Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed

by Les Powles

  Week 40 was one of the best as the winds continued to increase when we reached the south-east trades, and daily runs first touched and then surpassed 100 miles.

  On Thursday, April 9th, we recorded our ninth month at sea and 23,638 miles, only another 5,000 to Lymington. On a glorious day with hardly a cloud Solitaire stretched her legs as we sailed past another landmark, Ascension Island, 900 miles to our east. Provided there were no major problems we would now reach the Azores, although we still had the doldrums to pass through. And I still had two of Rome’s parcels to look forward to. Solitaire was in good shape and my own health was not too bad, at least my skin was starting to tan and the blisters on my back had healed. We were progressing.

  Friday, April 10th, saw us 600 miles from the Equator, and on my last parcel but one. Winds were a little light but Solitaire seemed content as flying fish started to appear, lifting in panic to splash back when their wings failed to gain lift in the zephyrs. Seated in the cockpit, two cushions protecting my fleshless posterior, I willed them to fall into our web of rigging and sails, weary flies for a starving spider. The spinner glinted appetisingly in Solitaire’s wake but attracted no takers.

  Our radio, however, hauled in its own catch, gorging itself on the BBC’s overseas broadcasts. The American space shuttle epic was in progress, reducing Solitaire’s efforts to a stroll in the garden, but we shared a common aim: we were both reaching for the impossible and yet making it probable. I was content, despite settling for a dinner of... you guessed it... curry powder, peas and rice.

  Next day, Saturday, April 11th, our position was 08°S, 28°53´W (480 miles to the Equator), having sailed 23,862 miles (112 in the past 24 hours). Winds were Force 3 to 4 from the east, and we were under full main and number one genoa. Solitaire made 5 to 6 knots on course. Spent morning repairing number two genoa. No luck with fishing so for dinner opened my last tin of sardines and rice, maybe the voyage’s last fish dish.

  At 6pm I caught and photographed my first fish, a beauty. Food, bloody food! I was resting on my bunk conserving strength when I heard a scraping sound and lay awhile, trying to work out which part of the rigging was causing it, before staggering on deck to investigate. The fishing line was sawing back and forth across the top of the pushpit. The shock cord taking the initial strike was stretched to the limit, so grabbing a pair of heavy rubber gloves I started to haul in the line, which felt as if I had hooked a junior whale. When I had brought it within 20ft or so of the stern, I could see it was 3–4ft long. White and bright emerald green flashed as it twisted and dived, a starving man on one end of the line, a creature fighting for its life on the other. Slowly the hunger of the one overcame the will to live of the other until I had it alongside, holding its massive head out of the rushing water, staring into frightened eyes. How could I kill this beautiful creature, which would surely turn me into a cannibal! I would be eating my own kind and I knew I must not.

  My fellow traveller metamorphosed from the most beautiful fish I had ever seen into fry pan potential, and my mouth filled with succulent juices which, overflowing, streamed from my lips. Lacking a gaff I feared he might be too heavy for me to pull on board and that he would escape, but I heaved him out with such force that he shot over my head to the bottom of the cockpit where he flapped and flounced, clinging to life. I grabbed him by the throat to strangle him with hands like claws but in this I failed, so dashed below for the biggest hammer I could find, scattering tools in all directions, before I killed him with one. Remorseless, I sat back as the beautiful greens faded to lifeless greys and learned something about myself: that when the choice lay between my hunger and another creature’s life, I would kill unhesitatingly.

  Having hung the body on the backstays, I photographed and measured all 46in of it. Lord knows what it weighed as it was as thick as the top of one of my legs – before I started dieting. After removing its head and tail, I cut the rest into steaks, dropped them into buckets of fresh seawater, and selected two pieces, one to be left on deck to dry out for later, the other to fill my frying pan. Slowly it turned from grey to heavenly white food and, as I watched it, saliva streamed down my chin, although I managed to resist the compulsion to eat from the pan. Instead I dusted off my best plate and laid the fish upon it, ignoring the protests of my tormented stomach. The fish required a dressing to bring out its flavour so finding the remnants of some sherry, I splashed a few drops on the fish course and poured the rest into a glass which I topped with water to make a fine wine. The Queen, God bless her! I lifted the glass to check the wine’s colour, then smelt and tasted it before declaring it a vintage. Carefully I selected one of the larger flakes of steaming meat, then lay back as it dissolved in my mouth with a flavour never before experienced this side of heaven, the finest banquet, I decided, I would ever have.

  For the first time in months I purred contentedly, satiated. One more thing would fill my cup: the aroma and taste of coffee. I had run out some time ago but located a jar with some dark stains in, filled it with boiling water and had my last wish, a delicious cup of coffee-coloured liquid.

  The fish should have lasted a week but, fearful that it might go off, I gorged myself for three days, frying, baking and boiling it, and for the first time since leaving England ate three good meals a day. Had I known, I could have made it last longer, for after a few days the pieces I had kept in water grew slimy and started to smell, whereas the chunk left on deck to dry in the sun slowly turned white, looking for all the world as though it were frozen. Best of all there was no smell. Sliced in the frying pan with a tin of tomatoes, my last fish meal proved one of my better recipes.

  Back on rice and curry powder I regretted I had not dried out more but, starvation apart, I resolved never to catch a fish again, still remembering the fading colours as the fish died. The smell of death lingered in Solitaire’s cockpit and fish scales would turn up in the most unlikely places for days to come. Solitaire’s main problem now was her passage through the fickle doldrums: if we were lucky enough to make a fast passage, there would be no need of further mayhem.

  The effect of the three days’ feeding was dramatic. Bleeding gums, stomach pains, headaches, sore eyes and foul mouth vanished and if my body were still skeletal, at least now it could pull its own weight. With perfect sailing conditions it was bliss to laze in the sunny 80s, cooled by spray.

  I had bouts of depression, worrying about my parents and my return to England with nothing in the world but the £60 I had left with, which would not last long as I owed the VAT on my new Lucas sails. Since I would not have spent a full year outside the country, the £60 had to be earmarked to clear that debt. Perhaps I would be allowed to see my family, then sail to the Channel Islands to finish out the year there. Also, I still had a court case awaiting me, the very thought of which sickened me. My chances of finding work would be slim, for who would want a 56-year-old electrical engineer who had spent the last six years at sea? On the dole it would be hard to look after Solitaire and get her back to sailing condition. I looked forward to seeing my friends aboard Solitaire; perhaps if I were lucky, being invited out to dinner, but that would be the limit of my social life. To go with a crowd to a pub for a drink would be out of the question: I could not stand my round.

  England had no place for Solitaire and me. Had I been sponsored, things might have been different, but we had left unknown, without fuss, and were returning similarly. I had no yacht club; Solitaire and I were working-class misfits, our best hope to settle the court case quickly and sail before debts bogged us down. Some of Solitaire’s gear could be sold: I would no longer require two self-steering systems and if the worst came to the worst, I could sell the engine. Yes, I certainly had my moments of depression.

  In week 40 we covered 772 miles in all, but the following week would be the important one. With luck it would see us through the dreaded doldrums and across the Equator. Luckless, we would spend days becalmed, watching our stores dwindle. We started well.

  On Wednesday, Apri
l 15th, the day’s run was 120 miles, then the winds swung from south-east to north-east, a sure sign that we were leaving the constant southerlies to enter an area of uncertainty and confusion. My sextant recorded that we were just 29 miles south of the Equator. We must have been passing through one of the main Brazilian shipping lanes for during the day two ships passed down our side. That night one was in sight for hours before slipping astern of us and over the horizon, the thump thump of its engines echoing behind. After that I snuggled down in my sleeping bag for what I hoped would be a long rest, but black clouds racing across the sky brought strong winds and heavy rain.

  My main concern was that for some time we had had two small islands, Sao Pedro and Sao Paulo, dancing on our bows. As they were only a few hundred feet high, they were difficult to see, but I was unwilling to spend too much time giving them a wide berth. I changed down to working jib, reefed the main and came hard on the wind.

  By Thursday morning we were 40 miles due east of the islands. The wind first dropped (although there was still a sea running after the night’s squalls) then went back to the south-east, giving us a broad reach under full main and number two genoa. By noon we were 01°24´N, so despite the squalls we had covered 109 miles and were 84 miles above the Equator, Solitaire’s sixth crossing.

  Friday, April 17th, was Good Friday. Although it meant opening two parcels close together, I needed to do it and then decide whether to pass through the high-pressure area of the Azores in the hope of stopping a small ship for supplies, or sail west, taking advantage of the current and the lower percentage of calms. I opened Rome’s last two parcels, one for crossing the Equator, the second for Easter, and indulged in half a tin of faggots and peas. Having read the letter accompanying the food, I changed it for the Cape Horn message pinned above the chart table, had chocolate for supper and watched the sun set while drinking a tin of Coca Cola, totally content. We had sufficient food to get us back to England non-stop, I reckoned.

  By noon we were well and truly in the doldrums, with a hazy grey overcast sky whose light winds died by sunset. We drifted windlessly in to Saturday on a flat sea with the main hard in, not just to cut down our oscillation but also to alert passing ships to our presence.

  Traffic grew so dense that I gave up thoughts of sleep and stayed on watch that night. Shortly after midnight a ship zigzagged towards us. Normally I show no lights as they seem to attract super-tankers like moths to a candle, but on this occasion I had no option. The effect of switching on my deck and running lights was instantaneous as the ship promptly turned towards us like a retriever wagging its tail, two searchlights bathing us in their brilliance. It is difficult to know what to do in these conditions: if you wave too much, they may think you need help; if you don’t wave at all, they may think you are too weak to do so and try to help anyway. Normally I wave until I’m sure they have seen me, then go below and watch from the porthole. In this case the light went out and the ship pulled away, whereupon I spent the next 30 minutes trying to close my eyes without seeing stars and flashing lights!

  On Saturday, when we were 240 miles north of the Equator and becalmed, I sighted a larger vessel on the horizon. For some days I had been making up a chart of the voyage with messages asking that my family be contacted in England. I had tied these onto weighted pieces of rubber tubing in the hope that if I could get close enough to a ship it might be possible to toss them across.

  After starting my engine we were spotted and the ship swung in our direction, passing down our port side 100–150 yards away, throwing up a decent bow wave. I held up my red ensign hoping our name would be reported to Lloyd’s. When well astern of us she started to turn on to what I assumed was her correct course but, instead, she completed the circle and steamed down our starboard side. When well ahead she swung across our bows and stopped engines. Appropriately enough she was the Lloyds of Rotterdam, registered in Rio de Janeiro.

  She lay dead in the water, rolling back and forth in a high swell, her hull offering a good windbreak, so I started circling, each time closing the ship. Passengers looked down on us from every vantage point. I went within 40 yards of her then, as we were sucked closer to the towering side of the ship, I realised I could not safely make contact. The spreaders on Solitaire’s mast pointed like fingers about to be crushed against steel plates. In panic I pushed the throttle fully open, my heart missing a beat as the engine hesitated before we slowly drew away.

  I made a few more passes, showed the flag and pointed to the name on our stern while the sun set in a blaze of colour. With a final wave I resumed course for home, hoping that we would be reported. I would have given much to let my family know I was safe but not at the expense of having Solitaire damaged in the process. We motored until dark when, with the ocean to ourselves, I shut down the engine to enjoy a night broken only by the crack of sleeping sails.

  Sunday, April 19th, was spent going around in circles, sails constantly backing, the air full of vacuums and bad language. To prevent Solitaire running over the non-trailing log I hauled it aboard, but despite this and the confused conditions, we still managed to log 53 miles. Sights gave us a distance of 90 miles with another 300 to go before we cleared the doldrums and sailed into the North Atlantic. With luck we would then have 1,000 miles of easterly trades. That night we surged along under a full main and jenny.

  Monday was a great day. With dawn the winds backed to NNE and dropped, enabling me to hoist the big number one genoa. I thought about spending the day fishing but discarded this idea when dancing dolphins surrounded us. Two ships came over to take a look at Solitaire and her performing circus, clapped briefly and departed. Having nothing better to do than relax contentedly, I tried to sum up our present position: the Azores were approximately 2,200 miles away and England another 1,800 miles, say 4,000 miles to Lymington. Provided our guardian angel looked after us for a further few weeks, we should make it non-stop. Even if I had to cut down my rations to a mouthful of rice a day we would still carry on, skirting the Azores to the west and leaving their high-pressure area to starboard. Temperatures hit 92°F. Man, Solitaire and sea sighed in luxygence, a harmony of luxury and indulgence.

  Tuesday, April 21st, brought week 41 to a close. We had sailed 583 miles through the doldrums with far less trouble than I had dared to hope, the nor-nor-easterlies blowing at anything from Force 4 to 6. Still concerned about damage to the worn number two jenny, I tried sailing hard on the wind with reefed main and working jib, but clearly I was under-canvassed and would have to use the genoas even if they were sacrificed in the attempt for more speed to overcome the close chopping waves. Solitaire’s staccato steps of the Cha, Cha, Cha turned into a graceful, gliding waltz. Now and again a vicious wave would vent its anger and spray, filled with rainbows of a thousand colours, would shoot up from our bows before cooling the cockpit. At times mast and rigging would vibrate and the leech of the reefed main flutter. Solitaire would tremble and shake, matching her movements to the rhythm of wind and sea.

  For a week she danced the miles away effortlessly, 878 by the end of week 42, our best run yet. Thanks to our speed through the doldrums, I thought I could risk increasing my third of a tin of soup or greens to half a cup and my rice from a half cup a day to two cups over three days. I had 10 gallons of water left – no worry there.

  We still had to pass through the Azores high-pressure area when I could really start thinking ahead. Whether we could reach home by the end of May was a question that could be answered only when we had passed Flores, 1,100 miles to the north. Next day, Wednesday, April 28th, things worsened. I should have learned my lesson by now, not to take too much for granted. The log reports:

  Over the past 24 hours our luck has changed. The seam on the leech of the number two genoa has ripped and the bottom piston hank has broken through its holding eye, cutting the luff rope. Islands of yellow and brown Sargasso weed have started to appear, promptly wrapping themselves around the self-steering rudder and forcing me to pull in the trailing log. The
winds are still light from the north-east but the occasional squall prohibits our using the large number one genoa, so we ghost through a sea, half blue, half brown, chasing more wind.

  I still felt cheerful. The number two jenny had lasted much longer than expected and, if the problem arose, was still repairable. But I would have to cut back to my old food rations, for there was no hope of fishing in this expanse of weed. Thursday was spent working on the jenny and by clearing weed from the self-steering blade, we managed to push 80 miles through the jungle of floating Sargasso.

  By Friday morning the headsail was repaired and ready to offer a few more hours of its valuable time, at which point the wind died to a faint breeze, barely giving Solitaire steerage way. To make up for the slow progress, I had a celebratory ‘parcel’ dinner, half a tin each of pilchards and coleslaw, the closest thing I had had to fresh vegetables since South Africa. From the BBC I learned that a certain Bobby Sands was deliberately starving himself to death.

  Saturday was gloriously sunny but we made only 16 miles in 24 frustrating hours.

  Sunday, May 3rd. We still had 600 miles to go before clearing the high-pressure area. Although supposed to have only two per cent calms, we spent hour after hour rocking in great puddles of flat water, rising and falling with the islands of yellow weed. I started the motor, which at least charged the batteries as we found a path through the islands, jumping from one puddle to the next, the sails still flapping. Once more I cut my ration to half a cup a day, with a small tin of beans for luck today.