Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed

by Les Powles

  1640 GMT. Noon position 57°03´S, 68°19´W. Distance run 20,380 miles. We are about 10 miles beyond Ramirez Island with 35 miles to go to reach Cape Horn’s longitude. Good conditions at the moment so with luck we should pass soon after dark. I have opened Rome’s parcel after cheating a bit. It’s such a glorious day I wanted to take some photographs, with their letter attached to the flagstaff. I have included Peter’s bottle of champagne by tying it to the pulpit rail.

  2100 GMT. Further sight confirms previous position. Now only 16 miles to pass Cape Horn’s longitude. Solitaire is pointing due east on latitude 57°S, 60 miles below the Cape in a perfect position with 2,000 fathoms below our keel. Black squalls keep building up astern of us and passing through. How about the navigation? Must have improved since Brazil. Wish the cook could do as well. He dished up Bloody Rice again today.

  Tuesday, February 24th. The end of our 33rd week at sea, 231 days in all. We passed Cape Horn at 0100 GMT this morning, 20,473 miles from home. Yesterday’s sunshine has turned into a mixture of gales dying to whispers, rain, fog, drizzle gusting back with squalls then storm force winds again and changing so quickly that I’m leaving up just the storm jib. Below, everything is wet and miserable. I have just taken off my socks for the first time in more than a week. My feet look like two dead cods and surprisingly white.

  I knew something was missing but could not figure out what until I realised that I was minus my black toenails. When I turned the socks inside out I found them nestling at the bottom. I was now fleshless, toenail-less and my gums bled so badly that I would soon be toothless as well. What else I had to give before this voyage ended I shuddered to think. All I wanted now was to head north and sail into warmer seas, opening hatches and washing myself and clothes if only in boiled sea water. The thought of sitting in a sunny cockpit with cooling breezes that soothed my blistered, itching back was a dream of paradise. I could imagine a shrivelled old man with wrinkles around his eyes eating his daily rice with a gummy smile on his face.

  There was no feeling of achievement, only gratitude that the seas had allowed Solitaire to pass over them without making too many demands, and relief that the oceans were now open to us. I had my celebration dinner on February 25th, the start of Solitaire’s 34th week at sea. We had been becalmed all morning following the previous day’s storms. The afternoon was like an English spring day, clear blue skies with a bite in the crystal air. As the carpets dried in the cockpit the temperature went up to 59°F. Solitaire started to make her way north with an escort of dolphins to welcome us back into the South Atlantic.

  For that night’s dinner I reckoned on half a tin of meatballs accompanied by beans and finishing with a third of a tin of sponge cake. Between courses the instructions on the champagne were adhered to: not to be opened until Cape Horn is abaft the beam (although I wasn’t too sure what that meant).

  The second part of the instructions – ‘for internal use only, contents to be consumed in one sitting’ – gave no problem. Following these orders I realised how warm and cosy the cabin had become. The saucepan’s water had boiled away and my tin of sponge was virtually glowing! In my inebriated condition I forgot about saving some of the sponge for the following day and scoffed the lot, and for a few hours drifted warmly in sleep until a screeching night awoke me. I staggered on deck into biting spume flying from the tops of freezing breaking seas. After reducing to the storm jib I returned to my damp, stinking prison, and lay shivering under a sodden sleeping bag.

  With the broad Atlantic stretching ahead navigation was less important. Had I lost the last spinner on my trailing log, or had the portable radio packed up it would not now be too serious. We still had 8,000 miles to go before we reached Lymington, if the charts proved correct and we did not have too many calms. Provided the antifouling prevented our hull from turning into a wet sponge, we would make it home non-stop. All rather iffy.

  Two days after rounding Cape Horn we were becalmed again. To sit for hours without movement watching my scant food supplies dwindle was stressful and only partially relieved by my remarks in the log.

  It seems hard to believe but we are once more becalmed. Solitaire is lying with just her mainsail and one reef. For the second day we have waves and a high swell but we don’t have the most important ingredient, WIND. The red telltales are hanging straight down from the backstays like a girl’s skirts, our sails slamming back and forth with frustration. I wonder what the price of property is around here. Might pay us to rent a house while we’re sculling about. The log line is visible only for a few feet, dropping out of sight into the sea’s black depths. There must be some forward movement as we have progressed two miles in three-and-a-half hours. The Falkland Islands are 230 miles due north so at this speed we could be there next Christmas. After our celebration meal we are back to skipper’s choice: half a cup of rice, a third of a tin of peas with curry powder. Sounds bloody delicious. Bet you any money the cook serves up the dish again tomorrow. If we have wind – if – we will soon be sailing over the Burwood Bank where the ocean depth shelves from 2,000 fathoms to 40. Let’s hope the winds don’t about face. I would not fancy these shallow waters during a storm.

  There were good days. On one I was looking over Solitaire’s stern when a whale surfaced. A few seconds earlier he would have certainly given us a lift in life. Near the Falklands I picked up some lovely music on the restricted medium wave, probably from Argentina as the announcer appeared to be speaking Spanish. All my old favourites, played by a string orchestra, came across: Tales from the Vienna Woods, Maria, and what seemed appropriate at the time, All the Lonely People.

  We were carried over the Burwood Bank shallows by current and wave rather than by wind. At times the boat’s forward speed was faster than the following breeze, the mainsail backing itself so that for a few seconds the wind seemed to come over our bow. As we dropped off the shallows into the 1,000 fathom line we ran into a vicious storm and were thankful it had not arrived a day earlier. The rest of the week passed in a mixture of gales, storms and breaking seas, Solitaire dragging herself north to break the Southern Ocean’s icy grip.

  On Monday, March 2nd, Solitaire slipped unnoticed past the Falkland Islands, 60 miles to the west. Only their local radio playing request music proved their existence. Next day we ran out of the Furious Fifties and fell off the end of our last decent chart. Now all we had for navigation was a pilot chart, which proved sufficient. The South Atlantic lay before us, its welcoming arms opening wide for a thousand miles.

  Week 34 ended with the Falklands 185 miles in our wake, having logged 575 miles despite the calms, 21,117 miles in all, but it would be another week before Solitaire cleared the limit of the icebergs and the high storm areas. My log ended with good and bad news. The good news was that the temperature in Solitaire’s cabin topped 50°F, the bad was disguised in a few words: ‘Checked food supply. Not good’. In fact it was serious. As the food had disappeared from under the bunks the space had been filled by other pieces of equipment. My main food supply, the rice, was kept in a sealed bucket adjoining Rome’s last two parcels and such other food as remained was stored behind the main bunks.

  Sometimes I failed to understand the speed of its disappearance, as if I were spending £5 notes and finding each was worth only two pence. No sooner had I broken into a fresh cache of food than it seemed to vanish, despite cutting down on my rations so that my bones cried out in protest. At one period I found I had more powdered milk than I needed for tea so I started mixing two spoonfuls of powdered milk, sugar, flour and water which turned out like soft toffee when fried. I would have a little of this at night and cut my rice to half a cup a day.

  My last checks on the food supply took no time at all as once I had dropped the bunk backs every morsel of food aboard was in full view. Although we could be at sea for a further three months, hunger was not really all that important. There were millions of people who would have been grateful for a tithe of what I had; it was more a case of wanting to play my
part in returning home and not lie on my bunk, too weak to help Solitaire on this last stage.

  Over the months my attitude had changed frequently. As far as nerves were concerned the worst period had been from England down to the storm off the Cape of Good Hope. In a way I was lucky that it happened so early because, once it was over, it served as a reference point: we survived that one and this is not so bad so we’ll survive this one, too.

  Week 35 started with a storm that brought some of the worst seas of the last stage. On the first day we had northerlies gusting up and down our nose. Solitaire was sailing reasonably into a fairly flat sea with a full main and working jib but just before dark, for no reason that I could explain, I felt uneasy and put two reefs in the main. Much later I awoke to a violent gale which, had I not reefed the mainsail before turning in, would surely have caused us serious damage. Next day the storm increased and I recorded: ‘Worst condition since Cape of Good Hope. Severe storm, squalls from the south-west reaching an all-time high. Bad cross-seas. Solitaire running on broad reach under storm jib.’

  My attitude to this storm is shown by the fact that during its worst period I tied myself to the mast and spent an hour taking photographs. Every now and then I found I was standing without Solitaire, clinging to the mast. After an hour I gave up, having failed to take a decent picture. Below, wet sleeping bags and the usual smell of rancid cabbage, dirty clothes, and unwashed bodies greeted me. All I had to write about that was, ‘Oh well, things will improve further north’. Although I felt no great achievement in rounding Cape Horn the pressure of passing it before winter set in had disappeared. The worst of the voyage was behind us, the best to come.

  By noon next day the gale had dropped and I even wrote about a beautiful afternoon, a clear sky and a sparkling sea with the temperature up to 59°F. For the first time in months I dropped the pram cover from the main hatch and removed stinking sea boots and socks.

  Monday, March 9th was probably the best day of the voyage. We had been at sea for eight months covering 21,568 miles. The South American coast was 600 miles to the west. Our latitude was 43°06´S which left us only with 186 miles to go to clear the Roaring Forties. After opening up the forward hatch to flow fresh air through the cabin, I stripped off my filthy bloodstained clothes, boiled some seawater and washed all over, to the instant relief of my itching back. All mildewy or dirty clothing was put into a sealed bucket in which was a mixture of washing-up liquid and scented soap (for good measure).

  With ropes attached I tossed the cabin carpets overboard to be washed in the world’s largest laundry, their brown water joining the brilliant blue and white one left by Solitaire.

  The log summed up the voyage so far.

  Let’s hope the worst is over. We have approximately 7,000 miles to go. The best I can expect is to be in Lymington by the end of May, another 80 days at sea. Solitaire is not as fast as when she left England. Her hull must be badly fouled and we have the doldrums still to pass through. With just two more strong headsails and the standing rigging reinforced we could have done so much better. The worst part was not, as I had expected, rounding Cape Horn but the storm off the Cape of Good Hope. Rome’s parcels have been lifesavers: without them I don’t know what I would have done and shall never be able to repay his kindness. I’m just sorry my performance as driver was not up to standard, something like 325 days for the round trip. Might have to emigrate to Brazil to hide my face.

  Tuesday, March 10th saw the end of our 35th week at sea and another 595 miles. Used the number two genoa for the first time without having to watch it hawk-eyed. The log finished on a cheerful note: ‘Becalmed at present but having just heard the Budget on the BBC, being becalmed isn’t so bad after all!’ It was the last cheerful entry I made for some time as the calms continued where perfect sailing conditions were indicated.

  Wednesday, March 11th. Dinner was a Roman orgy – tinned lamb stew! Should last two days but food really is a problem. I must start catching fish soon, which should help. No chance for a spinner now that Solitaire is barely moving.

  Thursday, March 12th. Slow progress. Swell from the west pushes us forward a few feet now and again but a glorious day with a clear blue sky. Temperature 67°F. Water down to 15 gallons but food still the main problem and leftovers from yesterday’s stew will have to last two more days. Now have fishing line trailing over the stern, the last thing I want as I hate the thought of killing anything. Unless we make better progress a non-stop voyage will be difficult. Noon latitude 39°58´S. At last we are out of the Roaring Forties but still becalmed, sails slamming. We haven’t had a decent sail for four days.

  Friday, March 13th. Becalmed until 0300 but good progress in the last 12 hours. Logged 67 miles.

  Saturday March 14th. Becalmed again. I think the idea is to allow me to sail 60 miles a day and no more. Once the daily allowance has been achieved the wind goes on strike. If I don’t catch fish I can’t see my doing this trip non-stop. Perhaps I can ask a ship for supplies. This morning I inflated the dinghy while becalmed and cleaned the barnacles off Solitaire ’s hull although the swell made it difficult. We’ll try again further north.

  Sunday, March 15th. Full gale from the north-east. Reduced to mainsail only with three reefs. Making no headway: we might even be pushed back towards Cape Horn.

  Monday, March 16th. Yesterday’s storm could have been worse as we lost little ground. Now beating to NNW, Force 5 to 6 and risking our number two genoa in an attempt to make up lost time.

  Tuesday, March 17th. Gale conditions have reduced us to working jib and 329 miles this week, the worst since leaving England. Feeling very depressed. I have 12 gallons of water remaining and 60 days’ rice allowing half a cup or so a day. I can cut no further and as it is am slowly turning into something dragged in by the cat. Today’s main meal will be rice with baked beans; yesterday’s was curry powder mixed with Marmite poured over half a cup of rice. Recently I have tried fishing without any luck. In these storms I’ve had to stay closed in again which doesn’t help. If I could catch more drinking water and a fish or two! I will try to pass through the doldrums to the Azores but must reckon on calling at St Helena or Ascension.

  During week 37 we still progressed slowly and dinners were not quite up to Queen Elizabeth standards.

  Wednesday, March 18th. Skipper’s choice: half a cup of rice, half a tin of peas and Marmite mixed with a little flour. Sounds bloody delicious. Bet the cook dishes up the same meal tomorrow. No luck with the fishing.

  Thursday, March 19th. Worked on damaged toe rail and washed my smalls in boiled seawater as becalmed, which does allow one to do the odd job like building another yacht or celebrating your 100th birthday. I was right about the flaming cook: curried peas again.

  Friday, March 20th. Another 400 miles should see us coming out of the high gale areas. Dinner today: half a small tin of spam, half a cup of rice with mustard. Yuk.

  Saturday, March 21st. Dinner: finished the rest of the spam.

  Sunday, March 22nd. Dinner: the human skeleton had baked beans and half a cup of rice but it is a glorious day with temperatures up to 76°F. Gorgeous to sit in the cockpit with the hot sun bleaching your bones. Fishing line out but no luck. Feel content despite shortages.

  1500. Nearly caught my first fish, bright green and about 3ft long. I had it alongside for around ten minutes trying to get a loop of wire around its tail with a boat hook and pull a sail bag over it but it broke the hook and escaped. At least it proves my spinner and tackle work so maybe better luck tomorrow. Whoooopeeee, food!

  Monday, March 23rd. A few squalls during the night, more a whisper on black velvet compared with the screams of the Southern Ocean, forced me to lower the main. No fish so settled for rice, half a tin of sliced green beans, flour and curry powder. Maybe cook will give me fish tomorrow... I could use the other half of the sliced beans.

  Tuesday, March 24th. The end of week 37 with a run of 486 miles and another glorious day in the low 80s under a clear sky on a flat se
a. A faint westerly barely fills main and genoa. If only I had food and water, life would be perfect. Solitaire is still the most beautiful lady in the world but her constant movement over the last months has worn down my flesh, leaving only muscle and bone, and I have to keep bracing myself against her movement even when asleep. A beautiful lady but she’s wearing me out. Dinner: beans, Marmite, curry, flour. And all there is left is hunger!

  In week 38 we logged only 299 miles, the worst this voyage despite doing everything I could to increase speed. My old number one genoa I had saved for passing through the doldrums was hoisted but day after day the sail lay useless on deck. We kept up the main merely to reduce pitching and tossing. Thoroughly frustrated, I opened up the rear cockpit locker, breaking my fibreglassing, turned on the seacock and started the motor for the first time in many weeks. It ran effortlessly to charge the batteries for a couple of hours, then I switched it off to lie a-hull, rocking back and forth under a slapping main.

  To vary my monotonous rice and curry powder diet I spread some toothpaste on rice and forced it down as my day’s ration; thereafter each time I cleaned my teeth I felt sick. Then I remembered that Annegret had given me a box of medicines and, sorting through it, found some throat lozenges which I treated myself to at the rate of one a day. Drinking water went down to 8 gallons so I cut my tea ration from three cups a day to three half-cups until I managed to catch 6 gallons, during a rain squall which put a stop to any water rationing. Intermittent calms and squalls gave problems with both old genoas and time after time I was caught with long repair jobs.

  In week 39 the winds became more constant from astern and our daily runs increased from 80 to 125 miles, 668 miles in all by the week’s end. My spirits rose. Although my trailing line was now constantly in the water, the 9in spinner breaking the surface 100ft astern, I caught no fish. With the high temperatures and crystal waters you would have thought the ocean would be alive with flying fish, dolphins and sea birds but it was empty. Lack of wind could have been the reason for the absence of flying fish since a sea without constant wind is a death trap for them – perhaps they realised that if they dropped on deck I’d have ’em instantly.