Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed

by Les Powles

  During all the unhappy months, the only good times were spent talking to the marina manager, Lew Sabin. Lew was one of the kindest gentlemen I’d ever met. He could have well become a diplomat. He became a close friend I would have trusted with my life.

  It was to Lew I turned when I walked into the clubhouse one morning to find a letter written by the Director of Maritime Safety, Russell Kilvington, stating that as from February 1st, 1995, all foreign yachts from around the globe, no matter what safety standards they had complied with before leaving their home ports, and no matter how experienced their crews, would be forced to submit to a safety inspection by the New Zealand Yachting Federation or they wouldn’t be given Customs clearance to leave New Zealand. Section 21 of the Maritime Act listed 56 items to be checked, plus the requirement of an adequate crew. At the age of 70, suffering from asthma, I had no chance. The letter finished with the warning that failure to comply could lead to a fine of $10,000 and a period of up to a year in jail. I couldn’t believe that a country of just over three and a half million people could fly in the face of Article 94 of the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea 1982. This clearly states that the country of registration is responsible for setting standards for vessels flying its flag.

  I could only think that it was someone’s idea of a very sick joke. When I asked Lew about it, he said that the letter had arrived in that morning’s mail. A week later, an American was refused permission to leave. It seemed his lifejackets, which had passed the American Coast Guard specifications, were not the type used in NZ. The yachties started having meetings. When it was put to the vote as to whether we would have come to New Zealand if aware of the inspection, it was unanimous that no one would have come.

  I really didn’t want to get too involved since I was having serious problems of my own. Although you’re given 12 months Customs clearance when you arrive, they could demand in my case 14,000 NZ dollars (then £7,000) if I stayed longer. I was already in trouble with Immigration. In this case they only gave me a visa for six months. I’d sent my passport to their office in Auckland. It finally took me three months to get it back. All letters, faxes, phone calls were ignored. It wasn’t until I wrote to the British High Commissioner that it was returned. I just didn’t want to make any more waves. New Caledonia and Australia would take you without Customs clearance and many yachts started leaving illegally. In my case, I couldn’t do that since I’d never be allowed to return to pick up stores.

  I did manage to make more waves when on one occasion I went on national radio. There were only two stations: the one played classical music, the other mostly talk shows. The talk show I tried not to miss was Kim Hill, an attractive English lady, with a biting tongue and a ready wit. When I was asked to talk to her over the phone at 9 o’clock one Monday morning, I wasn’t too keen, but finally agreed. Unfortunately I got my days mixed up and reported to the marina office on the Tuesday, to learn that Russell Kilvington had been on the show and everyone was asking where I was. It seems the idea was that the broadcast was supposed to be a head to head argument between us, with Kim as referee.

  Some of the yachties had made a tape. Kilvington had come across as a pompous toffee-nosed prat. He had called yachties who couldn’t afford the inspection ‘impoverished’. I phoned the station and agreed to give our side of the case. It might have been my working-class background, the fact I was in my 70th year, or maybe that I was on my third circumnavigation, but the lady showed me only kindness, the same kind of caring and kindness I’d been shown during all my voyages. There was no way I was impoverished. When I came out of the office it was to find a crowd that had been listening on a portable. It seems I had said all the right things. After that I was in the newspapers, with a full story in a Yachting Magazine. Like it or not, it seems my colours were nailed high on a post and Solitaire was committed to sail for home by the end of the year.

  Soon I started to have visitors with offers of help. British, American, Canadian, French – they all came with flares, EPIRB, and liferafts that would be out of date when they left, but suitable for me to use. Warm-hearted New Zealand crews arrived with the idea that I could borrow all the equipment from them and hand it back when 12 miles off the coast. It wasn’t possible for me to consider either of these answers. Although I’ve always sailed single-handed myself, I’ve always considered the practice to be foolish. To allow a yacht to sail through a black night with no one on watch is in my view dangerous. If I’d still been married with a family and had responsibilities, I would have had second thoughts. As it was, I would never carry equipment with which I could cry for help and put someone else’s life at risk. I’d already said in the strongest terms that I would never agree to a safety inspection. To do so now would be letting down too many friends and adding another string to Kilvington’s bow.

  Lew allowed me to go alongside Peter and Val’s 45ft steel yacht. With their four grown-up children I started to feel part of the family again. Moored to the quay, we were able to get electricity on board and start to make repairs and modifications for the coming voyage. I replaced the damaged wooden toe rail. The large 150% furling genoa, which had given trouble during the trip to Tasmania, was replaced with a smaller 10oz/105 headsail. To the heavy stainless band that I had fitted at the top of the mast to take the emergency headstay, I now attached one more to make twin stays. The foredeck was strengthened and a bracket fitted. We had become more or less cutter rigged. I had two extensions made so that if the furling gear gave trouble we could go back to our original rig of twin forestays and carry storm jib and working jib.

  During our first circumnavigation through the Southern Ocean, I’d been forced to fibreglass the cockpit locker covers in position to prevent Solitaire sinking. Now frames fitted around these lockers, to which plywood covers could be screwed, to give a double seal. I bought a hand-held Garmin GPS from America as a backup to the fixed one.

  On our move to a nearby boatyard to antifoul, remove the mast, and fit new rigging, the engine stopped. Fortunately, I had Peter with me and we managed to drift down on the outgoing tide. We contacted the boatyard by VHF to get them to send out a dinghy to tow us in. When it became time to return alongside Peter’s boat, we went up on the ingoing current using Peter’s dinghy. When I stripped the engine down I found the cylinder head gasket needed replacing. I had no trouble finding a new one. I was thankful it happened when it did and not later, when I might be trying to dodge Customs boats.

  By this time it was October 24th, and my 70th birthday had arrived. As it happened, two close Canadian friends would be leaving the following day. I was told they were giving a party in the now new clubhouse. When I arrived with my six-pack of beer it was to find the door closed and I couldn’t hear a sound. I’d started to walk away, thinking I’d made a mistake, when the door opened. Stepping inside, I found the place packed with yachties and children from the local school. There were tables laden with food, dozens of cards and presents. I’m not sure if these surprise birthday parties work, but it gave me a memory I’ll treasure for the rest of my life.

  Apart from the 45 gallons of water in our tanks, there would be 40 gallons in plastic containers, plus containers for sugar, rice and flour. In order that they could be secured, I fitted bolt rings into the cabin floor. Gas bottles were filled. Day after day I visited the local supermarkets and came back to load Solitaire up with stores. I couldn’t afford to buy new charts and we would have to do with the old coffee stained, disintegrating charts of 1980–81. This would give added interest since we would be leaving the top of New Zealand at about the same time we were passing below last time. Our paths should meet somewhere in the Southern Ocean. With our new furling gear we should make far better progress and be well in front at this stage. The only new chart I bought was for the Falkland Islands. The harbour of Port Stanley would be our first destination.

  With time running out, I went into a routine, which I’d used before setting out on any voyage. I drew a small chart and typed a full
report giving details of my plans. The distance to the Falkland Islands was just over 5,000 miles. The pilot charts showed I should have strong following winds from the west, increasing to gale force as we dropped further south into the Roaring Forties and the Furious Fifties. I thought it was safe to say that one could expect to hear from me within sixty days. I mentioned that if for any reason I didn’t stop, I would make contact with the Islands by VHF radio. I sent about sixty copies of this letter off. Had I known the worry and concern I would cause friends around the world, the letters would never have been mailed.

  I had Christmas dinner with some Americans on their boat. Boxing Day, December 26th, 1995, started perfectly, with clear blue skies and a steady south-west wind blowing at Force 4, making an easy passage down Whangarei’s long harbour and out to sea. High water was at noon, which gave me time to do last minute shopping for bread, fruit and veg. I phoned Irene and Tony in Birmingham and my aunt Jean. I said I would be leaving within the hour.

  As I stepped from the land for the last time, I felt as though I was about to break out of prison. This was not the fault of the New Zealand Yachting Federation, whose inspectors were quitting rather than enforce an unjust law; not the Customs Service, who refused to run with the muddy ball; certainly not the New Zealand people. I’d sat in a crowded clubhouse watching this country win the America’s Cup, cheering with the rest of the foreign yachties. Even the Americans were shouting the NZ black yacht on, despite the fact that it was racing against their own boat. We had come to love and admire the people of this country. Most of us were there because of the love of the sea and the freedom it gave. A few bureaucrats were trying to change all that. They said they were leading the world with their new regulations. That’s how dictatorships start.

  As I let go our lines I felt as though I was stepping out of an aircraft without a parachute, knowing that I would never be able to return. Solitaire slowly moved down the line of inmates she was leaving behind. Crews started to appear on decks. There were the normal foghorns, the waving of arms, the shouts of ‘Good luck!’ The laughter was missing – only sadness that another yacht was being forced to leave by the back door. I did remember one sick joke I’d heard as we cleared the Whangarei town basin. It was the story of a man standing by the window in a skyscraper, when someone falls past him saying, ‘So far so good.’ No Customs boat appeared – so far so good.

  We enjoyed our pleasant little push start and for the first four days we had good sailing: winds from the south-west, Force 4 to 5, Solitaire making 100 miles a day without even trying. After resting for over a year, we were easing our way back into being at sea. On the fourth day, the winds went light – swinging, so we never knew which tack to be on. Long bad-tempered calms. To cheer things up, I tried baking bread, expecting to fill Solitaire with glorious smells. Instead all we got was black smoke, as the unadjustable burner tried to cremate the dough. From time to time I’d open the oven door to get rid of some of the heat. When this failed, I tried turning the loaf four times and finished up with a poor offering that was black on all corners and soggy in the middle. More frustrated swearing. At the end of the first week we had made good only 416 miles – 376 miles in the first four days only, 40 miles in the last three days. We were at latitude 39°S, only a cat’s whisker away from the Roaring Forties, with their constant westerly gales. Things would improve.

  Chapter Thirteen

  No Regrets

  Whangerai – Lymington

  December 1995 – July 1996

  Just before we left Whangarei I’d studied our falling-to-bits old chart, along with the 15-year-old ship’s log of the last time we were in the Southern Oceans. The more I thought about it, the more I realised how I’d changed over the years. Looking back at the 55-year-old man who had made the previous voyage, he gave the impression of being so full of confidence and purpose, able to make immediate decisions, and carry them out with a natural instinct and ability. At the age of 70, the strong unwavering drive to finish anything I’d started was as strong as ever, but I was much slower, taking longer to sort out even simple problems. The year spent in New Zealand hadn’t helped matters. It had been a time of worry, tension and apprehension. As I read the young man’s log, I became jealous: he seemed closer to Solitaire; together they were making longer, smoother passages.

  During that first week at sea we passed over the date line. On December 29th, 1995, our longitude went to 180°E. The figures changed to the west, reducing as we headed home. The young man didn’t cross over the date line until January 5th, 1981. We were a full week in front of him. He did have the advantage of being further south by 540 miles. With our larger furling headsail and strong winds from the west, we would be well in front of him when our paths crossed.

  The second week at sea was an even bigger disaster. Instead of winds roaring like a lion, we had a pussycat that spent most of its time cleaning and purring. When we did get a breeze, it was hardly enough to fill the sails. At the end of our second week, we had made only 264 miles. The young man covered 682 miles.

  The third week was even worse, with days of complete calms followed by gale force winds from the south-east. While trying to beat into one of these storms, the mainsail was ripped. It took all day to repair it, a day when we were blown 4 miles back towards New Zealand. During the long calms, I went back to trying to bake bread, this time making the dough into round cobs. The results were the same: I kept opening the oven door and they became flat burnt offerings, which only made me pleased that for this voyage I had plenty of other food on board. We made good only 397 miles. The young man 640 miles. By the end of that week, I had to admit that he had passed me by at least 200 miles, according to our longitudes, and was still 120 miles south of us. The thing I found annoying was that he was complaining about his slow progress. I said, ‘You should be in our bloody shoes!’ and slammed his stupid log down.

  The fourth week was one of the worst I could remember at sea. The winds kept swinging around the compass. Storms from the south-east would tear into us at gale force and we would have to reduce sail to prevent them being torn to shreds. Then they would back to the west, where we wanted them, dying in strength as they went. Finally, when in the perfect position, they’d die to a complete calm. Once more we would stow all sails to prevent them being damaged by the monstrous seas. That week we logged only 192 miles. I finished my report with the prayers: ‘Please God, send us the westerlies!’

  Solitaire crossed the path of the young man at the end of our fifth week at sea, on January 29th, 1996. The trouble was that he had arrived at that position on the 19th, a full ten days before us. He could have been much further ahead, but he had eased his way further north – not out of any concern for me, but simply to stay above the extreme limit of the icebergs.

  Week six ended with more of the same frustrating conditions. Sick of the slow progress, sick of always complaining, my only remarks were that we had reached the 2,000 mile mark to Cape Horn and that during the calms, with nothing better to do, I’d taken sights with my sextant. It didn’t help any; I got only the same depressing news that the GPS gave.

  During week seven we were halfway to Cape Horn and for a while I thought the end of our voyage was near, and possibly the end of our lives. To add to the misery of the days of calms, we seemed to be in a world of fog and drizzle. Even without the wind the seas were heaving as though some monster was about to break the surface. Our latitude was now 49°40´S. We were just about to enter the Furious Fifties. It was a glorious day with a blue sea and sky. We had very light following winds and a high swell that kept backing the genoa. In the end I just had the main out as far as possible, with a preventer on a broad reach. The wind increased towards dark and I stowed the main and went to a full genoa. By the morning of the 9th, we were in a full gale and reduced to only a few metres of the headsail. I couldn’t make any sense of the conditions and screwed all the cockpit plywood covers in place. Still uneasy and apprehensive, I strapped the plastic water and food cont
ainers to the ringbolts in the cabin floor. During my last voyage through the Southern Oceans, I’d always kept some sail on, if only a storm jib. To go to bare poles, I’d always considered, was to put Solitaire at the mercy of the seas.

  Just after midday, Solitaire started to shake like a rat that some dog had by the scruff of the neck. The wind in the rigging went to a high-pitched scream that vibrated down the length of the mast. For seven weeks I’d been crying out for more wind. It now seemed that during all that time the winds had just been building up for this, for this one supreme, killing blow. When I went on deck, Solitaire was being buried by mountains that were attacking from every direction. If I didn’t do something the mast would go. I furled in the last few feet of genoa and removed the wind vane from the self-steering. Terrified that I had made my final mistake and condemned Solitaire to her death, I went below.

  I was sitting on the starboard bunk, and was just about to go back on deck to check the rigging, when the lockers on the port side seemed to lift above my head. I finished up lying on my back with the sensation that we were flying. Our landing would have done credit to Concorde. There was one heck of a crash. All the lockers burst open. Books and stores shot across the cabin, punching me with heavyweight blows. The plastic containers had been retained by their lashing, but they were now lying at all angles. Struggling out of the mess, I started to straighten the boat out. When I finished, I once more sat on the lee side. It was then I realised that Solitaire had completed a 180-degree turn as she came upright. I’d hardly caught my breath when the same thing happened again. Frightened and in a daze, as I was clearing up after the third knockdown, everything went blank.