us 14°40´N, more than 80 miles above the island. My sole chart, which covered the whole Caribbean, reduced Barbados from 20 miles to one inch, and showed two lighthouses but no flashing codes. I decided to sail down the island to pick up the other light but soon thought better of it and headed out to sea to await morning.

  Dawn found Solitaire sailing on a southerly course parallel to an island with sandy beaches, palm trees and hills in the distance. A few dhow-type vessels about 40ft long with large triangular sails made of odd pieces of material were in sight, each with two or three dark-skinned men on board whose curiosity made them come alarmingly close. By noon, sea and sky had taken on the same shade of blue, the horizon hazy.

  Despite problems in getting a decent sight it appeared to confirm the previous day’s latitude. Using my RDF set I was surprised to pick up a loud SLI Morse signal, which indicated I had sailed above the Barbados Islands and was cruising down the coast of Martinique with St Lucia to the south. Although I had no radio codes for the area, that would surely account for the SLI call sign. Barbados then was 90 miles to the south-east. Although it meant retracing my steps, I decided to sail there because a young girl had once said it was 100 miles to Falmouth and her laughter still rang in my ears.

  Since we were sailing into open seas I slept well that night. In fact I even had a lie-in, made a leisurely cup of tea and came out of the cabin yawning. A glance at the compass revealed we were still on course with the trailing log behaving satisfactorily and the self-steering working well. To starboard I was surprised to see land about 3 miles away but, over the bow, Solitaire was facing huge breaking seas. The cup scalded my legs as I dropped it scrambling over the hatchboards. I was halfway to the tiller when the air filled with flying spray. As there was no time to tack I fled below, slamming the sliding hatch: for a moment silence endorsed a shortlived sense of relief, then the earth spun out of orbit as Solitaire was lifted sideways. Believing this a new game, she went willingly, flying in her eagerness to please until struck viciously by a gigantic hammer, which stopped her dead, knocking her legs from under her. And I heard a baby howl...

  In the cabin movement was too fast for the eye to register. As the boat fell on her side, I found myself on the floor: lockers burst open and I was bombarded by books, tins, bottles. Whatever could fall fell and sea water gushed in.

  The seas had her, like a tiger bringing down a fawn, swinging her in a complete circle. She shrieked. I tried to escape through the hatch but solid water flung me back to the floor, the cabin darkened by green shades that covered its windows. Now she was dragged sideways, leaving skin and blood on jagged rocks, and crying in her agony, but there was nothing I could do for her. Trying to restore sanity to this madness, I picked up a book from the shambles to blank out her screams.

  Then her cries changed to defiance, although the sea still pushed her sideways. Now she was riding with the blows, staggering to her feet after each knockdown. She would take stumbling steps, sit down, then quickly push herself upright, complaining the while at such treatment. Again and again she was slammed down but with each knockdown her stubbornness increased until, after being turned again in a complete circle, she finished up standing when the noise subsided. She stood there swaying, quietly sobbing, but on her feet and proud.

  I slid back the hatch cover and emerged shamefaced, embarrassed by the dangers I had left her to face alone and bitterly repentant of my hope that some small part of her would be found so that my family would not spend years wondering if I were alive or dead. From the cockpit her decks appeared to have been swept clean: dinghy, fuel containers, spray dodgers... all had disappeared. Later I found them ha
nging over the side secured by old bits of lashing. The mast still stood, heavy spray running off the untorn sails like rivers of tears. The battens in the main had broken and the headsail sheets flew free but were intact.

  A glance into the cabin showed the wreck that had been my home. Rubbish floated in deep water, not as bad as I had thought, locked below, when I would have sworn she was half-full. That had been with Solitaire on her side. Now that she was upright water ran to her bilges, reducing the level. The boat was held in soft sand. The reef she had survived lay to one side, the distant shore to the other, the sea brown and shallow. After hauling everything back on board and securing, I started pumping, but as it took an age to clear the water in the cabin, I feared her hull might be cracked. The tiller was jammed to one side, but by pushing with both feet I managed to centralise it and the plywood weather vane on my self-steering gear had broken but I could soon fit a spare.

  Solitaire started to come alive again, and with a little encouragement she might even be away. I thought of using the motor, but after that pounding doubted it would ever start until I turned the key. The engine gave a half-turn and roared into life. Solitaire shuddered with pleasure and as I pulled in her sails she leaned, sighed and moved. I felt her sweating forehead on my cheek as she whispered in our secret language, forgiving me my faults and weaknesses. Life was full again – the music of Bach, the birth of Christ. It was Christmas, Christmas Day in October. We were off to Barbados.

  Solitaire edged her way nervously back along the reef where the echo sounder gave no reading. The distant water seemed even shallower, so we stayed close in, eyeing the sea warily lest it brought on fresh assaults. Salt water and spray still showered us but as we rounded the end of the reef the air cleared and I could see again.

  The first thing I spotted was a green and white sail. ‘Americans,’ I thought, setting off in hot pursuit. I wanted to inspect for damage and clean up the mess below so, as she was holding a good course, I switched off the motor and let the self-steering take over. Water oozed through the cabin floor and worriedly I started pumping again. We were still in sandy seas that stretched to the horizon, the echo sounder occasionally registering a few feet. Old Green Sails was even closer inshore. Still trying to catch him, we rounded a headland with a lighthouse perched on it but the other craft pulled away and disappeared. Where had this land come from? I tried the RDF again and the SLI signal came through loud and clear as ever. I checked the chart. Martinique had coral banks halfway down its east coast: a lighthouse was shown a few miles north of these. Maybe we had hit these banks and rounded the light so I decided to follow the coast.

  At noon the horizon was even hazier with no chance of a sight. Then a second island appeared which, if we were sailing down the west coast of Martinique, had to be St Lucia. I decided to pass between the two and then head for Barbados. A few hours later I realised that these islands were merging and that we were entering the mouth of a river! At that point I realised I badly needed help for there was nothing in the Caribbean that looked like this.

  Solitaire was sailing in shallow waters where the charts showed 50 fathoms or more. The riverbanks continued to close in on us, now 3–4 miles apart. Small open fishing boats and canoes appeared with the same patched triangular sails I had noted on the earlier vessels. I closed them, pointing downriver, and shouting ‘Harbour’, which brought only smiles and shrugs. Then I tried shouting ‘Porto’ at which they waved me on.

  Moving through the same dirty brown water the echo sounder read 7–8ft. Now and again Solitaire would hesitate as we touched soft sand but in no way put out she would shake herself and continue on her way. A Spanish-style village began to appear above a bay to starboard, first a church, then white buildings with red-tiled roofs, and finally a jetty with a flat-bottomed canopied boat tied to it. A walled road ran up a hill, with people lining it. I attempted to anchor but such was the current it would not hold and Solitaire was swept towards the shore which made me decide to carry on upriver and find another haven.

  Just before dark the river ended in forest. I dropped anchor and was contemplating inflating the dinghy and rowing ashore when a canoe appeared manned by a man with a dirty cloth at his waist tucked between hairy legs. He passed with thrusting strokes, bulging muscles and furtive looks. A forked spear lay in the bottom of the canoe, most likely for fishing. Holy cow, I thought, I wouldn’t like to meet him on a dark night, so decided to stay where I was.

  It had been a long day but there was still much to do. For the first time since the knockdown I dried out Solitaire, including her bilges. Water had been coming in pretty fast and I had been pumping her every 2 or 3 hours without tracing its point of entry.

  By now it was dark and the sky full of stinging insects. Thinking of food I went below into an oven where I managed a cup of tea but spent so much time defending myself with flailing arms that food was not worth the effort. Perhaps those tropical marauders fancied some real English roast beef. I closed the hatch and slept so deeply that dragon bites would not have wakened me. When I came to at dawn, my face was puffed and swollen. Having feasted heartily off me through the night, the dragons had limped off home – gorged. Now all I wanted was to get back to sea. The trip upriver had taken six hours. Two days later, after forcing a way back through thick, brown chocolate, I was to remember those few hours as pleasurable!

  At first the return was not too bad. In the cool of early morning I hoisted the sails and started the engine. At the end of each tack I would simply turn the self-steering onto its new course and stand with a genoa sheet in each hand, letting go on one, taking up on the other as we came through the wind. The slow-running engine kept her moving as she came about, easing her through any soft sand. Hard-in sails helped her to heel, which lifted the keel slightly. Every now and again I would pump the bilges but progress was slow.

  The mid-day sun reflected off a burning deck. Standing in the cockpit was uncomfortable even in a minimal shirt and shorts as I sought relief from the hot breeze, quite unconscious of the sun’s damage to my skin and eyes. The previous night’s bites were now sore and itching and when darkness fell we still had not reached the village. I tried to continue sailing but islands of hard-packed sand constantly delayed Solitaire. When we ran hard into one particularly shallow patch, I called it a day, anchored and made tea, for again I could not face food. All I wanted was the night’s cool comfort. Bliss... then the dragons arrived for another feast.

  I sailed next morning as soon as I could make out the shoreline. The river began to widen and by noon Solitaire was a mile or two beyond the village, still running into islands of hard packed sand just below the surface that were impossible to see. Normally they did not cause too much concern: we invariably hit them on their downriver side and the wind soon floated us off again. Then, after running into one soft patch, Solitaire’s motor stopped. The engine uses seawater as a coolant but the muck we were sailing in did not agree with its digestion, so it overheated and gave up the fight. Lacking its thrust we drifted astern and finished on the wrong side of a hard-packed island. For the first time since leaving England I inflated the dinghy and stepped off Solitaire, dropping our anchor with 200ft of rope in deep water.

  A few fishing boats closed to see what was going on. One came alongside with a crew of three who I invited aboard Solitaire and gave them cigarettes, the first people I had spoken to since the lost souls on the ketch off Falmouth. Not that I could understand these men’s language. I felt they had originally come from Spain or Brazil, and spoke Portuguese or heavily-accented Spanish. Peasants in rolled-up trousers, secured by string, they wore tattered shirts and, above all, battered straw hats – which I envied. One or two of the words they used I recognised, ‘please’, ‘yes’, ‘no’, with which I tried to obtain my whereabouts.

  One pointed to me and asked, ‘Saint Lucia?’

  Getting somewhere at last, I thought. I shook my head and said, ‘Barbados.’ Waving in the general direction of the DF signal, I asked ‘S
aint Lucia?’

  To this they all nodded their heads enthusiastically. I fetched my chart of the Caribbean, and pointed to my position. It was as if it had a curse, they would not even look. I kept pushing it under their noses, pleading, ‘Please, señor.’

  Then I noticed Solitaire was leaning further over, a foot of sand showing around her. It could not be happening. The Caribbean has no such tide. My guests sat back smoking and smiled confidently, waiting for Solitaire to float. I watched the miracle of the waters rising until she pulled on her anchor line and swung into deep chocolate whereupon I farewelled the fishermen, hauled up the sails, and again started reaching for blue waters.

  Within an hour it was dark but the river grew wider as we tacked by the stars. I nipped below and made tea, putting marmalade on a cheese biscuit. Next moment I was spread-eagled over the forward bulkhead. Solitaire had hit an island and was on her side. Before I had time to panic, a wave had picked her up and gently deposited her in deep water where she continued serenely as though nothing had happened. That would teach me to go below without permission.

  As I picked up the lighthouse and made towards it, I started to hear a strange but familiar sound I could not place. Dropping sails, I put down the anchor and, head on tiller, fell asleep having sailed and pumped for nearly 40 fasting hours. Dawn found us close inshore, a shore covered by bushes. Then I remembered and recognised the sound I had heard: crickets! Once clear of the land, I studied my chart, trying to identify the coast with the compass. Nothing made sense. There was no river that size on Martinique, nothing like it in all the Caribbean, the brown water too shallow, the tides quite wrong, the land too flat.

  I could not just sit there; we had to sail in some direction. I would sail north, back the way we had come, so I brought Solitaire onto that heading. But that could not be right, we must sail south and home in on the RDF to St Lucia. I turned Solitaire south. In the end I was changing course every few minutes and circling, circling. I gave up, apologised to Solitaire, made tea and ate my marmalade biscuits. Since first hitting the reef three days ago I had accomplished nothing. The trip downriver had ended with me burned by the sun and savagely bitten.