Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed

by Les Powles

  However, I soon managed to get us in trouble again. I dropped the hook about 20ft from a structure of girders but was suspicious of Solitaire’s position in the fast current. If I attempted to lift the anchor again or she started dragging, we could find ourselves trying to climb over the top of the sunken German ship. On the girders, wearing green overalls and plastic helmet, stood a black man, looking for all the world as if he had been working on a New York skyscraper when it had sunk.

  After my experiences in Brazil I knew you could work wonders with the odd packet of English cigarettes, so I waved a pack in his direction, making a diving and swimming action with arms, shouted ‘Amigo’ and waved him over. His eyebrow merely lifted, whereupon I increased my offers to two packs, still without joy. Perhaps he could not swim? The solution was easy: I would throw him a rope which he could tie onto a girder. I would then pull Solitaire over and he could lift the anchor while I steered. My throw was perfect, landing plumb at his feet at which he raised the other eyebrow. We both watched with interest as the current slowly snaked the rope back again. After three more perfect throws I grew despondent.

  ‘For Pete’s sake, will you please tie the rope to the girder,’ I cried.

  To my surprise he picked it up and secured it. Roy turned out to be the dockyard foreman and spoke excellent English, Paramaribo’s second language, probably because the Americans run most things there. Roy took me to the Dutch manager who could not do enough. The structure Roy had been standing on was part of a dry dock for lifting prawn trawlers. Solitaire could be hauled out at the same time at no expense to me but I turned down the kindly offer, wanting to push on to Panama.

  The only other cruising yacht in port at the same time belonged to a Frenchman, Stephen, who with his wife and young daughter was preparing to leave on the out-going tide when I arrived. I was invited on board to share their last meal before they sailed: steak, salad and bread washed down by fresh milk! They put me ashore with the last of the steak in a crusty roll. As I let go their lines, Stephen asked what my next port of call would be.

  ‘British Guiana,’ I replied.

  Stephen’s mournful plea came back: ‘Oooooh, Leslie, don’t go there. Very bad people. You will be robbed.’

  So I said, ‘Right, I’ll go to Trinidad.’

  ‘Oooooh, Leslie, don’t go there. You’ll be robbed.’

  So I asked where they were going.

  ‘Grenada in the Caribbean,’ they said.

  ‘Right,’ I shouted, waving goodbye with my steak sandwich. ‘I’ll see you there.’

  My stay in Paramaribo, thanks to my first real taste of American hospitality, was longer than expected. They were either visiting Solitaire or taking me to a barbecue party, the movies or whatever. I bought what tinned food I could afford, always looking for the cheapest buy which did not always pay off as I had to throw away a dozen tins of canned mackerel. The Dutch manager presented me with oranges and a sack of grapefruit. My last day in Paramaribo was spent chiselling through Solitaire’s cabin floor and reinforcing the cracked hull with fibreglass.

  The 500 miles voyage to Grenada took eight weary days. The currents between the islands are strong and as Grenada had no RDF station and those available on other islands were weak, dead reckoning became paramount. The last two days brought heavy rain with bad visibility which cleared up at midnight on December 16th when a large black cloud appeared on the horizon with a star in the middle – Grenada with a house light high up in the hills.

  At dawn I motored to St George’s main anchorage where I performed my usual party piece of putting Solitaire on a reef. To be fair I don’t think we should count this one as another yacht was coming out, leaving insufficient room for two boats to pass. Solitaire, the perfect lady, stepped to one side and we had virtually stopped when there was a crunching sound and Solitaire rolled from side to side, shaking her mast as if to say, ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Instantly a flotilla of small craft, power boats, yachts, gin palaces, even rowing boats, tore out as if they had been awaiting our arrival, the air filled with flying ropes and people clambered over our decks attaching them to every conceivable place. Within minutes, Solitaire was swinging to her anchor, dazed by so much attention. Where, I wanted to know, had they been when I needed them in Brazil?

  We had just got shipshape when I heard ‘Ooooh, Leslie’ from a dinghy racing towards me. ‘Ooooh, Leslie, I’ve been robbed,’ said Stephen, which had me in stitches.

  The following night I was laughing on the other side of my face. Men would silently raft around the anchored yachts by night intent on robbery, so it was unwise to leave craft unattended. New arrivals were quickly made aware of the danger and, in turn, I had already warned another crew that day.

  I had met David, an American, through his English crew member, and had been invited to his yacht Rolling Stone for dinner that night. David had built his boat in England before sailing across the Atlantic to pick up his parents and a girlfriend for a holiday. I thought Solitaire, anchored no more than 40 yards away, was safe enough since I could still keep an eye on her and, for added protection, fitted strings to the deck light switch and attached them to the sliding hatches. There was a good crowd on Rolling Stone and for a while I sat drinking in the cockpit, watching my boat. Finally we disappeared below for a curry meal although every few minutes I would pop my head outside to make sure everything was all right. Then Solitaire’s lights came on.

  David and another large American, Tom, rowed me over. I thought the thieves might still be aboard but the hatch cover had been ripped off and every locker, drawer and door opened, including the oven’s. I would not have thought it possible to wreak so much malicious damage in so short a time. The engine’s instrument panel had been uprooted and the spare money I kept there stolen. My portable radio, clothes, tools and two torches had vanished. The ship’s papers, my passport and £80 in travellers’ cheques should have been at the back of my chart table, but they had gone, too. It was a kick in the crutch. I could sell my outboard motor, WC, even the stove, and still continue around the world but without a passport or ship’s papers, I was stuck.

  I told David and Tom the reason for my looking so sick, whereupon they started pulling out the charts... and found my wallet with the papers and cheques which meant that I could leave for Panama in the morning after all! My visitors had kindly left my RDF sextant and compass and had also missed a camera. The police were called but showed perfunctory interest and I was still upset next morning, as if Solitaire had been violated. David suggested I hang on for a couple of days and tie alongside Rolling Stone for protection, and again Americans came to my assistance. Tom and his girlfriend, Karen, presented me with a large bag of food, claiming that it had been stored in the bilges too long and was going bad. On inspection I found a recent label from the local supermarket!

  Christmas was but a few days away. David and his family were sailing to Prickly Bay, 6 miles along the coast, where it would be quieter, with less chance of being broken into, and Solitaire accompanied them, feeling that one violation in a girl’s life was one too many. I did not set off for Panama until a fortnight later but in the interim became friendly with more Americans, including Bill and his girlfriend, Dean, who had started on a world voyage but had been forced to give up the idea. Since they couldn’t go, they decided to help me on condition I wrote to them detailing my progress with pre-addressed envelopes they supplied!

  One other thing the Americans in Grenada offered was advice: stay at least 20 miles off the Colombian coast and ignore distress rockets. Pirates were using them to attract unsuspecting yachts, then murdering the crews and using the craft for drug trafficking. Finally, take care walking the streets of Colon, even in daylight, as muggers formed queues to rob tourists.

  Solitaire set off on January 10th, logged 1,124 miles and arrived on January 23rd, 1976. Sailing to Panama is like entering the neck of a bottle: trade winds that have swept thousands of miles across the Atlantic can become quite stron
g and compressed; steepbreaking seas build up but fortunately for us they were from the east and hence over our stern. I left Grenada with a comfortable Force 4 from the south-east but by the third day winds had increased and we were down to working jib only, breaking seas speeding behind us. At times Solitaire would find herself surfing on them: at others, unable to move fast enough, she would receive a firm pat on her stern, and would turn indignantly as if to say, ‘How dare you, sir.’

  On one such occasion a wave shot a bucketful of water through the open hatch, soaking the cabin carpet again. Thereafter I kept the hatch boards in, closing myself below and emerging only to take noon sights for latitude, obtain fixes, or check sails, rigging and self-steering. Most of the time I spent reading the books Bill and Dean had given me and eating strange American foods including stuffed tomatoes, which I had never heard of!

  The night of my Panama Canal landfall I panicked. As I had been warned to keep 20 miles off the coast, I played safe and doubled it, then when it was time to turn towards land, I had the Cayenne problem over again: I could not pick up the Canal’s RDF signal. However, call sign TBG came in loud and clear, indicating the island of Taboga lying at the Pacific end of the Panama Canal, and since it was in the right direction, I set course for it.

  At about the time I had estimated, I saw the loom of a light in the night sky and made for the glow, which swung up and became two blooming great headlights. Pirates! Turning off my lights I started the motor to shoot off back the way I had come, only to find another set of headlights blocking Solitaire’s escape. At that moment I saw the Canal lighthouse flashing and made for it. Astern were two looms of lights in the sky; I’m sure now they were fishing boats using their lights to work by. Maybe I scared them more than they scared me. Maybe.

  I waited for daylight before easing through the breakwater where, after anchoring on mud flats, an American Customs launch came over and gave me the good news that I would have enough money to pass through the Canal. It would cost only £30, half of which was a deposit and would be returned later. That was not my only piece of luck: I also received my first letter from Rome who, as an ex-merchant seaman, knew I had to pass through the Canal. I had reported all my blunders and how Solitaire kept getting me out of trouble, to which Rome replied that, despite so many mistakes, at least I was making them only once. I wrote back immediately... omitting to mention the reef in Grenada!

  To arrange our transit I moved Solitaire into the Colon Yacht Club, one which does not encourage you to linger as they double their prices every three days to make room for new arrivals. You can stay on the mud flats free of charge, but from there it is difficult to arrange for a pilot and crew.

  The Colon Muggers must be the world’s best and if you haven’t been mugged by one of them, you haven’t been mugged. Colon is in one of the few countries that runs schools for these gentlemen, with courses in drug trafficking, kidnapping, and plain everyday murder. After successfully completing their training, many graduates are exported to less well-endowed regions, such is the demand for their talents. I made their acquaintance soon after my arrival. Communication between them and the chaps in Grenada must have broken down or they would have been informed that I had already been nobbled and there was little left.

  My partner in this drama, Terrell Adkisson, was not exactly my idea of a Texan, as I had been brought up watching John Wayne and Gary Cooper knock ten kinds of rice pudding out of the Indians. Needing fuel for my trip through the Canal, I was hitting the trail along the Old Pontoon when I heard a slow, drawn-out, ‘Hooooowdy.’ I spun round, dropping my hand to my hip, then quickly removed it in case I conveyed the wrong impression. I was confronted by a scruffy individual wearing checked shirt, glasses and a pair of ex-army trousers four sizes too big. At first the stubble on his face and grey crew-cut hair suggested he was older than I. In fact he was younger, proving again that ageing is a deception practised on people after a long sea voyage and nights without sleep.

  Terrell owned Altair, a new 28ft glassfibre Bermudan sloop, and had recently given up teaching mathematics in Texas to sail around the world with his 22-year-old nephew, Leo, a blond young man who had previously spent his spare time playing guitar in a pop group. Terrell needed petrol, or gas as he put it, so we started out on the first of our many adventures together to a garage only a mile away in the Colon district. I had enough money to buy 5 gallons of diesel; Terrell had his wallet in his back pocket. The garage attendant warned us to be careful, his darting, frightened eyes telling their own story.

  Groups of men were watching us but it was ten o’clock in the morning, broad daylight, so why worry? Halfway back to the yacht club I turned to speak to Terrell and spotted three of the biggest men I’ve ever seen coming up behind us, with knives. I had dreamed of moments like this. I would push the women and children to one side, take a flying leap, legs drawn to manly chest to shoot out like two murderous pistons, taking the two nearest villains in the throat, killing them instantly. The third would be despatched with a karate chop to the head.

  What I actually did was to shout a warning to Terrell and run in front of a line of oncoming traffic. A screeching of brakes... I bounced off a car, the fuel can turning into a tiger that wanted to go walkies. It bolted across the intersection, dragging me with it, to get clobbered by a truck coming the other way. When I staggered to my feet, Terrell had a man on each arm, with knives at his chest, while a third tore at Terrell’s wallet.

  I shouted as loudly as I could to let the men know I really meant it, ‘Hang on, I’m coming.’

  There was a sound of ripping and Terrell stood in the main street minus trousers – and wallet. He started running after them, with me trying to stop him. If he caught up with them, they would surely kill him but, outdistanced, he abandoned the chase.

  Terrell had lost a few travellers’ cheques, no cash. Soon his sense of humour returned. ‘Just my luck to be arrested for indecent exposure,’ he said, looking down at his fancy underpants. He was attacked a second time in Panama City, but this time Leo came up behind with a tin of peaches and started hammering the would-be mugger, who ran off. In Colon that could be described as a bad day at the office. It is inadvisable to linger long in Panama.

  The 40-mile canal trip is straightforward enough, through pleasant lakes and waterways, with three locks at each end. You require a ship’s pilot (normally an ex-Merchant Navy captain), four line handlers and four 100ft lengths of rope. The handlers adjust your lines to keep your craft in the centre of the dock as you rise and fall, for which you supply the food and grog for the day and their rail fare back. In 1976 that was just $1. Line handlers are not hard to come by. They reckon it’s a nice day out.

  I arrived at the Balboa Yacht Club on the Pacific side with precisely $3 so I sold my outboard for $200 to put me back in funds. Again I bought the cheapest food available: unmarked tins of corned beef that turned out to be mostly jelly, tins of tuna that looked and tasted like grey sand, a sack of rice alive with weevils, flour, baking powder and a large tin of treacle as a treat.

  For my Pacific crossing (8,000 miles or so) I bought two charts. My first landfall would be Hiva Oa in the Marquesas Islands, a voyage of 3,500 miles or so. Navigation to date had been by dead reckoning with noon sights for latitude and radio direction finding; now I would be sailing into areas of reefs, few lighthouses and fewer navigation aids. Accurate navigation would be essential so I would have to learn how to take sights for longitude. I managed to buy a 1976 Admiralty Almanac and a second-hand set of reduction tables, and for accurate timekeeping (one minute in error can put you 15 miles out of position) I helped antifoul another boat whose owner gave me a small portable receiver in payment. This one had short wave, enabling me to pick up the American station WWV which broadcasts time checks 24 hours a day. There was one small problem: the mirrors on my sextant had lost their silvering. A lady presented me with the mirror from her handbag. Cut to size, it made my sextant serviceable again. I made one major mistake when, tr
ying to save money, I bought a gallon of cheap antifouling. As things worked out it would have been less expensive to have paid more for a better quality.

  My custom ashore was to sit on the edge of a group of cruising people, listening to their tales of the sea, trying to pick up tips. Solitaire, the only craft I knew anything about, had now carried me 7,000 miles or more, but I still had not picked up much sailing terminology: talk of schooners, ketches or heavy weather sailing and I was lost. I tried to fade into the background with the odd ‘Hear, hear’ and ‘Dashed good show’, trying to pretend I was one of them.

  On one such occasion I was with a crowd at the Balboa Yacht Club discussing the particularly bad weather at that time of year in the Caribbean. One American had lost his trimaran. He and his crew, over-tired on the trip from Grenada, had tried to come through the breakwater at night, missed the lights and hit it, but managed to get off before it sank. A Canadian family had tried for ten days to sail in the other direction but after a fierce battle had given up and retraced their steps through the Canal. Another five boats were hoping for an easterly passage, meanwhile waiting for the seas to die down. A Frenchman had ripped the floor out of his yacht to cover the cockpit and give protection from breaking waves. I thoroughly enjoyed their talk: you could virtually taste the salt on your lips.

  ‘Leslie, you’ve come through the Caribbean from Grenada single-handed,’ someone commented.

  ‘Er, yes.’ A mass of weather-beaten faces turn towards me.

  ‘How bad was it in your opinion?’