by Les Powles
Another boat from South Africa, Sundance Kid, came in just before dark one night when I was able to help, an attention they repaid later in spades. Aboard were Doug and Mary Solomon, with two teenage boys and a crew member, John. They had run out of diesel and were coming in under sail. Although Doug was a first class seaman, the light was poor and as St Helena sometimes has a 30ft swell at that time of year, anchoring alone is not particularly healthy. It is far safer to have at least one rope onto a mooring buoy so I rowed out with a torch and directed them to lie alongside Solitaire.
Life on this island must be a paradise for any able-bodied seaman but after 10 days I felt as pure and as disappointed as a snowflake falling in summer. Next stop was Ascension Island, 700 miles away. We set sail on Saturday, February 11th, 1978, in company with Sundance Kid, only to watch them pull away under poled-out headsails.
The conditions were much the same as before, with following winds from the south-east. The trip passed without incident, apart from the sextant falling to bits, which I soon cured with a few elastic bands. After logging 671 miles we arrived on Saturday, February 18th, quite blasé about our navigation, despite a sick sextant. The island, emerging from the ocean like a dirty grey volcano, I spotted 30 miles away. I was thrown a curving ball in that the powerful RDF transmitter was off air. One would think that when you approach an island that is packed with satellite-tracking equipment, a BBC relaying station and a modern airfield, not to mention their own Russian spy ship, there would be little problem in keeping a simple transmitter serviceable. One would think. I had the confidence not to worry, although I did pray for the sun to come up every morning so that I could take sights. My prayers increased in tempo when I looked into the anchorage.
It is always difficult to judge a breaking wave from the back. Even taking a picture of a really terrifying one from this angle will show only a comparatively flat sea. I could see things were quite interesting by the bashing the sea wall was taking and the puzzling way everything kept disappearing – now you see it, now you don’t. One minute there would be landing barges and yachts, the next the anchorage would be empty. Obviously a monster swell was responsible for this illusion so I considered giving it a miss and pushing on to the Azores but, as there were two yachts at anchor and I wanted to post some letters, I decided to take a closer look.
In England I used to watch an American TV show called Hawaii Five-O, which always started with some nut on a surfboard inside a wave. During the next few minutes I was to become that nut. I began to enter the harbour under power with sails stowed and conditions looking not too bad. Then, as everything went dark, I looked up, expecting to see a black cloud across the sun: instead I saw water reaching for the top of the mast. We were inside a breaking wave, with no way out. If I tried to turn we would broach, capsize and finish as a wreck on the rock-strewn beach. To do nothing meant surfing in at Lord knows what speed to smash into the harbour wall.
The wave took the decision out of my hands. It fell on us.
Even as the cockpit started to empty I was turning Solitaire, bringing her around to face the threatening seas, clawing back out to sea. I could now see where the breakers started and finished so I made for a marker buoy and rounded it to make another attempt but, as we closed, the other craft still kept vanishing, clinging to their mooring buoys. The wind was offshore so that whenever the swell came in, the boats would rear mightily, surge forward, and then be driven back by the wind as the wave passed through. There were no free buoys but I would be unable to leave the tiller long enough to secure a line anyway. The nearest yacht was Sundance Kid. I decided my only chance was to get a line onto one of the landing barges and hang off its stern. I went round the nearest a few times but there was no one to take a rope.
I closed Doug’s boat intending to shout goodbye before continuing on to the Azores when John, the crew member, dived over the side and started swimming towards me, risking his life. I just could not see how anyone could survive in that sea. Had Lana Turner been alone on the other craft, begging me to step off Solitaire, I would not have gone, even after my disappointment in St Helena. In that situation I think I would have gone below and quietly cut my throat. No way would I have left Solitaire.
After getting a line to John, he managed to clamber on board. When we had chewed a piece out of the bow and twisted a pulpit, he succeeded in getting a line onto a bollard on the stern of a barge, whereupon I played out as much rope as I could without endangering the craft astern of us. Each time the swell bore in, the rear barge would lift like a bird of prey, come screeching down for the kill and then stop a few yards short of Solitaire. Next moment we would be shooting up in the lift, looking down on the craft ahead, before plunging for its decks. My stomach muscles relaxed when I became confident that this vessel would move forward before we struck. It is terrifying to realise you have so little control over the life of your craft and, for that matter, your own.
John told me Sundance Kid had arrived the day before. The people on the adjoining boat had gone ashore with Doug’s wife and the boys, whereafter the swell had started. Those ashore had been forced to spend the night there with no chance of returning until things eased. In fact it was 48 hours before we could land and the island newspaper reported it was the worst swell, rollers and resultant undertow for years. Concern was felt for the Giant Turtle eggs that were destroyed, Ascension Island being one of their few breeding places. Sundance Kid had been watching when I made my first approach and, as the first wave hit Solitaire, it seemed she had gone down like a stone. Later some of the Americans and British, who had been standing on the surrounding hills keeping an eye on us, confirmed that even the mast vanished. Having decided that we were lost and that they should start looking for survivors on the beach, Solitaire’s bow shot back from her grave to live again. Tongue in cheek they offered to take a collection for a repeat performance!
I told them bluntly what to do with their cameras.
Ascension, in many ways, is the opposite of St Helena, which is green and reasonably fertile with a surplus of girls and little to do, a tired island living in the past and totally isolated from the modern world. Landing on Ascension, in comparison, is like landing on the moon. Barren of greenery, the island is grey and dusty, growing only tracking and transmitting aerials charged with static electricity, a man’s island with few spare ladies. Although it is under British control, Ascension depends on the gigantic American airbase for its lifeblood. I have played golf in some unlikely places, in the deserts of South Yemen and Saudi Arabia, and on a beach in Brazil, but Ascension has a golf course which its members describe as the worst this side of hell and, after playing on it, I was forced to agree. It is more like playing on a pinball machine. Having hit your ball you can relax awhile, watching it leap from rock to rock. When it settles, the game turns into hide-and-seek. At this stage you realise that this is also a very expensive course to play since every time you hit a ball you are virtually kissing it goodbye.
Everything possible is done for the servicemen and contracted civilians working there. If you weary of the black and grey landscape or looking out to sea, there are always the latest films to be seen nightly at a variety of clubs. The Air Force base has a fine restaurant that looks as if it has been freshly shipped from Hollywood, the meals cheap, the food fresh. Spending most of my time in the clubs talking to BBC and service personnel, I never did get to see a film.
I cast off from the stern of the landing barge on Friday, February 24th, with England 5,000 miles away and Cape Horn a further 20,000. We left in a mood of uncertainty. If I sailed direct to England, spring would hardly have sprung. Should the weather prove too cold as we pushed north, it might be advisable to stop off in the Azores and wait for a warmer welcome home. There was enough food and water on board for a non-stop voyage. I would play it by ear. Solitaire had now sailed close to 30,000 miles since we took our first stumbling steps with Rome in the Solent. Considering the punishment and adventures we had shared, she was still i
n good health, although her motor gave concern. On top of that, the working jib that had seen us round the world was on its last legs, broken stanchions needed welding, and the sextant was held together by faith and elastic bands. The self-steering needed new nylon bushes but at least it still worked well.
On Tuesday, March 21st, Solitaire crossed her outward-bound track, tying the knot and completing her first voyage around the world. In the past I had run the motor every week or two, now I was exercising it every few days, but each time it became more difficult to start. I ran it for long periods to circulate the oil and charge the battery but every mile north the problem increased. As the Atlantic grew colder the seas sucked through the engine froze and thickened the oil, adding more problems to those with which we left Cape Town.
Wednesday, April 5th, found us close to Horta in the Azores after logging 3,330 miles from Ascension. Land’s End, England, was approximately only 1,200 miles away. I had heard many heart-warming incidents about the Azores and its people so the temptation to call in was great but, above all, now I wanted to see my family so we sailed on. The waves that broke over Solitaire’s decks were touched with ice and her cabin grew cold, damp and dreary. Slowly I increased my clothing, first long trousers and sweater, then heavy socks and sea boots, which I left on for longer periods until finally I slept in them.
The motor grew even harder to start and 900 miles from England it groaned for a few minutes, slowed down and coughed as though it had consumption, exhaled its last breath and died. I performed every operation I could think of to bring it back to life, bleeding its system, stripping it down, taking off its head. Its dismembered body was strewn over a heaving cabin floor and I did everything possible bar give it the kiss of life. I accepted the fact that we would have to sail up the English Channel without its backing, conserving the battery for navigation lights.
The last days of our voyage were insistently cold as we beat up the Channel into wind, rain and fog, tacking back and forth through heavy shipping. At last I heard a faint RDF signal from St Catherine’s Point on the Isle of Wight, which grew louder and louder as I turned towards it, the gloom and mist pushed aside. Here at last were England’s white cliffs and green fields to welcome home two weary travellers.
Then fate played its last dirty trick. Tacking past the Needles in company with other yachts, we looked into the peaceful Solent anchorage, at which point the wind dropped and the tide turned. The rest of the boats took down their sails and started their engines, leaving Solitaire to be swept back to sea. Enviously I watched them leave us for hot meals and baths, soft beds and warm arms. Rejected, we turned away and headed for Christchurch Bay, there to spend another watchful night at anchor.
Although lacking tide tables, I had noted the time the current had turned the night before and I knew that an early start would see us safely home, so we swept past the Needles that Sunday morning, April 30th, on a fast tide. Then the wind dropped again, although the current bore us past Hurst Castle. Lymington River came up to port and I tried to edge over into its mouth but still the tide carried us. After a frantic dash to drop an anchor, a long wait ensued until a zephyr came up in the afternoon, allowing us to start for home. Again it died and left us helpless, drifting towards the mud banks as a motor cruiser closed on us.
‘Could you give us a tow into the marina? The motor’s packed up.’
‘Sure,’ they said. ‘We’ll put down fenders and tie you alongside.’ Then: ‘You’re flying a yellow flag. Where have you come from? France?’
‘Ascension Island in the South Atlantic,’ I replied proudly. ‘I’ve just sailed around the world.’
The cameras came out. Wine, chicken, chocolates and cups of coffee showered on Solitaire. It was the Easter holiday and the marina was full, but we were allowed to tie alongside the wall, Solitaire still secured to the cruiser. The Customs launch that had followed us downriver soon cleared us. Standing on top of the wall was John the rigger, the first person to steer Solitaire three years before.
‘Nice to see you back, Les,’ he shouted. ‘What kept you?’
Part Two
Squaring the Account
Chapter Five
Land of Hope and Glory
Lymington
1980
The first circumnavigation, leaving Lymington on Monday, August 18th, 1975, and arriving back on Sunday, April 30th, 1978, had taken 12 days under two years and eight months. The east to west voyage had been made far too quickly and I had missed out many of the countries I would have liked to visit. Such an exploration, of self as well as the world, should take a minimum of ten years and anything up to a lifetime. Now my main driving force was to make a fresh start to round Cape Horn.
The distance Solitaire covered on that first voyage was roughly 34,000 miles, with a best day’s run of around 149 miles. The longest time spent alone at sea was 69 days, with a best non-stop distance of about 6,000 miles. Not that any of this was important. Solitaire and I were neither equipped for nor desired to set records. It’s what is in your head and heart that’s important, not what Joe Soap, who has never stepped on a boat, thinks. Was it a good sail, a warm day, did the sun set in a blaze of colour, did the dolphins visit, were we contented? Those are the questions whose answers matter.
I shall never forget or forgive my first navigation blunders. After the Brazilian disaster I made yet more mistakes but thenceforward I kept a mental note of Solitaire’s position, the weather conditions she was in and the dangers she might face. When laying out a course, I would draw lines from point to point, trying to skirt around areas of calms, storms and shelving seabeds, using such charts as I possessed. Sometimes things go wrong and three or four problems are thrown at you together. Then there is no time to think and you must react instinctively, preferably having the cure ready before you catch the disease.
For me the time taken on a voyage was important only as far as food, water and the boat’s condition were concerned. If I could make 100 miles a day, I would be content. Had I the funds I would have worked out the stores required, then doubled them, but I was in no position to do this until towards the end of the voyage. The second circumnavigation, this time west to east, broadly speaking depended on three things.
First, my family’s reaction. Both parents were now in their 70s. My mother had been in poor health for some time and brother Royston had spent much of his time caring for her and Father while I was gallivanting. If Roy wanted to alter his way of life or the voyage distressed my parents, then it would have to be delayed.
Second, my friends had an influence. Hitherto they had only encouraged me but if they tried to dissuade me I would sail for Cape Horn no matter, although I would be apprehensive, and really alone for the first time on any voyage.
Third, finance. I had to find work quickly. I left England in 1975 with £300 and returned with the same sum, which I had saved in Australia. But to carry out modifications, equip Solitaire with new gear and stores would cost at least £2,000. My best way to make this money (and quickly) would be to try for an overseas contract in electronics.
I spent my first night in England with Group Captain Rex Wardman and his wife, Edith, who welcomed me warmly with a hot bath, sizzling steak and a bed, full of sleep. Later that week Rex drove me home to Birmingham, where the news was good.
If my family, who had moved into a small, semi-detached house, did not exactly encourage, they certainly made no attempt to discourage me, their attitude being that the sea was my life and I would be off again. On my arrival I found a couple of reporters. In writing to my family I had omitted or glossed over the bad times but when talking to the press, I forgot this and mentioned some of the sailing’s gorier aspects, which caused the newspapermen and my family to blanch. My photograph duly appeared in the papers, not that that means anything, but parents like this sort of thing, provided it’s not just before they hang you!
Three days later Rex drove me back to Lymington, whereafter I spent a week with Rome and his mother, catchi
ng up on my writing. I contacted Saab who told me to take my engine to Savage Engineering in Southampton, where the motor was stripped, cleaned and serviced and the fuel pump attended to for an all-in charge of £20! After that I had no further trouble, making up for all the problems I had experienced after leaving Australia.
Most of the remainder of my time was spent talking to Rome about the modifications I wanted. The major task was to change Solitaire from sloop to cutter rig and perhaps add a bowsprit, which would put her headsails further forward and thus prevent her broaching when on a run. Cutter rig would also give me a bigger choice of sails. When beating into storms I could get a better slot effect with the main by using a small staysail, which would also serve as a backup for self-steering. The one objection against the mod was that I might have to fit running backstays which did not appeal. When Rome sailed his transatlantic race, he fitted an unsupported inner forestay on his boat but agreed it was not worth the risk in the Southern Ocean. Having experienced the Roaring Forties on Adventure in the Whitbread race, he told me about the conditions, explaining the problems in his quiet, precise manner, never discouragingly. Later Brian Gibbons came to see me and designed a new mast support, then Rex Wardman joined in. I was no longer alone.
My stay in Lymington had been a good one. I had overcome the initial problems on my list and Solitaire’s engine was in perfect condition. All that was left was finance, and that was tricky as the work situation boded ill. I had no luck with my old firms, most of whom were cutting back on staff, and the Job Centre could offer nothing. The public moorings cost £10 a week and the £300 with which I’d arrived home was shrinking, so I decided to take Solitaire to Dartmouth and anchor in the river. Although an overnight stay was prohibitively expensive, it was possible to pay by the season, which was comparatively cheap, and the plus point was that I had friends there I wanted to see, and could spend the rest of my time writing.