by Les Powles
When I regained consciousness, it was dark. So I guessed I’d been out for at least five or six hours. For weeks, I’d been wearing heavy weather gear with a towel wrapped around my neck. When I put my hand on the towel it seemed to be covered with wet tacky jam. Tracing its source, it appeared to come from a hole somewhere in the front of my head. My legs and part of my body were trapped under the water containers. When I tried to move my legs, I felt like someone had kicked me in the back. Paralysing pains shot through me, finishing at my fingers and turning them into clenched fists of agony. I thought my ribs were broken and the rough bones were trying to grind their way into my kidneys.
To add to my discomfort, I heard one of the big rollers crash into Solitaire’s side. Half the cold Southern Ocean flooded through the hatch, straight into my upturned face. I could see that the hatch was closed, which meant that the first line of defence, the canvas hatch cover, had gone.
I would like to be able to say that it was only British determination that forced me to grit my teeth and crawl up the companionway steps. The truth was, it was the normal strong desire to see if there was anything I could do to remain on this planet for a few more hours, minutes, seconds.
When I managed to pull my eyes to deck level, I could see that the canvas cover was in fact ripped in half. Worse still, the new rigging, fitted in New Zealand, had stretched and the mast was swaying from side to side – dancing to a Latin rhythm only I could hear. There was nothing I could do to adjust the rigging screws in the dark. The job would have to wait for dawn. I just hoped we would still be here to see it. By this time, I’d found that if I stayed on my hands and knees I could just about crawl.
As I went back to wrap my safety harness around the mast support, I stopped long enough to grab a bag of medical supplies and a bottle of whisky. Secured to the support, the first thing I took out of the bag was a bottle of iodine. Since I couldn’t locate the hole in my head, I poured the full bottle over the top. This turned it into a raging furnace. Leslie, I thought, that wasn’t the most brilliant idea you’ve come up with. At least you’ve found out where the hole is and it’s taken some of the attention from the pain in the back. I started taking painkillers and antibiotics, but gave the whisky a miss since I can’t stand the taste of the stuff. There was a loud double crack, as though someone had fired a rifle off the starboard side. At first I thought the stainless steel rigging shrouds were breaking away. Then, thinking of the double crack, I decided that the heavy teak beam that holds the rigging U-bolts had broken. When the sound was repeated louder than ever, I forgot my dislike of whisky and took a long hard pull from the bottle.
Dawn arrived on Saturday, February 10th, to find me still tied to the mast: freezing cold, huddled, trying to stop my teeth from chattering – partly due to the cold, but more because of fear. Water was still streaming through the hatch as the waves continued to pound into Solitaire’s side. Seawater was running from the electrics into the radio. They would be gone for sure. Most of the terror came from watching the cabin floor. By this time, the bilges would be nearly full. At any moment, I expected to find icy waters oozing around my legs. I was still taking painkillers and swigs from the whisky bottle. It didn’t seem to be having any effect. The day before I could crawl; now I couldn’t even move from the mast support. I had decided that I would save half the whisky to take with the rest of the painkillers once my legs were covered with water. If I hadn’t fitted the plywood hatch covers that would have already happened. I kept mumbling, ‘Thank God, thank God.’
Sunday, February 11th, I was still attached to the mast support. The storm force winds seemed to be as strong as ever. The only difference was that the seas were more uniform and coming from the one direction.
For nearly two days I’d become a part of the mast support, unable to move, to find food. To pass water, I was using a bottle. Even moving that through my wet weather gear and my trousers was painful and there had been accidents. Due to the fact I wasn’t eating, the whisky and painkillers had started to take effect. I felt light-headed and at times floating. I kept hearing someone grumbling and was surprised that when I tried to sing, the complaining would stop. I don’t have a singing voice, so just remembering the words and saying them seemed to help: ‘It’s been a hard day’s night and I’ve been working like a dog!’
By this time the bilges were full with about 60–70 gallons of water. The carpets had always been soaking; now it was oozing through them. The pains in my back were as bad as ever, but I did seem able to move my legs without too much trouble. I vaguely remember crawling into the cockpit and pumping out the bilges, but I don’t remember much else that happened that day. It was much later, when I read the ship’s log, that I realised that in my drunken state I’d carried out a good deal of work. The entry in the log for Sunday, February 11th, read: ‘Still in storm conditions, lying a-hull and taking a hammering. Need to work on rigging, but it’s impossible. GPS position latitude 49°19´S, longitude 125°17´W; Cape Horn 2,085 miles, bearing 95°.’
Monday, February 12th, came at the end of our seventh week at sea. It was the day that I did manage to get Solitaire moving again. Yet apart from the date and a scrawl that said ‘Severe gales’, nothing else was reported.
I knew that at some time I would have to readjust the six rigging screws. There were three either side of the boat and two in the stern. To adjust each screw, you had to straighten and withdraw two small split pins. Having adjusted the screw, the pins had to be replaced. It was more or less like trying to thread a needle. In the comfort of your own home it was easy. On a rolling, pitching boat with seas breaking over it, it was another kettle of fish. When I took a long swig of whisky and a couple of painkillers, and stuffed screwdrivers and pliers in my pocket, I knew the job was impossible. All I intended to do was check on the self-steering gear and pump out bilges. As I went through the hatch, I was singing one of the drunks’ all time favourites: ‘Show me the way to go home!’ By the time I’d done the pumping, I was ready to crawl back and hug my friendly mast. One wave had already clobbered me, pushing back the hood on my jacket, soaking all my inner clothes. The salt water had mixed with the iodine in my hair and was making its way into my eyes. My reading glasses were covered with spray. Half blind, the sensible thing would have been to try again the next day, but there again, by then I might be sober!
As each wave hit Solitaire, the water would be thrown into the air, falling to flood over her decks. Spray would follow, until the next wave arrived. With each roll, Solitaire’s lee side deck was completely under water. At times, the rigging screws would disappear. When I crawled along to the first screw, I knew I couldn’t do the job. When I pulled the first pins out, I knew I couldn’t do it. When trying to make adjustments and my hands, screwdrivers and rigging screws went under water, I sat waiting for them to come back – I knew I would fail. And when the pins were back and it was time to go onto the next one, I knew I couldn’t do it. Slowly, I found the rhythm that Solitaire was moving to. I started to keep time with her. With each roll we would both hesitate for a few moments, then move at a slow steady pace. When it was time to move over to the windward side, with the breaking waves, I thought it would be more difficult. In fact, once I picked up the new beat, it wasn’t so bad. I would hear the waves roaring in, hold onto the rigging and duck my head. Once they had gone through it seemed the decks would dry faster and last longer.
The whisky had started to wear off as I went back to the cockpit. I was about to risk a few feet of the genoa when I thought of the two rigging screws for the backstays. At least I would be working from the cockpit this time. After these final adjustments, I eased out enough genoa to allow Solitaire to make steerage way on a broad reach. I put back the self-steering wind vane and once more we were in control.
Apart from the stretched rigging, I thought another reason for the vibration was that as the new furling sail was reduced in size, the effect was to move it further up the stay, turning the rigging wire into a bowstring. On
my non-stop second voyage, I’d had twin forestays with a storm and working jib hanked on. In use I kept them as low as possible, just clearing the pulpit. In future I would be forced to use smaller sails earlier and put up with slower speeds. By this time, the young man we had been racing against was miles ahead. I no longer felt jealous about his achievements and better times. All that mattered now was surviving, and rounding Cape Horn.
Pleased with the day’s work, I was about to go below when I saw the ripped canvas hatch cover. I removed it and took it with me. I still didn’t feel like eating, but I needed to replace all the blood I’d lost. During blood donor sessions in the past I’d been given hot, sweet cups of tea. By now it was late afternoon. I put the whisky bottle away and the kettle on. That night, my back started to hurt and I took a double dose of painkillers. I was still strapping myself to the mast support, but I was using a long lead and sitting in the corner of the bunk. It was difficult to sleep. Every now and again there would be the loud double report from the rifle.
Tuesday, February 13th. After drinking a few cups of tea, and taking my painkillers and antibiotics, I started to sew the hatch cover together. My safety harness was removed from the mast support and attached to one of the ringbolts in the cabin floor. By the afternoon the pains in my back were very bad.
The cracking sound from the beam was making me very edgy. Unable to concentrate, I gave up on the job for the day and started to look at the electric panel. The GPS had its own switch and that was still working. All the pilot lights for the rest of the equipment were very dim, some showing no signs of life. When I switched the transmitter on, the radio made a few squeaks and died. I removed all the front panelling and, to get my own back, I started spraying the lot with a lubricant that drives out moisture. I had thoughts of taking off my wet weather gear and changing my clothes, but there would have been little advantage: everything on the boat was soaking wet.
By that time, I could walk about bent over double. This seemed to be the normal position for lying on my bunk. A last cup of tea and two more painkillers and I lay down, pulling a sleeping bag over my head.
During that 24 hours with the furling sail reduced to storm jib size, we made one of the best runs for a long time of 116 miles. The total distance for the week was 643 miles. Considering we should have been lying in Davy Jones’ locker, I thought we’d done pretty well. The hatchway cover had been sewn and fitted. I didn’t think it would last very long and when in any violent storm I knew I would have to stow it. At least in the present gales and high seas it was keeping most of the water out. I was back in the old habit of pumping the bilges out first thing in the morning and last thing at night. But they were never more than a third full.
Towards the end of that eighth week at sea I did change my dirty, cold, soaking wet clothes for clean, cold, soaking wet clothes. Stripped off, it was the first time I’d seen my body since our troubles. I was a mass of black and blue bruises. My back was still painful, but I no longer thought I had broken ribs. Providing I didn’t make any sudden moves, I could stand upright.
At the end of week nine, we had covered another 642 miles, only one mile short of the previous week’s run. My back was still painful and I was still taking the painkillers and antibiotics. The main worry was the rifle cracks that seemed to be increasing in volume. The heavy beam that the rigging U-bolts came through had stainless steel backing plates. I believed that it was behind this plate that the beam was broken. There was one way I could stop the noise. That was to simply place my hand on the plate to feel the vibration. I could stand there for minutes and nothing would happen, move away and crack, crack...
Having found out how I could stop the noise, I then found out how it could be increased: by swearing at the bloody thing, it would soon be laughing, crackling away fit to bust. During the week I did find some drops of moisture in the fixed GPS. It was still working fine, but just to play it safe, I decided to try the handheld standby GPS. I’d tested it before leaving New Zealand and it seemed OK. Now I couldn’t get it to lock on to the satellites.
When I checked on the young man I found he was having his own problems, mostly due to a lack of food and a weight loss. Despite the fact we’d been stationary for three days, he hadn’t gained that much distance. Our weekly runs were about the same. The same gale force winds, the high breaking seas, even the same calms. Our main complaints were about the freezing seas and the cold damp cabin. He was being held up by the fact he had only small sails that he could use: a working jib and a storm jib. Whereas I had a much larger furling genoa, but I couldn’t use it in case I pulled the mast down.
Solitaire started her tenth week at sea on Monday, February 26th. Cape Horn was 800 miles away. By the end of the week we had sailed a further 600 miles. It had been a week of severe gales. Once more, we had sailed well below Cape Horn’s latitude, to make sure we weren’t driven on a lee shore. Our own latitude was now down to 57°24´S, 76 miles below the Cape. Solitaire had tried to edge her way north, but merciless seas had kept howling from that direction, driving her further away. She’d had two more knockdowns, which left a bit of straightening up, but nothing more serious.
We sailed below Cape Horn at 4.30pm on Wednesday, March 6th. Our latitude was 57°15´S, approximately 76 miles below. For the first time in weeks we had a blue sky and a calm sea. I tried to dry a few towels.
The Falkland Islands and Port Stanley were around 489 miles away to the NNE. The pilot charts showed that prevailing winds should be blowing from the south-west, Force 5 to 6. With luck, I thought, we should be in Port Stanley by the end of the week.
The young Leslie had sailed past Cape Horn on Monday, February 23rd, 1981. His latitude had been 57°00´S, approximately 61 miles below. He had enjoyed the same weather conditions. Instead of towels, he had tried to dry carpets. He was now 12 days in front. He had gained a further two days. I felt sorry. He was starving. If I had met him 15 years ago, I would have gladly given him some of my food.
Our week after rounding came to its end on Wednesday, March 13th, 1996. We were still 124 miles from Port Stanley. Instead of the winds blowing from the south-west, Solitaire had been punching her way into strong winds from the north. At times these winds had reached gale force. During the week of frustration, the one great pleasure had been listening to the radio broadcasts from Stanley. Apart from the great music, I’d felt I knew the people. There was always a report on the flights between the islands and the names of the passengers were given. I knew the name of the local pub and that volunteers were needed for some varnishing. I couldn’t wait to be sitting in its warm friendly bar.
The following day I gave up all thoughts of sitting in that pub. The weather report had forecast gale force winds from the west. With the breaking seas, we were slowly being forced away from the island. On Friday, March 15th, I scribbled a few remarks in the ship’s log:
Latitude 51°29´S, longitude 56°39´W. Port Stanley was only 38 miles away, but we had been driven past the Island. Things going very badly. A few knockdowns while trying to lie a-hull. Hatch cover once more in bits. Spent all morning trying to sort things out. GPS is still working, but now has condensation inside. Just found that I’ve lost two lighters, the one remaining doesn’t work. I have a few matches left by Tony and Irene during our holiday. It could be a serious problem. To be honest, I don’t think we can finish this voyage. We will just keep trying to head north. Everything is so cold and wet – NO REGRETS.
I took all the sail off Solitaire due to the pounding she was taking and the loud cracking complaints from the beam. Without the sails, she started to do the same 180-degree turns after each knockdown. With the hatch cover gone, once more seawater started flooding into the cabin. Before things got completely out of hand I unfurled a few metres of the genoa and went onto a reach, pulling away from land. I deeply regretted that my VHF radio was U/S and I hadn’t been able to make contact. Food would now be a problem and I could see that soon I would be in the same condition as the young man, with
his agonising sores and bleeding gums. He had already gained an extra day on me, sailing past the Islands on March 2nd, 1981, a full 13 days in front of us.
By the end of our 12th week at sea we had managed only 398 miles. The Falkland Islands were 215 miles astern. I’d once more repaired the hatch cover. The crack, crack from the rifle continued. With each sound, my nerves and temper got worse. Worrying about my friends didn’t help.
Week 13 was a funny old week, with many ups and downs. The biggest down was that we only made 264 miles.
Tuesday, March 19th. The winds were light from the north. With a full genoa and mainsail, we managed to make 93 miles, staying hard on the wind. In the past I’d always tried to run the engine every two or three weeks. When I tried this time, I found seawater in the oil. I managed to filter it out and start it. I tried to get a fix with the standby GPS, without any luck.
Wednesday, March 20th. More gale force winds from the north-east. I removed the weak hatch cover. The seas seemed to be warmer, so I removed my boots – no progress.
Friday, March 22nd. I fed the latitude and longitude for Horta in the Azores into the main GPS. It gave a reading of 5,248 nautical miles, on a bearing of 022° Magnetic. Lymington would be about 6,750 miles. That day, in gale force winds, we only took 32 miles off the distance.
Saturday, March 23rd. Becalmed all night, I tried to start the engine, only to find the starter motor U/S. When I tried to use the main GPS, I found it had given up and thrown in the towel. Having taken my sextant out, I decided to give the hand-held GPS a last try. I read in the instructions that when first used from new it would take up to twenty minutes to lock onto its first satellites. I now believed that the reason it wouldn’t work was that it was trying to lock onto the satellites over New Zealand. I thought that if I removed the batteries while it was still switched on, it might cancel these and start searching. Fifteen minutes later I got my position and heaved a sigh of relief. We had taken 58 miles off the distance home.