by Les Powles
The trip to Port Said of 230 miles was uneventful, until we started to enter the harbour. We had a Customs boat with large oily tyres banging into our side. They were shouting for cigarettes. I threw them two packets, but it seems they wanted complete cartons. After that I started doing a bit of screaming myself and was directed to the yacht club. The passage through the Suez Canal was more of the same: presents, cigarettes and money. I was just pleased to have got through without any serious damage.
Our next port of call would be Aden in South Yemen. I’d spent two years (1967–68) working there, just after they threw the British out. You could still see the bullet holes in the buildings and ride in taxis that had previously dragged bloodied servicemen through the streets by their feet. The question was always the same: ‘When are they coming back?’ I was there when the giant Russian transport arrived over the airport to unload crates of Mig fighters. I had watched as the prosperous duty free shops and restaurants closed.
The voyage down the Red Sea had been long and tiring. Mostly with light, following winds that blew exhaust gases into a scorching cockpit that I hardly dared to leave for 1,300 miles of crowded sea. At night, as ships constantly seemed to be heading for us, I’d shine a powerful torch on our sails. Then panic calls over the VHF: ‘British yacht Solitaire, do you see us? Do you see us?!’ For all that, as I walked through the derelict streets with their boarded shops, the question was still the same: ‘When are the British coming back?’ I took on water and diesel, some oil for the motor, a few vegetables. There was very little tinned food and, since I had enough to reach our next port, the Australian Cocos Islands, I didn’t bother searching.
The voyage would cover approximately 3,600 miles. We would sail down the Gulf of Aden and into the Arabian Sea, pass through the Maldives Islands, and under India and Sri Lanka into the Indian Ocean. We would head for a position 300 miles north of the Cocos Islands to allow for the strong winds and currents in the area that would try to force Solitaire west of the Islands.
We set sail on July 26th, 1993. A week later, while still in the Gulf of Aden, we ran into a bad gale. Solitaire suffered a knockdown, which brought seas flooding into her cabin, ripped out both her spray dodgers, broke the battery out of the compartment and sent containers with 15 gallons of diesel flying over the side. The storm lasted for three days, but during that time we made good progress, despite only using a few metres of the genoa. We arrived at our position 300 miles north of the Cocos Islands. Soon after that, we ran into heavy squalls and confused seas. With headwinds and breaking waves, we finished 37 miles to the east of the islands. To waste any further time trying to beat into these conditions I thought was risky. All the water in the tank had gone. We had 10 gallons left in plastic containers. Food supplies were low. Perth, our main port of call in Australia, was 1,600 miles away. The following night, after giving up any idea of reaching the Cocos Islands, a U-bolt that was holding up the rigging and the mast broke at the lower shroud. I dropped all sail and waited for daylight, when I found an old eyebolt to replace it. The worrying thing was that if the mast went, with the prevailing winds and current, the nearest land wouldn’t be Australia, but South Africa – over 3,000 miles away.
The rigging had broken on September 11th. On October 1st, Perth was still 550 miles away. It had taken 20 days of beating strong winds and current to make good only 1,050 miles. Our food was nearly finished, with 2 gallons of water left. The day before I’d topped up the engine oil with the oil I’d bought in Aden. The dipstick now showed a thick treacle mixture and the engine was proving hard to start.
Carnarvon on the north-west coast of Australia was 350 miles away. Being due east of our position, we wouldn’t be battling into the strong north current and I expected to make better progress.
By the time we reached Carnarvon, things had gone from bad to worse. All the food I had left was a packet of spaghetti and half a bottle of tomato ketchup, and a few cups of water, which I couldn’t boil since the stove had given up the ghost. My engine had died on me. I had no chart for the harbour. I’d spent a good deal of time trying to contact Australian Customs on the VHF, but had no reply. I could see the beach with a large satellite dish on it. There were a few houses but no marker buoys, only a few poles with green and red boards. I tried sailing down these, but the channel got narrow, made a sharp turn to port (which I couldn’t follow), and finished up with Solitaire in some long grass, being dragged along on her side. I put an anchor down, but it didn’t help.
I made the front page of the local paper the following day: ‘The men at Customs House first knew Les Powles was in town when a strange message came over their radio on the afternoon of October 8th. Ignoring all standard protocol, his message was a simple one: “This is Solitaire, I have some difficulties and need help. I have no food or water on board and I’m having trouble controlling the boat. I’m over some sort of weed and my anchor won’t hold. I urgently need assistance.”’ The paper devoted a full-page spread to my sailing background. What it didn’t say was that I was in a complete panic and offered to pay anyone that would tow me into the harbour.
What they did send out to me was a 40ft cabin cruiser that belonged to the Australian Fisheries Department. There were four people on board, one of them a Customs Officer. I later found this was Hugh. At the time, my head turned into a cash register and I started to worry about the cost of all this attention.
Hugh came on board Solitaire, hauled up the anchor, took the tiller and soon had us tied along the pier in a small, enclosed fishing harbour. Immigration and quarantine procedures can be long and costly. Hugh quickly went through the lockers – checked that there was no water in the tank, threw the few cups over the side, took my packet of spaghetti, and invited me back to the Customs House to meet the rest of his mates. First I was shown their toilets and showers. After that, completely refreshed, I found a steak dinner and a cold beer waiting for me. I was then driven to the bank and supermarket, then back to the Customs House, to fill in all their forms. By this time, my cash register was showing at least $1,000. Worried, I asked if I could pay my Customs bill. I was amazed to be told there was nothing to pay. When I asked if they would phone the Australian Fisheries so that I could pay for the tow, I was told the same thing.
That night, I was invited to Carnarvon’s Social Club for dinner. The following day, I’d just taken the cylinder head off the engine to discover that the gasket had gone, when a couple of Australian mechanics arrived. When they failed to find a replacement they made one, which they fitted and the engine started first go. When I tried to pay them, I was told that the guy they worked for had sent them. In fact he’d told them to take the engine out if it was necessary and to refuse any payment. These acts of kindness continued while in Carnarvon and in fact at every port I visited in Australia. At times I felt like a fish out of water. My mouth would open and close, but completely lost for words, nothing would come out. October 24th, 1993 arrived and brought with it my 68th birthday. I spent the afternoon flying over the town in a friend’s plane. That night I had dinner with his family.
Within a week I was on my way down to Perth and the marina in Fremantle. There weren’t many yachts that sailed up to Carnarvon from Fremantle. The problem was that with the strong north-flowing current and headwinds, it was difficult to make the trip back. Bill Burbridge had a 36ft light displacement racing yacht, and with a good crew he would be able to stay close inshore. It had been known for boats to be sent south by road rather than face the trip. Bill had given me all the charts and I’d decided to make one big tack out to sea of 200 miles and then cut back.
Fremantle Marina and the clubhouse are out of this world. Built for the America’s Cup, the facilities and restaurants are first class. I was tied up to the visitors’ pontoon the morning I arrived when I had my first visitor. Bruce Stone came along on his bike to tell me he was a dentist and always gave free treatment to any cruising yacht. I had dinner with him that night and met his wife Carol. By the next day I had m
y own berth, a colour TV on board, and was booked up until Christmas, which I would spend with Bill and his wife Shirley. I watched the replica of Captain Cook’s ship Endeavour being built and later its launch. I went out with Bill to see the Whitbread yachts arrive and again when they left.
I had intended spending Christmas in Hobart, Tasmania, but was delayed when a cooker I’d ordered from England to replace the old one arrived without its pan support. Later, when the part arrived, we found that all the markings on the knobs were out of place. When indicating that the gas was off, in fact it was fully on. The oven could not be adjusted and always burnt any food placed in it. I should have returned it to the makers, Plastimo, but there was no time.
As it was, we didn’t set sail until February 16th, 1994. We arrived in Hobart, having logged over 1,850 miles, on March 18th. One of the reasons for the slow voyage was that ten days after we had left Fremantle, the roller furling lower coupling broke.
At the time we were sailing through a strong gale, with only a few feet of genoa. The first I knew of it was a loud crash as the rig came back and smashed into the mast. With nothing holding the genoa reefed, it had unfurled to its full size and the screaming winds were trying to tear it to bits. There was nothing holding the mast forward and at anytime I was expecting it to break backwards and over the stern. With only an hour to darkness, I would have said that we were in a life or death situation. Later, when I was able to go below and change my soaking clothes, I couldn’t believe that within that hour I’d pulled the gear forward and roped it in position, furled the genoa by hand, fitted the emergency stay and was once more under way with a working jib. Later, safely in Hobart, I would try to fit a new coupling and it took over two hours.
Hobart was a great place. Its small harbour for yachts was situated in the middle of town. They had to lift a road bridge for you to gain entrance. You could watch the early morning rush while sipping coffee in the cockpit. I’d heard the story of my non-stop voyage in 1980–81, and the parties, on my radio. The promise that one day I would return once more got Solitaire’s name in the papers and on national broadcasts. This brought loads of visitors. When asked if I would recommend they cruise around the world, my answer was always the same: ‘Why bother, you’ve got everything here.’
For any yacht cruising around the world, Sydney is a must. I’d missed it on my first voyage, but, like Hobart, there was no way I would miss it this time round. I’d heard that the Cruising Yacht Club of Australia, which was about halfway up Sydney’s main harbour, would allow cruising yachts to spend the first night free. With all the letter writing I had to catch up with, the first night stretched into 10 days. By that time, I owed about £75 in berthing fees. When I went to the Marina Office, the Club’s secretary said that the Commodore had left instructions that all my berthing had been free. This once more turned me into a fish with its mouth open, unable to utter a word of thanks.
The next two days were spent doing the tourist bit, cruising around that great harbour past the famous Opera House and under Sydney’s bridge. The month of May was coming to an end. My 12-month visa to stay in Australia would come to an end in October. The marinas in the main harbour were in great demand and expensive. There was a middle harbour, which you entered by passing through a swing bridge. This only operated at certain times of the day, which kept anchoring and berthing fees low. Cammeray Marina lay at the top of this bay and was owned by Fran and Bunny Babbits, who did everything possible to encourage overseas cruising yachts. The marina itself was in the middle of a bird sanctuary. It was like living in a wooded valley, with millionaires’ homes dotted in the trees on one side, a golf course on the other. I could have happily spent the rest of my life there. Solitaire was contented to rest with swans and wild ducks swimming around her.
I’m sure that Fran wanted me to settle there. Once more I’d made the papers. Fran ran a programme on the local radio and we did a chat on that. She introduced me to the North League Club, with its free cinema, swimming pool and snooker tables. Twice a week you could buy a full lunch for 50 pence. I could never understand why there was crime there – so much was given away free. I tried to repay all this generosity with talks for charities. I gave one after lunch for the Cape Horner’s Club and made more lifelong friends.
The main reason I thought Fran wanted me to settle there was all the elderly ladies she’d try to fix me up with. On one occasion I really thought she’d gone bananas. Invited to her house for dinner one night, I arrived to find thirty or forty of the old dears. It turned out that we were all there for a light meal, followed by a religious service in which we all prayed for world peace. After we were all seated around the room and holding hands, the lights were turned out and this weird Indian music started to play. Suddenly a lady cried out, ‘Lord give us peace!’; the next woman, ‘God save us!’ I realised these cries were slowly working their way around the circle and I couldn’t think of a thing I wanted to say. The lady on my right let go my hand and I felt an excruciating pain in my testicles. Looking down I saw I had a bloody great brick sitting on my crown jewels. It turned out that this was the holy stone: when it was passed to you, it was your turn to speak. Later, I still had tears streaming down my face and all the ladies were gathered round to congratulate me. They said they’d never heard ‘JESUS CHRIST!’ said with such feeling.
Despite all of Fran’s efforts and my own strong desire to stay in this paradise for another year, my visa showed my twelve months in Australia was coming to an end and it was time to leave. The last story to be in the newspapers was very flattering. Apparently I was keeping alive the tradition of the British sea dog, a tradition which stretches from Sir Francis Drake to Francis Chichester, and then some; gales, squalls, dead calms were all the same to me. The story was way over the top. However, since we hadn’t seen any sign of a strong wind since we’d been in Sydney, I thought it safe to do a bit of strutting.
Full of confidence, I started giving September 21st as the date we would set sail for the Bay of Islands in New Zealand. Three days before we were due to leave there was a change in the weather with a strong wind warning. Trees, even in our protected valley, started to rustle and come to life. The next day I phoned Customs House, which was about half the way up the main harbour, to book a departure time. I was told that due to the strong gales, shipping was being restricted and it would be impossible for me to tie up at their jetty. The worried look left my face. Saved by the bell.
Next morning there were still gale force winds and a warning going out to all small ships to remain in port. Sitting comfortably in my berth, feeling relief at my near escape, I was told I was wanted on the phone. The Customs Officers said that rather than delay me further, they would drive round to the marina and clear me there. When I got down to the swing bridge there were people waving and pointing for me to go back. The main harbour was being agitated by violent breaking waves. As Solitaire cleared the heads and made out into the open sea, we found the winds coming over our stern. With just a few turns of the genoa out, we started to make good progress and were soon out of sight of land.
The Tasman Sea is well known as being like the inside of a washing machine. Strong currents and swinging winds make for a disturbed, confused passage. The worst part of the voyage for a single-hander is after sailing across the top of the North Island, the slow drag down the east coast of Opua, the port of entry in the Bay of Islands. The Bay of Islands is a resting place for around 500 yachts every year. Its people are well known for their warmth and kindness. For me it will always be remembered as a lonely place, with days of sitting on Solitaire with nothing to do.
It started off well enough; the Customs were helpful and friendly. June, an English lady, invited me to lunch and offered to drive me around during my stay. Things started to go wrong the first night while still tied to the Customs pier. After having no sleep for two days, I woke in the morning to find that about 12ft of the wooden toe rail that runs around the top of Solitaire’s deck was missing. I was late
r told that a fishing boat had been seen to hit me. Dead to the world, I hadn’t felt a thing.
I was hoping to round Cape Horn that year, but the damage to Solitaire was the final straw. I would have to put the voyage off for a further year and set out the next Christmas. The fact that I wasn’t happy in the Bay of Islands was mainly because most of the cruising yachts had been together in the South Pacific. With only a small general store and post office in Opua it was difficult to be part of the adventures they shared. After a stay of four weeks, I put Solitaire alongside a boatyard jetty, cleaned her hull, and sailed overnight to Whangarei.
Whangarei lay at the top of a 15-mile-long harbour. It was important to arrive at its entrance at low water and make the passage on its fast ingoing tide. The marina was a part of the town basin. You could tie between piles, which meant using your dinghy to row ashore, or you could take one of the more expensive berths. When Solitaire arrived, work had just begun to make the area a tourist attraction, with landscaped gardens, museums, art galleries, restaurants, plus a new marina office to replace the old clubhouse with its washing machines, toilets and showers.
I still had my asthma problem. It was my intention to stay in Whangarei until the New Zealand winter months began in April, then sail north to New Caledonia, returning to take on provisions and antifoul for the voyage home. I had been given the addresses of people to contact, but these were over a hundred miles south in the Auckland area. Still short of money, I thought it best to tie to the piles and try to keep to myself as much as possible. The town had a modern shopping centre with a cinema and theatre. But really it was one big storehouse. Most of my days were spent walking around the supermarkets or visiting shipyards to check on prices. Christmas came and I spent it alone on Solitaire. The New Year arrived and we started getting heavy showers, which meant I was constantly bailing out the dinghy. It would have been difficult to carry out any woodwork or fibreglassing and I had thoughts of buying the materials and carrying out the jobs in New Caledonia.