Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed

by Les Powles

  Gibraltar was the same dusty, dirty place I had remembered from my previous two visits. When my brother had taken his own life, he left me the money he had inherited from our father. Not a great sum, but enough that, providing that I spent a reasonable time at sea and anchor, I would have an income that would pay for food and cheap marina berths when required. It had been my intention to stay in Gibraltar only long enough to carry out a few repairs and put on stores before setting off to cross the Atlantic. This plan was changed when I received a letter from Tony and Irene, saying the family had booked a holiday on the island of Ibiza in the Balearics for September.

  The island was only 400 miles away and I decided to join them. With time to spare, cheap marina fees, and a first class chandlery within walking distance, I decided to fit out Solitaire’s forward cabin, and give the main cabin a new headlining. Knowing I could expect fickle winds in the Med and that I would be doing a great deal of motoring, I bought an autopilot to back up the wind vane steering. I spent six weeks in Gibraltar before setting out to cruise along the southern Spanish coast. It was time to leave. When I had first arrived after weeks of fresh sea air, my lungs were much better. The narrow smoky streets and a marina berth next to the airport’s main runway were starting to show effects.

  The final few days were spent with terrible coughing and sleepless nights. As Gibraltar slipped behind us, I was reminded of the American singer Tony Bennett who had a theme song called I Left My Heart in San Francisco. Mine for the future would be, ‘I left my lung in Gibraltar.’

  After all her long-distance voyages, Solitaire set a new record with four stops in the first 50 miles, but we did manage to sail the last part of the trip to San Antonio harbour in Ibiza non-stop. I think I will always remember the voyage for the many contrasts. There was the so-called marina that was a part of a filthy harbour with few berths and one foul-smelling toilet, and the posh place filled with Gin Palaces. When you arrived, they didn’t ask the size of your craft, just how many helicopters the deck holds. Then there would be the dozen discos and the howling frustrated Spanish singer, always just out of a stone-throwing distance. But at night I woke to find myself surrounded by magic. There was a piano playing all the old romantic songs: Stardust, Love Letters, Yesterday. Then a woman started to sing, switching from English to French, to Italian. I sat in the cockpit until dawn, hardly daring to breathe – MAGIC!

  There was the contrast too of a lovely lady’s voice in the distance with a naked female only inches away from the end of my nose. Over the years I had got used to the lengths ladies would go to remain cool. In Tahiti during the summer of 1976, going topless had become the fashion. By 1983 in the Caribbean, it had become the norm and men stopped looking. Well, old men anyway. After a sleepless night of being roasted by the heat and deafened by the discos, I staggered into the cockpit to pass another milestone in my life. During the night a German yacht had tied up alongside and a very attractive lady was attempting to stay cool by taking a shower.

  Having no hat to raise, I spilt a boiling cup of coffee in my lap. ‘Guten Morgen, Fraulein,’ I said, which was about all the German I knew. She smiled and I tried to keep the conversation going. At the time she was having trouble with a fly she was trying to swot. I remembered that the German word ‘Fledermaus’ had something to do with a fly, so said this to her. The smile became a laugh and she disappeared down her own hatchway.

  Later, when changing my shorts, I remembered where I’d heard the word. It was from the German opera by Johann Strauss Die Fledermaus – The Bat. Telling some naked female that a bat was trying to land on her boobs was not the best chat-up line I’ve used. But at least it was different, and another contrast.

  The holiday with Tony and Irene went as planned. Irene’s mom and dad had come along and we enjoyed good sailing weather. I watched two 70-year-olds become teenagers. By the time they left, the first days of October had arrived and it now seemed Solitaire would be spending her first winter in the Mediterranean. Irene had always said that one of her dreams was to sail around Greek islands in a yacht. I decided to head in that direction, perhaps spend Christmas in Malta. As we made our way through the Balearic Islands, the days grew shorter, the nights colder. Yachts started to disappear like flies. The charter boats were the first to go with their darling crews. ‘Let the anchor go, darling’; ‘Right ho, darling’; ‘Has the anchor gone, darling?’; ‘Yes, darling, did you want chain on it?’

  It was while we were anchored in one of these harbours that I met up with Bob, his wife Liz and his seventeen-year-old son Karl. The family were from Liverpool. Bob was 44 and had spent his working life as an electrician on merchant ships. It had taken seven years to build his steel yacht Lisarne. He used the same plans as Solitaire’s, but adding two more feet to the length. Liz, a very attractive lady, looked like the American singer Doris Day. She had the same bubbly personality. She would be leaving the following day to be with their second younger son and take up her job in a bank. Bob and Karl on the other hand intended taking Lisarne into the port of Mahon in Menorca, leaving her there while they returned home for Christmas. Since we were heading in the same direction, we decided to keep one another company.

  We arrived in Mahon on November 17th, 1988. Bob found it difficult to get cheap flights from this island and after a few days returned to the main island of Mallorca. I was having problems of my own. The fuel lift pump went U/S due to faulty valves. I tried to find replacements but without any luck. When I left England I had been given the names of Keith and Liz Trafford, along with their children Hannah and Bradley, as a contact. They had left England seven years before to cruise around the world. Mahon was as far as they got. Starting with only the money from the sale of their boat, they now owned land and villas, which they rented out to holidaymakers. Their own house was in a choice position, built into a cliff overlooking the harbour. They made me feel like one of the family and since they would be returning to England for a Christmas break, they suggested I wait for their return with a complete new pump. Mahon lies at the end of a 3-mile-long fjord. Its beautiful natural harbour is one of the best in the Med. It hasn’t changed much since the days Nelson was there with the British fleet.

  Keith was partner in a small racing craft with a guy called Fred. The yacht was about half the size of Solitaire, but for all that it carried a crew of five, mostly I think to be used as ballast. Whichever tack it was on, the crew would have to sit on that side to prevent the boat rolling over. I still hated racing, but from time to time I would just go along to make up the numbers.

  On the day that Fred was skipper we had two new crew members and Fred kept saying that we should go through the man overboard procedure before the race. This normally consists of throwing a fender over the side and turning the boat round to retrieve it. As it happened, there was no time and the next thing I knew, we were tearing down the harbour in the middle of a load of clowns, all under full sail. Just when I thought the boat was about to cartwheel, Fred decided there was something wrong at the top of the mast, put on a harness and got hauled up. At that moment, the yacht did start to roll over. Fred made a majestic descent, still tied to the top of the mast. There was one heck of a splash and all I could see was bubbles.

  The two new lads had been hurled over the side and were now standing on the main sail as though they were waiting for a bus. This kept the mast underwater and bubbles continued to break surface. Keith was still in the cockpit but up to his neck in water. As soon as the roll started, I began running in the opposite direction. Perfectly dry, I was now standing on the side of the boat screaming for the lads to get off the sail. There were more bubbles and Fred appeared to join in with me, before once again making more bubbles. Finally Keith managed to release the halyard and our skipper popped up on the stern.

  Later, when we were safely back in our berth, Fred asked me how I’d enjoyed the sail. ‘Not bad,’ I said. ‘But I thought your man overboard drill was a bit over the top.’ Fortunately, Keith, Liz and the children le
ft soon after that and I spent a quiet Christmas alone on Solitaire.

  When they arrived back in the middle of January 1989, it was with the news that they had been unable to find the model of pump we required. Without the lift pump it would be possible to run the engine by gravity feed. This meant strapping a container of diesel on the cockpit seat, well above the height of the motor. The process took some time to set up and could only be used for entering or leaving harbour – never in a rough sea. The voyage took seven days, covered 620 miles and we arrived in Malta on January 23rd, 1989. On arrival, I tried to buy a new pump, but the best I could do was to service the old one from a kit.

  Food and mooring were reasonably priced, along with a local cinema. It was a popular stopover for the cruising boats. Many of them were trying to book into Larnaca Marina in Cyprus for the following winter. There was a year’s waiting list for a berth, but since it would tie up with my holiday in the Greek islands with Tony and Irene, I sent an application form with a cheque.

  Bob and his son Karl turned up with Lisarne. Liz would be joining them early in May for a week’s cruising holiday. After taking on stores, we headed north for the island of Corfu, our first port of entry. April found Lisarne and Solitaire leisurely cruising the Greek islands in the Ionic Sea. May arrived with Liz. Bob was hoping that she would stay permanently and, to be honest, so was I. Once more I’d become part of a family. For a while, there had been none of the loneliness of arriving in strange harbours, sitting alone in restaurants at tables set for four, trying to ignore waiters with long queues throwing hurrying glances. Unfortunately, there was a home in Liverpool and a young son to look after. Liz flew back. Bob and Karl set sail for England a few days later.

  Feeling a bit down, I decided that if I could receive mail from home, it might cheer things up. I headed for the island of Trizonia. Greece is more or less cut in half by the Gulf of Patras and the Gulf of Corinth. Trizonia Island is about halfway down this channel. The pilot guide said it had a yacht club, run by an English actress – another Liz. I had intended to stay only long enough to receive letters, but it was the middle of August before Solitaire made her final departure. The food and company were terrific. The view from the balcony at the end of the day, with a cold beer – fantastic!

  Irene and Tony arrived for their holiday and we went back into the Ionic Sea, to visit some of its better islands. Once I’d put my sun-tanned crew on a bus for Athens and home, I returned to Trizonia Island, but only long enough for hugs and handshakes and a last goodbye.

  As we passed through the 3-mile-long Corinth Canal and out into the islands in the Aegean Sea, it was as though I’d walked through a door and found only an empty room. The islands on this side of Greece I found to be barren and boring, without colour; few trees, little grass, greys and browns of distant mountains, the whites of a few scattered houses. Day after day I seemed to be passing the same island. The deserted anchorages were lonely places.

  It was while I was in one of these gloomy moods that I made a stupid mistake that would take me months to correct. At the time I’d fixed a heavy rope under the boat so I could pull myself down to clean the propeller. Just as I was ready to go over the side, a couple arrived in a dinghy to say they were in the next bay and would I join them for dinner. Without thinking, I started the motor. There was a loud thump and sickening jolt. The rope was wrapped around the prop, jamming it in forward gear and breaking the clutch. In future, every time I started the engine, the boat would start to move ahead. Without a reverse, the only way I could stop would be to let a stern anchor go. There was nothing I could do about it until I took Solitaire out of the water in Cyprus.

  Our last port of call in the Greek islands was Rhodes. It took two days of tiring walking to visit officials for our clearance papers. I filled the fuel tank with diesel. It wasn’t until we were well on our way that the engine stopped and I found half the diesel to be water. We arrived in Cyprus to a gentle breeze during September 1989. I had intended to make one or two more passes across the marina entrance, but I could already see yachties watching me from the outer harbour. I sailed straight in to find welcome hands ready to take my lines. This time there were no long walks. In a very short space of time all the friendly officials had visited Solitaire and I was cleared to go through the main gate and into the town.

  The position of the marina is perfect. There’s a long sandy beach running up to its entrance. Cross the road and you have cheap restaurants and modern supermarkets that sell all the British name brands. The Greeks I found to be honest and very friendly. English was their second language. There’s a full social life. Apart from the marina, you have the British Army base a few miles away, with its own cinema, restaurants, gliding and golf clubs. With a rented TV set you could pick up their broadcasts to the services. All the news, sport, soaps and films – direct from UK by satellite.

  One of the first things I did was to phone Afaf and John Skelton. Ken Swann had given me their names just before I’d left England. John and Afaf had met while employed as teachers in Lebanon. They were now living in the main town of Nicosia. John had his own company as an agent for ship builders. Over the years they were to become part of the group of people I looked on as being family.

  To enjoy a full social life I would need a car. A friend of mine said he had a VW Beetle that had been sitting outside his house for months. It seems that an American had run short of cash and had left the car as a deposit against the price of his airfare home. If I would pay the £200 owing I could become the proud owner. Considering the old ruptured duck Mini I’d paid £50 for, this would be a big leap upmarket. As soon as I saw the car I knew I wanted it. In the first place it was a convertible: ideal for the hot Cyprus climate. The sun had already turned the red paintwork to a matt finish of many shades, but the body was sound, without rust. The top had been left down and the locals had turned it into a rubbish dump. For all that, the upholstery and hood were in good condition. It took me a day to clean it up, change the points and plugs, and run it back to the marina. I bought six cans of spray-on paint and turned the car into an eye-catcher that, wherever we parked, would bring offers to buy. Without the car I would have still enjoyed my stay in Cyprus, but it did make the world of difference.

  The hot climate of Cyprus also brought an improvement in my breathing. The nose was still a major problem. Being unable to sniff or blow, it meant that every time I left Solitaire it was with one pocket filled with tissues. As they were used, they would be transferred to the empty pocket. There was a six-month waiting period in England for the removal of the polyp’s growth or a payment of £600 for private treatment. When I visited a Greek Cypriot Ear Nose and Throat surgeon, I was told to report the following morning for the operation. I would have to stay for one night in a private room. The cost including any further visits was £100. Since then I’ve been reliving forgotten smells: the scent of a woman, fresh butter on early morning toast...

  Solitaire came in for a good deal of attention. From Norway came new parts for the Saab engine, clutch and propeller; from Profurl in France, a new furling gear to replace the twin forestays I’d been using; from Hong Kong, a furling genoa; from Scotland, an anchor windlass and 200ft of chain; and a new GPS from America – at the push of a button I would know our position to within a few metres. To replace the plastic water containers I fitted stainless steel tanks. As a backup, should the furling gear break, I modified the top of the mast to take an emergency forestay. A new bow fitting was made to stow the anchor with two large rollers.

  Chapter Twelve

  Breaking Out

  Larnaca – Whangerai, New Zealand

  May 1990 – December 1995

  Our long and contented stay in Cyprus had only two black spots: the first annoying, the second devastating.

  Most of the yachts in the marina would cruise the Turkish coast for three months during the summer. This had been on our itinerary and we left Larnaca during May 1990. Turkey had been described as a friendly welcoming count
ry and a gentle introduction to the Middle East. The first sight of the mountains that started at the sea’s edge and swept into the distance was breathtaking. Apart from that, the only thing to take my breath away was the blatant rip-offs.

  As for a gentle introduction to the Middle East, I would have rather visited Saddam Hussein in Iraq. Only British nationals have to pay for their visas. This had to be paid with an English £5 note. I had only a £10 note, and this was refused. I finished up going to four banks before I got it changed. To get a transit log you end up walking to widely scattered buildings. The process takes for ever. When it was time to leave Turkey and turn in this log, I was told that one of the officials hadn’t put his stamp on it. I had been in the country illegally for three months and would have to pay a fine of £50.

  When I said, ‘I don’t have enough money’, I was told not to worry, they would put me in jail until I found it. ‘While you are in jail, your boat will most likely be broken into.’

  I paid the £50.

  Later I was to hear from other visitors who had refused to pay these fines and had their yachts tied up for months, with costs running into hundreds of pounds.

  The devastating news came by telegram that Sally, Irene and Tony’s youngest daughter, had died giving birth to her first baby. The child only lasted a few hours, before following his mother. I tried to talk to them on the phone, but they were too broken up. All the flights to England were fully booked.

  Solitaire was taken out of the water, her topsides painted and the hull antifouled. I borrowed charts to take us as far as Australia and had them photocopied. Stores, diesel and water were taken on board. The old Beetle that had given so much pleasure was sold on to a good home. The TV set was returned. The only thing I was worried about was my Flavel gas cooker. All the burners were in a bad way. In fact the only one working was on the top for boiling water. I’d tried to buy new burners, but the price quoted was nearly the same as for a new stove. It had become too late to place an order. At the last moment, I did find the same type of stove on the boatyard’s rubbish tip and managed to salvage the oven burner. We could set sail on Friday, July 2nd, 1993.