Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed

by Les Powles

  I lay on top of a dry sleeping bag, wearing dry trousers topped by a dry shirt and sweater, listening to music from another world! We had retreated from the Roaring Forties and were now 84 miles beyond their reach. Tomorrow, refreshed and rested, we would drop south again not to do battle but to assuage the sea’s anger. Never again would Solitaire lie helpless without sails or self-steering.

  The next cape was Cape Leeuwin on the west coast of Australia, 4,500 miles away. Above latitude 40° the chart indicated westerlies (over our stern) around Force 5 to 6, with seventeen per cent gales indicated. Below 40° gales went up to twenty per cent, although it was not this that decided my sailing above the Roaring Forties; it was that the extreme limit for icebergs during October/November was just below this latitude. I already had experience of sailing in cold seas rounding the Cape of Good Hope and was not keen to repeat that misery.

  The man who made the chart must have smuggled it out of a sewer or the Houses of Parliament; had I completely reversed his wild claims for the next 2,000 miles they would have been closer to being right. The projected stern winds of Force 5 to 6 came on our nose, gusting 3 to 4. No calm periods for this area were indicated, yet at least once a week we spent a day bouncing up and down in a 30ft swell completely devoid of wind. The game the charts were about to play started with an innocent log entry:

  Grand morning, warm 60°F, clear blue sky. Light winds from the east (the way we want to go). Smashing music still from South Africa and making the most of it before it fades. Some sail repair work this morning. Reading Annegret’s book from the parcel, James Michener’s The Source. Winds increased to Force 4. Full main and working jib. Would use number two genoa but must save it for later. Now for spam and tomatoes from the parcel, bread from yesterday.

  Next day a short entry read: ‘No sights. Back to beating into steep seas. High wind squalls. Two reefs in the mainsail. Grey sky, raining.’ And for week after week that’s how it continued. Winds increased to gale force and always from the direction in which we were trying to point. Solitaire sailed under grey skies, through drizzle and breaking seas. Now and again she would find a smooth patch of ocean and gather speed only to drop off the top of the next wave, mast and rigging a-shudder.

  For days I was unable to get a sun sight. The winds were pushing us north, but with all the Indian Ocean to play in there was no danger from bad navigation. Lack of progress was the main worry. Despite my shortage of sails I had expected to make 100–120 miles a day in following winds, whereas our best run was 80 miles and that not in the right direction. I dared not go too far north as, apart from extending the distance, we could lose a helping current.

  Fear was not part of the reason. The waves that came towards us were normal, if high marching; the only problem was dropping down the other side as they went through. We started with full main and working jib heading ENE against a wind from ESE! After three or four days it would increase from Force 3 to 4, which caused us to reef. On the sixth day it would veer for a few hours, and when in the perfect direction for us it would drop altogether, leaving us becalmed in a confused sea. Then, surprise, surprise, it would hit us as a gale from the north-east! Although angry and confused, the seas had no time to attack Solitaire in force.

  We have three reef points on the mainsail, the third of which I do not use as it turns the canvas into a minute trysail. The slab reefing boom has only two reefing ropes through the boom, so if you want to put in a third reef point you have to release and use one of the other ropes, and standing on deck at night in a gale is not the right time to attempt this operation. Having been caught out once, whenever we became becalmed I would put in the third reef and nine times out of ten it paid off. The self-steering with its small wind vane was always in use and Solitaire was happy pointing into waves. The odd one might push over her nose, causing seas to break over her deck, but few entered her cockpit. The temperature was back in the sixties and the cabin, if damp with so much rain, fog and drizzle, was not unbearable. And I no longer had to wear sea boots.

  I was back to reading my books and baking bread every third day. Wet weather gear was unnecessary apart from when I went on deck. Most of the time I lay on my bunk, a sleeping bag covering my legs. For hours I would look out of the main hatch watching a variety of sea birds: soaring albatrosses, with their 10ft wing-span, I could enjoy all day. Despite my moans and groans I was satisfied with the voyage so far. I would have liked the wind to have been from over our stern, and I wished we had more sails, and more food... but we were progressing slowly. Life could have been worse.

  Week 14 passed like the hands of a faulty clock: Solitaire trying to reach 12 o’clock while winds from 2 o’clock meant we could only make 11 o’clock. The hands stuck for four days with winds gusting between Force 3 and 6, then they moved slowly to 6 o’clock and over our stern. Just as Solitaire was about to say, ‘Thank-you-very-much’, they died, leaving us bouncing around in a confused sea after a run of 556 miles. We would curse their sense of humour, to which they would reply angrily from 10 o’clock with racing clouds and screaming breath.

  In week 15, time passed by like the seas cascading down our decks. The course adjustment on the self-steering broke, and was mended while the clock ticked on. On Friday, October 17th, its fingers registered our hundredth day at sea.

  Week 16 saw 565 miles logged and on Friday, October 24th, the heart that ticked away the seconds of my life celebrated its 55th birthday – sometimes faint, sometimes strong, now it beat with Solitaire’s. It slowed and raced and would stop with hers.

  Some 1,200 miles from South Africa, in winds gusting up to Force 7, the south-easterlies pushed us further and further north. Solitaire, a lonely speck 360 miles above the Roaring Forties, forced her way to Australia, trying to edge back south to pass under its west coast. It was time for Rome’s third parcel and I prepared a special dinner on a dancing stove, eating it with a birthday card propped on my knee, dreaming of those at home.

  In week 17 we passed the 10,000 miles mark, with 746 miles logged, the best for some time. For a few days the winds behaved as the charts indicated, gusting Force 6 to 7 from the west, showing how badly I needed a big headsail. I had the double-reefed mainsail up as long as I could, but when strong stern winds arrived they overrode the self-steering luffing Solitaire off course into them.

  We slipped back to 517 miles in week 18, often becalmed, and the winds, when they came, were more from the west. I started to appreciate the height of the Southern Ocean swell. I had regretted not having a new number two genoa but from now on there would be few days when its absence would not be mentioned in the log as we passed our fourth month at sea.

  Then I discovered our first crop of goose-barnacles under the stern and found pimples on our white-painted topsides, doubly annoying because I had spent good money I could ill afford repainting Solitaire. I could have saved time and labour by buying more sails or food instead. We sailed 200 miles north of the small, uninhabited Amsterdam Islands, which lie just above the Roaring Forties, although I had intended to sail below them. The south-easterlies decided otherwise. Australia was now 1,800 miles away and we started to pick up their broadcasts. On Monday, November 10th, I heard that Ronald Reagan was the new US President. More importantly I found we had used half of the 80 gallons of water with which I had set out.

  In week 19 we clocked 746 miles, surpassing the 120-mile mark in a couple of days. For the most part the winds obeyed the charts and came from astern, which meant we could pick our course, so I started to slip south to pass under Cape Leeuwin. The end of the week saw us just 150 miles above latitude 40° where I changed our first gas bottle, which meant we had two left. One worry, now that I was down to my last spinner, were the albatrosses chasing it, trying to take a bite. I threw them some stale bread, which they spat out, screeching that I had tried to poison them, and went back to spinner chasing. The last thing I really wanted was to drive them away, as they were one of my main sources of entertainment. Cape Leeuwin was now some
800 miles away. It was time for another parcel.

  As I had no chart of Australia I thought I should do something about it, especially after Rome’s concern about my lack of navigational aids when I left England. I had said it was something to worry about tomorrow and tomorrow was now today. So I used the chart of the Indian Ocean, changing the figures of longitude to suit Australia, plotting all the main D/F stations and joining them up to make the coastline. If week 19 was good, week 20 was bad. At the end of it we had been at sea for 140 days, logged 12,616 miles since leaving England and were just about to drop under Australia’s western coast. But it was the week in which I found that we had used up more than half of our flour and that 45 of our 80 gallons of water had gone (although I tried catching water off the mainsail in one downpour with some success). All the good books had been read but I started to re-read them for the second time around; what with my marriages and voyages it was something I was making a habit of.

  I started to pick up Perth radio station, including their weather forecasts, but they gave little help. Their temperature was in the mid-60s, whereas ours dropped as Solitaire was about to enter the Roaring Forties again.

  Then we began to pass through areas sown with nine per cent gales on the chart. They were right about the storms if not about their direction (as when we were about to round the Cape of Good Hope), for we had gale force winds from the wrong direction, this time the south-east, at the wrong time.

  We were still about 360 miles from Cape Leeuwin, which lay to our north-east. For the last three days we had sailed in rain without sun sights, relying on dead reckoning. At one time I thought the wind was veering and reduced to storm jib and headed directly towards Cape Leeuwin, the best course Solitaire could hold. It was a bad storm and we took on a good deal of water from starboard. The cockpit started filling again for the first time since leaving South African waters. There was no panic as only the odd wave broke over us and it was far from freezing. Indeed, on deck I did not even bother to wear sea boots. It was more a case of annoyance than fear.

  Weeks earlier I had traced a course to sail under Australia, to re-enter the Forties, and since the middle of the Indian Ocean we had made good this track. Now, at the last minute, we were being pushed north towards land. After two days the storm dropped and we were becalmed 250 miles below the Australian coast with 80 miles to go before I could open my Cape Leeuwin parcel.

  Week 21 started with a good heart, Force 2 to 3 winds coming back from the north-west. A warm day with a flat sea – ideal for fibreglassing the cockpit lockers and the bottom board in the main hatch. It was a job I had put off for a variety of reasons. The first and deciding factor was that all across the Indian Ocean I had only to pump out the bilges once or twice in good weather, perhaps three or four times in storms. When I had glassed-in the rear locker permanently it would be difficult to open the exhaust seacock. True, it could be reached from inside the boat, but only with a tight squeeze and wasted time.

  The main locker that ran down the side of the cockpit was immediately below where the bilge pump was fitted. To clean the pump the locker cover had to be removed in order to hold a spanner on the inside nuts and turn the screws on the outside at the same time. The pump had jammed often – even a piece of matchstick would do the trick! It could be serviced through a small door by the engine compartment but then you had to clamp vice grips onto the nuts and make your way back to the cockpit, with screwdriver, at least three times. Not something I wanted to try on a roller-coaster. I was thankful it had not jammed during the Cape of Good Hope storm. The hatch bottom board could have been screwed in place and then fibreglassed. With a following sea both boards had to be left in place but one of my pleasures was that on a good day I could remove the two boards and watch the birds perform – in fresh air.

  On Thursday, November 27th, I started to turn Solitaire into a submarine by spending the day fibreglassing-in the cockpit locker. In future it would be hard to repair the bilge pump, but with the mouth of the bigger in-taker of seawater closed there would be less cause to use it.

  At 1am GMT that Friday we were scheduled to be due south of Cape Leeuwin in 38°39´S, 260 miles below the cape and 81 miles above the Roaring Forties. 12,656 miles and 142 days out of Lymington: time to open my next parcel and enjoy a special treat of steak and kidney pie, peas and powdered potato. My friend’s letter was ceremoniously pinned above the chart table, replacing the birthday card, which went into the ship’s log. The final entry in the log that day read: ‘Rome, Annegret. Thank you – God bless.’

  Solitaire now dropped south to sail under our next cape, off Tasmania. I wanted to pass approximately 120 miles below the island at latitude 46°S, putting us 360 miles into the Roaring Forties. If yachtsmen had been surprised to see Solitaire rounding the Cape of Good Hope on a piece of writing paper they would have been even more confused to see her sailing past a red ink drawing of Australia set in the middle of the Indian Ocean!

  My pilot charts were unsuitable for navigation, as a notice at the top of each stated, and a further few words stopped my putting too much trust in them: ‘Founded upon the researches made in the early part of the 19th century by Matthew Fontaine Maury, while serving as a lieutenant in the United States Navy.’ I felt I owed Matthew an apology for thinking he was a Member of Parliament. I must have had him turning in his grave even if he had been buried for a century or more.

  Using such charts is like playing a game of chess with a crooked gambler while blindfolded. They are made up of little squares similar to those on a chessboard, each square containing the percentage of gales and calms, and the force and direction of winds to be expected. Although you know full well there’s not a hope in hell of winning the game it’s the only one in town to play, jumping from square to square trying to avoid the storms and areas of calm. We started to pick up local radio stations and became part of small communities, sharing their pleasures and tragedies. We sneaked into towns like ghosts, unheard and unseen, and leaving without the occupants ever knowing that we had visited.

  Sunday, November 30th. No sights, wind increased last night and moved to south bloody east, right on our course. Finished up with the storm jib and three reefs in the main, slamming into rough seas. Albany Radio, 300 miles to the north, reported winds of 30–40 knots but at sea the gusts are much higher than that. A man and a woman have been swept off a yacht and lost during a race from Perth. Solitaire and I felt their sorrow but our bowed heads went unnoticed.

  On the morning of Tuesday, December 2nd, we had our first visitor. People often ask me how I keep my mind occupied at sea. ‘Do you talk to yourself? What is there to think about?’ In fact mind and brain work harder as a storm can present a dozen problems at once. Even a small incident can set you thinking for days. Ideas shoot in all directions like an egg splattering on concrete. On this particular morning I was reading in my bunk when there was a crash at the top of the mast, followed by a squawking and clattering as something fell inside the rigging. The largest and most confused albatross I had ever seen filled the cockpit. We eyed one another cautiously until I realised the bird’s wing was caught in the mainsheet.

  ‘Me friend,’ I said as I released it. Then I remembered that Christmas was only 23 days away and this bird was ten times larger than any turkey I had ever seen. But there was no way I could kill it. In any case, as every seaman knows, it is bad luck to kill an albatross, and seamen have starved rather than harm one feather of their heads. The creatures of the sea were part of my family. We lived and died together. They entertained me with their beauty and grace. There was nothing on God’s earth that would make me kill this bird and eat it. But if it was injured I could make a lead for it and turn it into a pet, taking it for walkies around the deck every morning. Should it die of its injuries I could then eat it for there’s nothing in the rules that says you can’t eat an albatross that dies from natural causes. Suddenly I became aware how lovely this bird was, with its half-frightened eyes and panting chest. I remembered
then how many months it was since I had last seen, let alone spoken to, a woman. If it was bad luck to kill an albatross what would happen if you merely tried to seduce one? Was it a criminal offence? I could see the headline, ‘Round-the-world yachtsman accused of screwing albatross’. I would make millions. Newspapers would queue up to buy my story and I might even be able to afford some decent charts. This line of thinking came to an abrupt end when I realised that I hadn’t the foggiest idea whether this particular albatross was male or female. A seducer of birds, maybe, gay never.

  I went to get a piece of rope so that I could prevent it hurting itself further but he must have misunderstood my intentions and shot over the stern like Concorde. As I watched him circling over Solitaire I noticed the yellow superstructure of a ship dropping below the horizon, my first sighting since leaving the Atlantic.

  Week 21 saw off 596 miles, my Christmas dinner and what might have turned out to be a long and lasting friendship.

  Week 22 went by with old Matthew the crooked gambler up to his tricks. We logged 590 miles through storms where there were supposed to be no storms and calms that should not have been there either. The former did not worry me but the latter did as we were making less than 600 miles a week in areas noted for their constant following winds and where I anticipated covering between 700 and 800 miles.

  Week 22 started with Solitaire entering the Roaring Forties and ended 240 miles deep into them in latitude 44°S. With a number two genoa we could have made more use of favourable winds. Instead we were running out of time and the voyage was taking much too long. Week 22 ended on December 10th, after five months at sea. We were holding a good course with winds gusting from the north-west around Force 6 under clear blue skies and with a cabin temperature of 66°F. But the crew was worried, very worried.