Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed

by Les Powles

  We arrived off Durban before first light on Thursday morning and sat watching the traffic signals and flashing neons. Durban has a long finger of land that points north called The Bluff, with a breakwater beside it, the entrance into the outer harbour. It would have been possible to sail through but I could hardly keep my eyes open and the wind was fickle so, when I spotted a charter fishing boat preparing to enter, I beckoned them over and requested a tow. The people on board had a flight to catch but promised they would radio for a police launch to bring me in. After clearing Customs in only a few minutes, a powerboat arrived from the Club to take me in tow.

  Solitaire arrived at the Point Yacht Club on Thursday, September 29th, 1977, nine years after her conception there on a Sunday morning in 1968, on the very jetty she was now moored to. Her log showed 5,952 miles, the longest journey so far. One day I would ask her to carry me non-stop nearly five times that distance!

  The international jetty lies directly below the clubhouse with its showers, restaurant, lounges and bars. The cruising season had barely started when we arrived. Only four other boats were moored to the jetty, one an old junk owned by a German couple, another an American Choy Lee ketch, and two self-built ferro-cement yachts, one made and sailed by Susan and Graeme from Yarmouth in England, the other owned by a lovely Rhodesian couple with their three young children on board, together with a crew who knew as much about sailing as I had when Solitaire first left Lymington.

  After a shower in the Club, I was taken to meet the secretary and given a visitor’s membership card. Durban must have had a dull week for news because when I returned to Solitaire, reporters were waiting to question me about my Brazilian adventures and the voyage from Australia. I was also asked to take part in a broadcast by a chap who ran a navigation school, to which I agreed, provided my talk was based on mistakes so that others could learn from them.

  That first night I was too tired to sleep and walked the streets seeing how the other half lived, wandering around in sloppy flip flops, tattered shorts and open shirt, comforted by the knowledge that Solitaire was waiting to take me anywhere in the universe I wished to go. Our stay in Durban was a happy one. Solitaire had a safe berth, the lights from the surrounding flats sparkling at her as I went to the occasional party. On Sundays the yacht club and several large hotels would put on a self-service meal with a double-feature film show, all for £1. Food was as cheap as we had found anywhere and the local wines were first class and equally inexpensive, so much so that I threw a birthday party for Solitaire on October 24th, without considering the cost. We set a new record of 16 guests in the cabin, with Lord knows how many on deck.

  These fine wines led me to a brief affair with an Australian lady. I had been invited by a couple of English lads to a party given to celebrate the launch of their 40ft yacht. When I arrived I found their boat had been rafted onto the end of nine others. With a bottle of grog in each hand, it was hard going clambering from one craft to the next. I had nearly reached my goal when I came across a boat turned the opposite way from the rest. Hitherto I had walked over the foredecks in approved social manner; now a cockpit faced me. I should have walked up the deck and crossed in the middle but instead I tripped on the lifelines and fell into the cockpit which is where I made a terrible mistake. It seems that a crowd of hob-nailed boots had already passed that way en route to the orgy. The woman who attacked me came out of the main hatchway like a bull terrier, a fat one. From Australia. Suddenly I was a flaming Pommy trying to kick holes in the side of her flaming boat. Where the flaming hell did I flaming think I was? Flaming Piccadilly Circus? I secured my retreat only by promising never to darken her cockpit again.

  The wine flowed freely and things were slightly blurred when I left the party but I managed to remove my flip flops and cross the decks barefooted. When I came to the Australian boat, I remembered my promise and, going forward, fell through a hatchway onto spongy flesh. The sound was reminiscent of the air raid sirens in the last war, low pitched at first but reaching a teeth-shattering screech. Since the lady appeared not to appreciate my company, I decided to leave. ‘We have lift off,’ I’m sure I heard as I came back out of the hatch like a Polaris missile leaving a submarine.

  Terrell turned up in Durban two weeks later. After letting go my lines at Darwin, he had sailed to the Cocos Islands where he had picked up the crew of a wrecked American boat, which was lucky for him. Halfway across the Indian Ocean, Altair was thrown on her side by a rogue wave and Terrell finished up in the sea. He could think of no reason why this wave had formed. The sea was flat and wind moderate and there seemed no reason to wear a life harness. As he lurched overboard he grabbed a yellow seat cushion, which was all the crew could see when later they came on deck. They homed in on it to rescue him.

  I wanted to be in Cape Town for Christmas and the jetty, where Solitaire had lain snug for two months, was becoming crowded with visiting boats. It was time to move on and I planned to set out for Cape Town on Wednesday, November 23rd.

  My biggest regret in Durban was that I had been unable to see Rome, although we kept in contact by mail. He had called his Nor-west 34 Adhara and had been given leave from the RAF to compete in the OSTAR single-handed transatlantic race. Having put up a good performance in that, he had been selected to navigate the service entry, Adventure, in the Whitbread Round-the-World Race. On completing the first leg to Cape Town, he had been asked to navigate to New Zealand and was now in Cape Town between stops. We tried to arrange a meeting but had to make do with a few phone calls.

  Whether a voyage is easy or difficult depends on the yacht’s crew and the weather: strong winds from the south combat the Agulhas Current which rushes south at anything up to 5 knots. Gales from the east send waves sweeping across 4,000 miles of Indian Ocean to pile up on the ledge that runs close to the South African coast. With so many super-tankers in the area, a single-hander can never find the voyage hazardless, even in ideal conditions. The 1,000-mile voyage from Durban to Cape Town can be made in stages: East London after 240 miles and Port Elizabeth a further 140 miles, both readily accessible. Thereafter the harbours are more difficult to enter in bad weather. The best plan seemed to be to wait for a settled weather forecast, then sail close to the 100 fathom line, taking advantage of the current, closing ashore at the first signs of bad weather.

  Solitaire’s motor was still very tight. The new main bearing sent on by Saab had been fitted and the instructions for re-timing carried out. Despite changing the oil a couple of times, small particles from the smashed sump plate were still finding their way into the gears and I could not rely on it to start in an emergency. Fortunately the engine started for our departure. Outside the harbour we found light south-westerlies but after two days we were within sight of East London, having logged 151 miles when our true run was 240 miles. The Agulhas Current had pushed us 45 miles a day. Although we had sailed in strong tidal currents before, this was the fiercest in a constant direction. The afternoon was spent becalmed outside East London. With the setting sun I decided to enter harbour, but it brought up a steady northerly so I ran south intending to go into Port Elizabeth. On reaching there, the winds swung to the south and increased to gale force so that for the first time we were beating into fast seas with three reefs in the mainsail and flying our brand new storm jib.

  A week out of Durban and we still had 300 miles to fetch Cape Town but the constant presence of tankers prohibited sleep, even making relaxation difficult. Then the wind rose to storm force, the working jib blew out and I let Solitaire lie under bare poles close to shore in shallow water but well away from the steep ledge. I went below for a few minutes for a cup of tea and closed my eyes to rest them. I opened them again after a few minutes and discovered that six hours, with no control over whether I lived or died, had passed. I had been lucky.

  My confidence in the ability of tankers to avoid yachts was shattered when I saw two of them wrecked on the beach east of Cape Town, one of which had broken its tow line. I’m not sure wh
y the other was there, maybe because he thought the first was lonely, certainly not from trying to miss a yacht. Our last night at sea was spent becalmed, so we motored the last 35 miles into Cape Town, passing through a mass of lights on what, I think, were local fishing boats. Somehow I managed to lose the log’s trailing spinner, possibly taken by one of the fish the locals were trying to catch. It must have had sharp teeth for the line was cleanly cut. I had seen hundreds of seals in the water who liked to play around Solitaire but I’m sure they didn’t take it, unless they carried razor blades!

  Cape Town, with Table Mountain in the background, often wearing her cap of white cloud, is one of the most beautiful and impressive harbours to enter. Solitaire passed through the breakwater on December 5th, 12 days after leaving Durban and all I wanted to do was sleep for the next 12. A pilot launch led us to the yacht club where the manager, Peter, took our lines. The Royal Cape Yacht Club I will ever remember for its kindness and hospitality. On my arrival I was taken as I was – barefooted, in shorts and tattered shirt – to meet the Commodore and a lady I had heard a good deal about: Joan Fry, the Club Secretary. My apologies were brushed aside and they asked what the weather had been like on the trip down. I said I had run into gusting conditions, which they seemed to find amusing. Gales apparently had been sweeping the coast; the Town Harbour had been closed and one ocean-going ship had been forced to enter with a damaged bridge.

  Was there anything I needed? they asked.

  ‘Sleep,’ I said.

  Other interests besides sailing?

  ‘Golf,’ I said.

  I went back to tend to Solitaire’s needs and, when tidying up, I heard my name being called over the loud speaker to say I was wanted on the phone. Puzzled, because no one knew of my arrival, I picked it up.

  ‘My name’s Frank Minnitt, I understand you play golf, Les,’ came a strange voice. ‘Are you free tomorrow? I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock in the morning.’

  No yacht club should be without a Joan Fry. Not only did she know all her members and their interests, she took the trouble to make a complete stranger a welcome guest. After arranging my golf game I felt far less tired. Rome had given me the name of a family friend, whom I phoned. Betty was a keen ballroom dancer so I promised to escort her to a Christmas dance. After that I had my first decent sleep in nearly a fortnight.

  Frank Minnitt arrived next morning in a white Jaguar. Maybe a little older than I, very pro-British, he had fought with us in the Second World War and was the owner of a Contessa 32 which he had shipped from England. Apart from sailing he would take on anything that had been cast aside as useless and make it work again, his favourites being old British cars and motorbikes. His dog was an English cocker spaniel, which was blind in one eye and inevitably named Nelson. On one occasion when invited to his house for dinner and having had my one suit cleaned, I found myself in his garage helping him to take a car to bits. He had a son in the Navy and a charming wife called Solfrid.

  I have often heard yachtsmen talking about the effects of long voyages, some claiming that the land appears to move. I can’t say that I had this experience, although my golf seemed to suffer! I would play more for the pleasure of watching other people swing a club correctly and to see beautiful greens set in rolling hills, feeling the lush grass under my feet. On the course I met Neil Nisbet, who became my partner in a four. Later I went back to have dinner with him, meeting his wife, Beverly, and their two teenaged daughters, and ended up spending most of Christmas with them.

  Frank Minnitt gave a dinner at his Club on New Year’s Eve and I found myself sitting beside another lovely lady, Caryll Holbrow, who had three grown-up sons, one of whom, Andrew, was forever turning up with picnics to help work on Solitaire. Caryll’s home was in sight of Table Mountain and was as beautiful as its name, Moonrakers. It was not only the hospitality of these people that made Cape Town such a memorable stop. The yacht club was always active. Following the departure of the Whitbread Round-the-World Race they were running the Rothmans Week.

  Terrell turned up just after Christmas with a new crew member. Again he had made all the stops from Durban. Rolling Stone rolled in with Graeme and Sue. Another ferro-cementer was in Cape Town when I arrived. Her owners, Glen and Norma Harvey, farmers turned sailors whom I had met in Durban, had completed their 45ft craft in nine months. Knowing nothing about sailing they had paid a skipper to bring them down to Cape Town. Their two children accompanied them along with two cats, one of which was blind and was led around by the other. The family were adventurous, hard-working and with a pioneering spirit, characteristics that were missing in some of the older established countries. Eilco Kasimier was a well-known and well-liked Dutch single-hander whose wishbone ketch, Bylgya, was alongside Solitaire. Eilco had sailed in the single-handed transatlantic race and from America had continued around the world the wrong way via Cape Horn. A Dutch hotelier and an experienced seaman, he taught me much.

  I had to tear myself away from Cape Town, where there was always a reason to stay longer: to play another round of golf, go to a party, a concert... Solitaire was given her last coat of antifouling before setting off for home. Although the slipway had been heavily booked by the Rothmans racing boats, the club manager had fixed it for me to slip her for eight hours, thus ensuring our departure would be eased by the knowledge that the hull was clean and so speed our trip to St Helena, the next port of call 1,660 miles away.

  Our course went north-west. The charts suggested lightish winds over Solitaire’s stern from the south-west but as we had a high-pressure area to pass through, there could be a few calm patches. For the first two or three days I could expect little sleep until we cleared the shipping lanes and the area of gales. Navigation would present no problems as St Helena is small but mountainous, and there could be no mistake in recognising it, the nearest neighbour being Ascension Island, 700 miles further on.

  After clearing the harbour Solitaire found a gentle southerly as we headed north, a broad reach under main and genoa. Table Mountain dropped sadly below the horizon. On the second day out a disturbed sea brought problems in holding a course, with the odd bad broach as the winds did not match wave size. Two slewed us and a third knocked Solitaire flat, breaking three of her stanchions.

  I dropped all sails – a mistake. I could have continued to run with them but perhaps my judgement was impaired by finding myself with no secure lifelines to starboard. Later, when the winds increased to match the seas, I hauled up the working jib and sailed comfortably. I made an entry in the ship’s log next morning and spotted the date, Friday, January 13th. ‘No wonder!’ I wrote.

  On Monday, January 30th, the entry in the log read: ‘0300 GMT, St Helena sighted’. It always warms me to see land loom out of the dark, particularly when, as with St Helena, there is no lighthouse! I waited until morning before entering harbour, after logging 1,607 miles, which meant we must have had a strong helping current.

  St Helena was where Napoleon found himself interred in 1815 after his defeat at Waterloo by the British, since when the island has changed little. Many of the battlements built to prevent any attempted rescue can be seen from the harbour. There is little industry for the 5,000 inhabitants, so many of the young men emigrate to find employment elsewhere, leaving a surplus of attractive ladies with time on their hands. As there is no airfield, the only outsiders who call regularly are yachtsmen.

  When the Customs boat came over, I asked them what the main entertainment was or, at least, what the second was. I was told there was a cinema show three times a week. What they neglected to say was that they were the same three films, one of which just consisted of coming attractions that never came.

  As soon as practical I rowed ashore, walked through the old town gates and up a sloping cobbled street where the islanders, a friendly lot, crossed the street to greet you. At the local tavern I asked the innkeeper to bring me a tankard of his finest ale and, as I got stuck into this, became aware of a toothless woman weighing close to 18 st
one who was sizing me up. She told me that the town was holding a beach barbecue that night, for which I thanked her kindly and promised to attend but, tired from the voyage, I slept and failed to make it. Next day I was talking to some of the local girls and expressed sorrow at missing the big event, whereupon they started to laugh. It seems the only people on the beach that night would have been me and Toothless. She already had 12 children and was trying for a record 13. After that, my stay on St Helena was like having both my mother-in-laws with me. She would swim around Solitaire, a cross between a shark and a whale, and I had to keep explaining she could not come aboard because we would sink.

  Local dances started at 7.30 but I was warned to stay away because of the danger of being attacked by man-hungry ladies. At seven o’clock I would be at the door trying to start a queue, only to find, once inside, the blight of my life. The night would be spent with her not so much sitting on my lap as flowing over it, every now and then uttering a war cry reminiscent of a Gordon Highlander. On one occasion, when I saw a crowd of yachties and girls leaving early, I asked the reason. They explained that although the beach was of pebble, there were cardboard boxes to lie on and did I want to reserve one? Not bloody likely!

  Many of the South African boats came into St Helena while I was there, including Eilco Kasimier on Bylgya, later to continue to Holland for a hero’s welcome, and Glen and Norma Harvey on Chummy, which was to hit a wreck off Brazil and sink. Fortunately all aboard were saved although I’m not sure what happened to the cats. Six boats were lost at sea between leaving Tahiti and reaching England but luckily all my friends survived.