Lymington – Tutóia, Brazil
August – November 1975
As the boat moved slowly downriver that Monday and into the Solent, I hoisted the sails at nine o’clock to start a voyage that would take us 34,000 miles around the world and last more than two-and-a-half years. It was a beautiful morning with south-westerly winds in a blue sky patched with a few scattered clouds. I had some anxious moments when the self-steering failed, until I discovered I had repeated an early mistake and had set a reciprocal course. I streamed the Walker trailing log to start registering Solitaire’s journey.
Half an hour later we were sweeping past the Needles in company with another boat, both close on the wind, neck and neck, red ensign saluting red ensign. Then I showed off, leaving the cockpit to sit on the pulpit forward as if to say, ‘Look, no hands.’ Solitaire surged ahead while I yearned to climb the mast to look down on the arrowhead her bow was making, to watch her long white wake, longing to run alongside to see her hull in graceful flight. God, it was marvellous. I turned on the radio full blast and made entries in the log. ‘Yipppeee’, I concluded, ‘Yipppeee!’
I decided to come about and follow the coast. Solitaire hesitated for a second, wondering why we were separating from her new playmate. Then she saw the distant headland and was off again, heeling for more speed, like a puppy seeking a new interest. The wind blew free with no bills to pay at the end of the month for that! Oceans lay ahead like orchards of succulent fruit: we could gorge ourselves and feast. All free, free, free.
The rent man called that evening, first with a light tapping on the door, followed by a more insistent banging and whistling. Initially I paid no attention. Then, growing nervous and weary, became too exhausted to care. By six that evening we had problems. The wind was increasing, the sea becoming choppy as I reduced the headsail to working jib. With darkness, the lighthouse on Portland Bill started flashing but Solitaire was much too close inshore to clear the headland and its race, so I came about and headed south. France was 60 miles away, with plenty of sea room in that direction. Then a fog descended, thick, grey banks obliterating the lighthouse which prompted me to start the engine in order to maintain a compass course. The outlines of large ships waltzed by, partnering Solitaire in a dance of disaster, faint shapes towering above us, their unfamiliar lights confusing me. Sometimes I turned away, sometimes circled back, sails a-flap. Terror!
During one of these panics I managed to tangle the trailing log line around the skeg so that now I would have no idea how far Solitaire travelled on her manic course. Tuesday morning saw us still beating into angry seas, completely lost. I tried to keep heading west, confused and legless. My radio direction finder would certainly have supplied the answers had I not managed to leave it switched on with the result that the batteries were now flat.
Turning Solitaire off the wind I headed north-west to bring us back to the English coast. Late that night shore lights showed faintly through the murk so I dropped sail and stayed on watch until morning when the fog lifted. Land! We were sitting in the western end of a vast bay, in the far distance, a harbour. From the chart Falmouth was shown to the west of a large bay.
Full of confidence, Solitaire motored over to a young lady in a rubber dinghy and, in what I thought to be a swashbuckling manner, I shouted, ‘Ahoy there, missy, could you please tell me where you anchor in Falmouth Harbour?’ A look of horror crossed her face. Ye gods, I thought, my flies are open. The poor creature’s legs seemed to give way and she collapsed in the bottom of her craft whence weird sounds emerged, followed by a tear-stained face.
‘Miss, I only want to know where you anchor in Falmouth Harbour.’
‘About 100 miles westwards,’ came a shrieked reply.
Brixham is a delightful place. For a while Solitaire circled its harbour like a cat looking for a comfortable place to settle, this my first attempt at anchoring. Exhausted, I used my remaining strength to tie a length of rope onto a 25lb CQR anchor and throw it over the side. With that I sat on deck, head in hand, until a man in a dinghy appeared alongside.
‘Are you alright?’ he asked. I nodded, whereupon he suggested that it would be advisable to put a length of chain on the anchor before the rope. I fetched up about 20ft and after helping me to re-anchor he invited me to dinner with him and his wife. Next morning they were gone. I forgot their names, even their faces, but I will always remember their kindness.
I stayed only a few days in Brixham, using the yacht club’s showers but not daring to enter the bar as I could still hear the girl’s laughter ringing in my ears. Perhaps the word had gone around: we have a fool in the harbour.
The sail to Falmouth, starting at dawn one morning, arriving early the next, proved easy. Close on the wind all the way we made a fair course without overmuch tacking, sailing with main and number two genoa in a reasonable Force 3 to 4. I managed to pick up all the headlands by day and identify the lighthouses by night, and having replaced the RDF batteries I could now confirm my position with radio fixes. Solitaire and I enjoyed this part of the voyage, arriving fresh and slightly more confident. As Falmouth seemed crowded, we moved to the other side of the river and the picturesque village of St Mawes. Solitaire has no fitted tanks, she carries her water in six 5-gallon containers. When these were filled, I bought a roasted chicken, some vegetables, and prepared for our first long voyage together across the Atlantic.
On August 28th, 1975, I hauled up the anchor at the start of a lovely English summer’s day with the dew still wet on Solitaire’s deck, motored out of the sleeping harbour and raised sail. A faint breeze from the north-west seemed reluctant to speed us from our homeland so Solitaire drifted south, her self-steering debating whether to hold her on course or give up and go back to bed. By afternoon we were only 12 miles south of Falmouth. A large ketch headed towards us, passing down our side under full sail. I could hear shouting, see its crew waving their arms as though in distress. Quickly dropping the headsail I started the engine, turned into wind and made after them. It turned out their motor had broken down and they were lost.
‘Which way Falmouth?’ they called. ‘And how far?’
That I could give them this information amused me and for the rest of the day I kept chuckling to myself. Had they but known!
Good humour came to an abrupt end that night when I managed to rip the mainsail. Soon after the ketch had left us, the wind started to pick up so I hoisted a smaller genoa, then, just before dark, with heavy clouds forming and the wind increasing, I reduced to working jib. That stormy night, still on a broad reach, I tried to drop the main without turning into the wind but the sail caught on the crosstrees and ripped. When it was finally down and lashed, I was violently sick. I was to be sick at sea only twice, due to my idiocy rather than an upset stomach. On this occasion I was concerned about the sail repair, having previously sewn together nothing more complicated than an old pair of socks. What bothered me most was removing the sail from the mast, as Rome had fitted it for me when I had been elsewhere. Did you take it from the mast first or from the boom? It was only a passing fear. I tied the sailbag onto the mast and fed the sail directly into it – successfully.
When next I went below I had my first experience of the different worlds of sailing. On deck it was cold with a screeching wind, breaking waves and glowing phosphorus. Below it was peaceful and warm. Solitaire broad-reached comfortably, delighted to be off the wind and the pounding sea. The rip proved to be only a few inches long and easily repaired, so Solitaire and I learned another lesson. There’s an old saying of the sea, ‘When you think of reefing (shortening sail), that’s the time to reef.’ I have always taken this to extremes.
The number two genoa and working jib were permanently fixed to twin forestays and I invariably changed down to the smaller working jib at the slightest excuse such as increasing wind, heavy swell, unusual clouds... and, after many months at sea, on instinct that all was not right. I liked to clear shipping lanes as soon as possible. Once in open sea, I would switch off lights to preserve the batteries and sleep through the night, relying on intuition to wake me for weather changes, deviation from course or ships in the vicinity. That way of thinking would have been different if there had been other people on board when I would have been responsible to them for keeping a good watch at all times. Besides, there is no way you can develop this intuition when other people are around.
After leaving the English Channel I stopped using the number one genoa. It provided insufficient extra speed for its size and, hard on the wind, with the foot running along the deck inside the stanchions, it restricted my forward vision. I was to become lazy at sea. If I could make 100 miles a day I would be content and, should I fail to achieve this distance, who cared? When I found Solitaire slamming into heavy seas, I would drop all sail, batten myself below and read or sleep. If the winds turned into storms and they were aft of the mast I would simply run with them on a broad reach under working jib. I was never frightened and indeed found comfort in gales by thinking either of Chay Blyth, who had rowed the Atlantic, or Bombard, who had crossed it in a rubber dinghy.
My boat was strong so why should I worry? I enjoyed the solitude and there were plenty of books to read. I had never to be in a certain place at a given time, the crazy world could wait until I chose to join it again. Meanwhile I had friendly dolphins who entertained me nightly with their ballet dancing. Like a king before his court I sat back applauding, enjoying a last cup of coffee at the end of another halcyon day. Navigation was proving easier than expected. I had stayed as far out of the Bay of Biscay as possible and still received limited RDF signals from England, Spain and Portugal. Two or three such bearings gave me a reasonable fix, which was confirmed by dead reckoning using a £20 bosun’s compass and the trailing log for distance travelled.
When I had been at sea for ten days I read the instructions in Reeds Almanac and used my Ebco plastic sextant to take my first sight for latitude. It took longer than is normal as I had no accurate timepiece aboard. My old car clock lost 40 seconds or so a day which meant I had to guess when the sun would reach its maximum height, following it on its upwards curve to the top of its arc, and only too relieved when my calculations tied in with the pencilled RDF positions. For a few days I continued this cross-checking until we were 300 miles into the Atlantic, when the signals faded. Now we would have to depend on dead reckoning and the sextant.
Dropping below the Azores, Solitaire picked up the beautiful trade winds, constant at Force 3 to 4 over our stern. There were times when I thought she had stopped: surprised by the silence, I would put down my book and go on deck only to find the log spinning merrily away at a steady 5 knots.
In these conditions, I started to learn the importance of a varied food supply. Cooking would have given another interest, another pleasure, were it not that nearly all the food on board was tinned: the fresh food I had bought in Falmouth had been eaten in the first week. One meal I relished was rice and curried chicken, and I regretted having no more. In time I would learn to carry the things that would last and were cheap to buy: rice, flour, onions, cabbage, eggs.
The main event of our Atlantic crossing took place on September 23rd, at precisely 1400 hours GMT. It would be many weeks before I learned the importance of this day and the changes it would make to my life. All that is recorded in the ship’s log for that day is ‘Distance travelled 2,442 miles. Latitude 23°41´North.’ From then on things would happen that made no sense. I would go over incidents again and again, sometimes believing I was losing my sense of reason as I tried to understand why, after things had gone so well, suddenly I seemed unable to do anything right.
I kept pushing Solitaire south but the reduction in latitude was too slow and simply would not agree with the compass course or dead reckoning. I checked the compass against that on the RDF set but both gave similar readings. I went over my latitude figures repeatedly, always getting the same answer. It could not be my method of working out sights whose correctness I had confirmed long since. I tried to remember where the fast-flowing Gulf Stream started its journey north: I knew its current sometimes reached 5 knots but I had no charts to guide me and the sea tells no secrets. Could it be I was under the influence of the Bermuda Triangle, where ships and aircraft had vanished, perhaps, it was suggested, as the result of large compass variations? Day after day we pushed further south into dangers that would subsequently make me shudder at my stupidity.
As the trade winds began to drop we had periods of calm punctuated by vicious squalls, the first of which started at night. Previously there had been light rain squalls but these were something quite different. I would wake up in the night to an eerie silence. Suddenly, screaming winds would start whistling in Solitaire’s rigging, whereupon she would come off her broad reach and luff up. I would dash on deck naked, stopping only to throw on a life harness, to find sheets of warm water pounding the sea flat. I would drop the mainsail and within a few seconds all would be normal, with Solitaire back on course under a clear, starry sky, as if nothing had happened.
Two days later I saw these squalls for what they were – seemingly atom bomb mushrooms, starting at sea level and spreading upwards to blank out the sun. Normally I would drop the mainsail as quickly as possible and free the genoa sheets if it seemed the squall would blow for any length of time. Later I was to question many seamen how they reacted. One said he merely allowed the yacht to luff up, arguing that you were through a squall quicker than trying to run with it. Most of those I spoke to seemed to drop or slacken sail. During this confusion and despondency, I learned a lot about the sea, Solitaire and myself.
One day we were beating into a breaking sea with a long swell, Solitaire’s bow being thrown high in the air every now and then, only for her to fall back, burying her nose, waves streaming up her decks towards the cockpit. I needed to take off the large genoa that was driving her into these seas to slow her down, but as I have never been a strong swimmer (a cross between a breast-stroker and a dog-paddler) I did not fancy going forward for a ducking. In the middle of a sail change Solitaire started to lift and, just as I thought she was about to take off in flight, we started down again. Seas broke over the bows, whirling first around my feet and then my chest. I grabbed the forestay in panic, drawing in each breath as though it were my last, before sinking into a green world, which sucked me away from Solitaire. Water filled my nose and I choked. After what seemed like a lifetime I was lifted clear, terrified, trying to draw breath into burning lungs, spitting out mouthfuls of neat sea.
At that moment, strangely, I stopped being afraid. My fear was replaced by anger and I screamed obscenities, using every backstreet gutter word I could remember, even managing to invent a few. Within minutes using hand-like steel claws, I had changed sails and was back in the cockpit, sucking the salt from my lips which I spat over the side.
‘You bloody bitch,’ I said. It was not until I had towelled myself down, and was sitting with a cup of tea, that my hands stopped shaking. Then I began to think about the strange chap I had met on the foredeck, this Jekyll and Hyde character. If I could control him and harness his anger to give me the strength to survive, I would have learned another valuable lesson which must serve me well.
At ten o’clock that night, October 13th, after being at sea for 57 days and having logged 4,340 miles, a lighthouse flashed which should not have been there. By dead reckoning, we were still 200 miles from Barbados. Our noon sight that day had put us 14°40´N, more than 80 miles above the island. My sole chart, which covered the whole Caribbean, reduced Barbados from 20 miles to one inch, and showed two lighthouses but no flashing codes. I decided to sail down the island to pick up the other light but soon thought better of it and headed out to sea to await morning.
Dawn found Solitaire sailing on a southerly course parallel to an island with sandy beaches, palm trees and hills in the distance. A few dhow-type vessels about 40ft long with large triangular sails made of odd pieces of material were in sight, each with two or three dark-skinned men on board whose curiosity made them come alarmingly close. By noon, sea and sky had taken on the same shade of blue, the horizon hazy.
Despite problems in getting a decent sight it appeared to confirm the previous day’s latitude. Using my RDF set I was surprised to pick up a loud SLI Morse signal, which indicated I had sailed above the Barbados Islands and was cruising down the coast of Martinique with St Lucia to the south. Although I had no radio codes for the area, that would surely account for the SLI call sign. Barbados then was 90 miles to the south-east. Although it meant retracing my steps, I decided to sail there because a young girl had once said it was 100 miles to Falmouth and her laughter still rang in my ears.
Since we were sailing into open seas I slept well that night. In fact I even had a lie-in, made a leisurely cup of tea and came out of the cabin yawning. A glance at the compass revealed we were still on course with the trailing log behaving satisfactorily and the self-steering working well. To starboard I was surprised to see land about 3 miles away but, over the bow, Solitaire was facing huge breaking seas. The cup scalded my legs as I dropped it scrambling over the hatchboards. I was halfway to the tiller when the air filled with flying spray. As there was no time to tack I fled below, slamming the sliding hatch: for a moment silence endorsed a shortlived sense of relief, then the earth spun out of orbit as Solitaire was lifted sideways. Believing this a new game, she went willingly, flying in her eagerness to please until struck viciously by a gigantic hammer, which stopped her dead, knocking her legs from under her. And I heard a baby howl...
In the cabin movement was too fast for the eye to register. As the boat fell on her side, I found myself on the floor: lockers burst open and I was bombarded by books, tins, bottles. Whatever could fall fell and sea water gushed in.
The seas had her, like a tiger bringing down a fawn, swinging her in a complete circle. She shrieked. I tried to escape through the hatch but solid water flung me back to the floor, the cabin darkened by green shades that covered its windows. Now she was dragged sideways, leaving skin and blood on jagged rocks, and crying in her agony, but there was nothing I could do for her. Trying to restore sanity to this madness, I picked up a book from the shambles to blank out her screams.
Then her cries changed to defiance, although the sea still pushed her sideways. Now she was riding with the blows, staggering to her feet after each knockdown. She would take stumbling steps, sit down, then quickly push herself upright, complaining the while at such treatment. Again and again she was slammed down but with each knockdown her stubbornness increased until, after being turned again in a complete circle, she finished up standing when the noise subsided. She stood there swaying, quietly sobbing, but on her feet and proud.
I slid back the hatch cover and emerged shamefaced, embarrassed by the dangers I had left her to face alone and bitterly repentant of my hope that some small part of her would be found so that my family would not spend years wondering if I were alive or dead. From the cockpit her decks appeared to have been swept clean: dinghy, fuel containers, spray dodgers... all had disappeared. Later I found them hanging over the side secured by old bits of lashing. The mast still stood, heavy spray running off the untorn sails like rivers of tears. The battens in the main had broken and the headsail sheets flew free but were intact.
A glance into the cabin showed the wreck that had been my home. Rubbish floated in deep water, not as bad as I had thought, locked below, when I would have sworn she was half-full. That had been with Solitaire on her side. Now that she was upright water ran to her bilges, reducing the level. The boat was held in soft sand. The reef she had survived lay to one side, the distant shore to the other, the sea brown and shallow. After hauling everything back on board and securing, I started pumping, but as it took an age to clear the water in the cabin, I feared her hull might be cracked. The tiller was jammed to one side, but by pushing with both feet I managed to centralise it and the plywood weather vane on my self-steering gear had broken but I could soon fit a spare.
Solitaire started to come alive again, and with a little encouragement she might even be away. I thought of using the motor, but after that pounding doubted it would ever start until I turned the key. The engine gave a half-turn and roared into life. Solitaire shuddered with pleasure and as I pulled in her sails she leaned, sighed and moved. I felt her sweating forehead on my cheek as she whispered in our secret language, forgiving me my faults and weaknesses. Life was full again – the music of Bach, the birth of Christ. It was Christmas, Christmas Day in October. We were off to Barbados.
Solitaire edged her way nervously back along the reef where the echo sounder gave no reading. The distant water seemed even shallower, so we stayed close in, eyeing the sea warily lest it brought on fresh assaults. Salt water and spray still showered us but as we rounded the end of the reef the air cleared and I could see again.
The first thing I spotted was a green and white sail. ‘Americans,’ I thought, setting off in hot pursuit. I wanted to inspect for damage and clean up the mess below so, as she was holding a good course, I switched off the motor and let the self-steering take over. Water oozed through the cabin floor and worriedly I started pumping again. We were still in sandy seas that stretched to the horizon, the echo sounder occasionally registering a few feet. Old Green Sails was even closer inshore. Still trying to catch him, we rounded a headland with a lighthouse perched on it but the other craft pulled away and disappeared. Where had this land come from? I tried the RDF again and the SLI signal came through loud and clear as ever. I checked the chart. Martinique had coral banks halfway down its east coast: a lighthouse was shown a few miles north of these. Maybe we had hit these banks and rounded the light so I decided to follow the coast.
At noon the horizon was even hazier with no chance of a sight. Then a second island appeared which, if we were sailing down the west coast of Martinique, had to be St Lucia. I decided to pass between the two and then head for Barbados. A few hours later I realised that these islands were merging and that we were entering the mouth of a river! At that point I realised I badly needed help for there was nothing in the Caribbean that looked like this.
Solitaire was sailing in shallow waters where the charts showed 50 fathoms or more. The riverbanks continued to close in on us, now 3–4 miles apart. Small open fishing boats and canoes appeared with the same patched triangular sails I had noted on the earlier vessels. I closed them, pointing downriver, and shouting ‘Harbour’, which brought only smiles and shrugs. Then I tried shouting ‘Porto’ at which they waved me on.
Moving through the same dirty brown water the echo sounder read 7–8ft. Now and again Solitaire would hesitate as we touched soft sand but in no way put out she would shake herself and continue on her way. A Spanish-style village began to appear above a bay to starboard, first a church, then white buildings with red-tiled roofs, and finally a jetty with a flat-bottomed canopied boat tied to it. A walled road ran up a hill, with people lining it. I attempted to anchor but such was the current it would not hold and Solitaire was swept towards the shore which made me decide to carry on upriver and find another haven.
Just before dark the river ended in forest. I dropped anchor and was contemplating inflating the dinghy and rowing ashore when a canoe appeared manned by a man with a dirty cloth at his waist tucked between hairy legs. He passed with thrusting strokes, bulging muscles and furtive looks. A forked spear lay in the bottom of the canoe, most likely for fishing. Holy cow, I thought, I wouldn’t like to meet him on a dark night, so decided to stay where I was.
It had been a long day but there was still much to do. For the first time since the knockdown I dried out Solitaire, including her bilges. Water had been coming in pretty fast and I had been pumping her every 2 or 3 hours without tracing its point of entry.
By now it was dark and the sky full of stinging insects. Thinking of food I went below into an oven where I managed a cup of tea but spent so much time defending myself with flailing arms that food was not worth the effort. Perhaps those tropical marauders fancied some real English roast beef. I closed the hatch and slept so deeply that dragon bites would not have wakened me. When I came to at dawn, my face was puffed and swollen. Having feasted heartily off me through the night, the dragons had limped off home – gorged. Now all I wanted was to get back to sea. The trip upriver had taken six hours. Two days later, after forcing a way back through thick, brown chocolate, I was to remember those few hours as pleasurable!
At first the return was not too bad. In the cool of early morning I hoisted the sails and started the engine. At the end of each tack I would simply turn the self-steering onto its new course and stand with a genoa sheet in each hand, letting go on one, taking up on the other as we came through the wind. The slow-running engine kept her moving as she came about, easing her through any soft sand. Hard-in sails helped her to heel, which lifted the keel slightly. Every now and again I would pump the bilges but progress was slow.
The mid-day sun reflected off a burning deck. Standing in the cockpit was uncomfortable even in a minimal shirt and shorts as I sought relief from the hot breeze, quite unconscious of the sun’s damage to my skin and eyes. The previous night’s bites were now sore and itching and when darkness fell we still had not reached the village. I tried to continue sailing but islands of hard-packed sand constantly delayed Solitaire. When we ran hard into one particularly shallow patch, I called it a day, anchored and made tea, for again I could not face food. All I wanted was the night’s cool comfort. Bliss... then the dragons arrived for another feast.
I sailed next morning as soon as I could make out the shoreline. The river began to widen and by noon Solitaire was a mile or two beyond the village, still running into islands of hard packed sand just below the surface that were impossible to see. Normally they did not cause too much concern: we invariably hit them on their downriver side and the wind soon floated us off again. Then, after running into one soft patch, Solitaire’s motor stopped. The engine uses seawater as a coolant but the muck we were sailing in did not agree with its digestion, so it overheated and gave up the fight. Lacking its thrust we drifted astern and finished on the wrong side of a hard-packed island. For the first time since leaving England I inflated the dinghy and stepped off Solitaire, dropping our anchor with 200ft of rope in deep water.
A few fishing boats closed to see what was going on. One came alongside with a crew of three who I invited aboard Solitaire and gave them cigarettes, the first people I had spoken to since the lost souls on the ketch off Falmouth. Not that I could understand these men’s language. I felt they had originally come from Spain or Brazil, and spoke Portuguese or heavily-accented Spanish. Peasants in rolled-up trousers, secured by string, they wore tattered shirts and, above all, battered straw hats – which I envied. One or two of the words they used I recognised, ‘please’, ‘yes’, ‘no’, with which I tried to obtain my whereabouts.
One pointed to me and asked, ‘Saint Lucia?’
Getting somewhere at last, I thought. I shook my head and said, ‘Barbados.’ Waving in the general direction of the DF signal, I asked ‘Saint Lucia?’
To this they all nodded their heads enthusiastically. I fetched my chart of the Caribbean, and pointed to my position. It was as if it had a curse, they would not even look. I kept pushing it under their noses, pleading, ‘Please, señor.’
Then I noticed Solitaire was leaning further over, a foot of sand showing around her. It could not be happening. The Caribbean has no such tide. My guests sat back smoking and smiled confidently, waiting for Solitaire to float. I watched the miracle of the waters rising until she pulled on her anchor line and swung into deep chocolate whereupon I farewelled the fishermen, hauled up the sails, and again started reaching for blue waters.
Within an hour it was dark but the river grew wider as we tacked by the stars. I nipped below and made tea, putting marmalade on a cheese biscuit. Next moment I was spread-eagled over the forward bulkhead. Solitaire had hit an island and was on her side. Before I had time to panic, a wave had picked her up and gently deposited her in deep water where she continued serenely as though nothing had happened. That would teach me to go below without permission.
As I picked up the lighthouse and made towards it, I started to hear a strange but familiar sound I could not place. Dropping sails, I put down the anchor and, head on tiller, fell asleep having sailed and pumped for nearly 40 fasting hours. Dawn found us close inshore, a shore covered by bushes. Then I remembered and recognised the sound I had heard: crickets! Once clear of the land, I studied my chart, trying to identify the coast with the compass. Nothing made sense. There was no river that size on Martinique, nothing like it in all the Caribbean, the brown water too shallow, the tides quite wrong, the land too flat.
I could not just sit there; we had to sail in some direction. I would sail north, back the way we had come, so I brought Solitaire onto that heading. But that could not be right, we must sail south and home in on the RDF to St Lucia. I turned Solitaire south. In the end I was changing course every few minutes and circling, circling. I gave up, apologised to Solitaire, made tea and ate my marmalade biscuits. Since first hitting the reef three days ago I had accomplished nothing. The trip downriver had ended with me burned by the sun and savagely bitten.
The locals had said St Lucia again and again. My last latitude had been 14°30´N so, river or no river, I must be on the west coast of Martinique. Nothing else was possible. Finally I headed north. On Sunday, October 19th, Solitaire was back on course for Barbados which I believed to be south-east and I followed the coast until clear of land when I found that sailing in clear water had increased the leaks. I was now pumping out Solitaire every two hours.
Next morning I hallucinated, believing that my brother Royston was sleeping in my bunk. Should I disturb him and ask him to have a go at pumping? Later I made two cups of tea, and took him one in the cockpit. Just before dark, standing in the hatchway, I felt a chest pain. Looking down I saw I was pushing hard against the hatch cover to make room for family and friends standing behind! Of course I saw no one. There was no fear, nothing worse than having too much to drink and making a fool of myself. Too much worry, too much sun.
Thoughts of sailing direct to Barbados were given up on Tuesday, October 21st. Then one of the twin forestay bottle screws, which allow the standing rigging to be adjusted, broke. Later I learned that it failed because there was no universal coupling at its base. With loose rigging I turned Solitaire and ran westwards. My condition was deteriorating, my skin so burned that even a light shirt proved painful, yet I had to spend hours in the cockpit pumping and sailing Solitaire, the sun ever blazing, the spray stinging. I could no longer see the horizon. There was no mirror aboard, but I knew my eyes were nearly closed and my head was blistering.
Wednesday, October 22nd. A week had passed since hitting the reef. Sailing back into the brown shallows, I saw a large bay with the same fishing boats and canoes, the same peasant crews. My spirits rose when I saw a large marker buoy, the type used to mark shipping channels. I circled it, but the echo sounder showed only a few bitterly disappointing feet. Ashore were palm trees and several thatched huts. Motoring down I found flat water with no current, so anchored in 7ft or so, backing away to allow the chain to run out. I went below, glad to be out of the flying spray and burning sun, and lay on my bunk for the first time in many long days. I moved my eyelids a fraction to close them. Beautiful, deep soothing sleep. Then a bump on Solitaire’s side.
I staggered on deck to find a dug-out canoe alongside with a man and woman, both with broken teeth and flat faces, and a coloured, handsome man with Spanish features. He made signs indicating the sea would soon leave the lagoon, precisely what I needed to allow me to sleep in safety and, later, inspect Solitaire’s hull. To please them, I thought I’d move Solitaire a few feet. I started her motor, removing its cover to make sure it was not overheating and, stumbling, pushed my leg against the revolving flywheel. A quick burning pain... I watched the blood run without the slightest interest, switched off the motor, gave my visitors cigarettes and pumped the bilges. Finally, lovely sleep.
I awoke spluttering, my face immersed in sea water. Solitaire was lying on her side and water had collected – into which I had submerged my face when turning in my sleep. On deck I could see we were about 200 yards up the beach, the sun about to make its appearance. Clambering over Solitaire’s side, I felt cooling sands on my grilled feet. Ecstasy! A bent old man was examining the beach pools and extracting stranded fish, which he belted over the head before dropping them into his sack. I joined in the game for a while, laughing and dancing like a clown until, tiring of the sport, I went to lay out anchors as close as possible to the sea.
By now Solitaire’s starboard side was completely exposed and I could examine the wounds she had endured on the reef. A large piece missing from the bottom of the skeg accounted for the jammed rudder. Halfway along her hull on the waterline was one area that had been pushed in the depth of a dinner plate, another (larger) area simply flattened. Other parts were scratched and gouged, although none an inch deep, the thickness of her skin. In the hot sun, Solitaire soon dried out. Still searching for the cause of the leak, I saw dampness where the after end of the keel joined the hull which I had reinforced with fibreglass at least an inch-and-a-half thick. When I cleaned it with a file, water trickled out.
Fortunately I carried resin and fibreglass on board in sealed containers; unfortunately I had no brushes or gloves to protect my hands. Despite making a brush from a rope’s end, I still managed to cover my hands with resin, which I tried to clean off with rag and seawater. Then I had the brilliant idea of using sand and finished up looking as if I were wearing brown gloves, which at least stopped me scratching my face. It is inadvisable to glass over a damp surface but, by adding extra hardener, I made a half-decent job.
By the time I had finished, a crowd of locals had gathered. The last job was to inspect my stock of 18 bottles of spirits and some 600 English cigarettes which, as I was a non-smoker, were mostly for trade. I came across about 40 sodden yachting magazines and took them on deck, intending to dump them. A girl reached up, so I gave her one. Next minute I was besieged by fighting, screaming women and out of the newspaper business. I decided the men should also have a treat and dished out half a dozen bottles of whisky and gin and, to add to the party spirit, started handing out cigarettes. While this was going on I tried to hold some kind of a conversation without much luck. Suddenly I heard the name ‘Pele’.
‘Football!’ I shouted, and pretended to dribble a ball. Pointing to myself I said, ‘Golf.’ The best I could get from my fans was ‘Goof’. I still had a set of golf clubs on board so fetched them, made a round hole in the sand, marched back 150 yards, selected my trusty five iron and asked the admiring public to stand back. With my ‘sandpaper’ gloves I had a good grip on the club. Making my first back swing as wide and slow as possible, I came down and through what I saw as two blurred balls, holding my stance at the end of the applause. A slight titter. Looking down I could still see two balls.
On my fourth attempt I managed to move them 10ft. I tried to explain that my first three swings had been practice, not that I minded their laughter even if they were drinking my grog. I looked for revenge. My old fishing partner, rolling about much the worse for wear, seemed a likely victim. Prising a gin bottle from his shaking hand I gave him the club, pointed to the ball, the general direction of the hole, and stood well back. The poor old man could hardly stand and I started to feel sorry for what I was doing. Encouraged by his mates he finally swung and made solid contact. The ball flew off in a majestic trajectory to land a few feet from the hole. He was carried around on the shoulders of a cheering crowd as though he had just won the British Open. I handed out all the balls, three dozen or so, and the rest of my golf clubs, not particularly caring if I got them back.
With that I went to join the only friend I had in the world. From Solitaire’s deck the beach took on a festive atmosphere: golf balls were flying like white meteors over sands covered by drying magazine pages while staggering drunks held cigarettes like prize Havana cigars. I had brought havoc to this sleepy village but felt content for the first time since hitting the reef.
Around noon a Land Rover came down the beach with two uniformed men and a civilian who was the first to speak.
‘No problem,’ he said.
Thank the Lord, I thought, for someone who could speak English. Quickly I told him of my adventures since leaving England, finishing up with a question, ‘Where am I?’
‘No problem,’ he replied.
We went in this circle three times before I realised ‘no problem’ was the extent of his English. Passport and ship’s papers were handed over and for the first time I heard the name Tutóia. It was decided that Maurice, one of the uniformed men, would stay with me to help refloat Solitaire and then navigate us to this Tutóia, a fishing village 2 miles or so away at the other end of the bay. The tide came in just before dark and Solitaire stood on her feet again. Some 40 yards offshore, Maurice took the tiller while I watched the echo sounder. Then it grew dark, which confused Maurice, and we hit the mud. In the near vicinity were several canoes using lights. When Maurice called, one came over and without a word he stepped in and was swallowed by the dark.
I spent a worried night trying to sleep on deck, wrapped in a sail. Solitaire’s keel was held as though set in concrete and there was no way of getting ashore unless I grew wings.
When Maurice returned at dawn Solitaire was again afloat. I started the engine and Maurice navigated us through a winding path of water cut in the forest until I had my first sight of Tutóia, a dirty beach with a single wooden jetty against a background of a few red-roofed modern bungalows among scattered palm trees.
I was given to understand a naval officer wanted to see me and tried to make myself presentable, covering my blisters with lightweight trousers and a long-sleeved shirt. As I could not get shoes on my feet, I cut off the bottoms of some old pumps and bandaged them on. A local named Tony came out in his canoe and Maurice indicated that in future this man would look after me, so there would be no need of my rubber dinghy. I was taken to the largest of the bungalows, which turned out to be Navy Headquarters and after a short wait was shown into an office sparsely decorated with pictures of ships. Behind a large desk sat a handsome officer wearing American-type light khaki Navy uniform, silver bars agleam.
This was the commanding officer, Lieutenant Orland Sapana. Later I was to hear villagers refer to him as a saint and within a few days I was agreeing with them. The only other piece of furniture in the room was the biggest, softest, most luxurious easy chair whose arms reached out to me like those of a beautiful woman. My aching body longed to be engulfed by her and when I became aware Orland was inviting me to sit, I slowly lowered myself with closed eyes, only to receive another full-throated belch. The seat had no springs and I was sitting on the floor. Lieutenant Orland had disappeared: all I could see was the underside of his desk. I pulled myself up until my nose rested on its surface from where I tried to carry on an intelligent conversation. Although Orland could speak no English, he used words that were nearly international.
‘Military... sporta?’
I gathered he wished to know if I was in the services.
‘Sport,’ I replied.
‘English?’ he asked.
‘Si, yes, English,’ I repeated and then pointed at him.
He said he was Brazilian which confused me as I had always thought St Lucia was British.
‘Saint Lucia? Brazilian?’ I queried, shaking my head.
‘Si, si.’ He stretched his arms wide and said, ‘Brazil.’ Putting his hands close together: ‘England’.
I was not having that, so I bent both arms intending to say ‘England stronger’ but having let go of the desk I was again swallowed by the armchair. When I re-emerged Orland was rocking back and forth, pretending to hold a baby and smiling. At first I thought he wanted to know if I had any children. He then picked up my papers and pointed first to the date in the calendar, then to my birth date, October 24th. Today was my birthday!
His face took on a look of concern and, pointing to my own, spoke the one word I’d been fearing, ‘Hospital.’ I tried to make my way out of the office repeating, ‘Solitaire, Solitaire’, too frightened to leave her, however much I needed medical attention. It was like being on the moon with someone suggesting you leave your space craft, your only means of returning to earth, plus the normal concerns of entering any hospital, wondering when they would release you. Orland understood this because he kept repeating, ‘No problem, no problem.’
Maurice then returned and I was told to accompany him to a hotel for a meal. Most of the houses around had been standing for years, their whitewashed walls, 2ft thick, broken by heavily shuttered windows as if under siege from the scorching sun. Poorly-dressed peasants offered fish and over-ripe bananas for sale but the village smelt of decay, flies seeming to cover its filth. Whenever Maurice and I came into view all movement would stop. I walked through statues that moved only to watch my stumbling progress. Now and again I would stop to tie the bandages on my feet when, seeing me kneeling on the cobbles, they would move forward to help, only to retreat with shy smiles, wishing me ‘Good morning’ as I looked up.
The hotel was another terraced house, larger than its neighbours and with a small courtyard in front. Behind its shutters it was cool. The main room had long scrubbed tables, kitchen chairs and sturdy sideboards: the walls were covered with browning family photographs such as I had last seen as a boy in my grandfather’s house. Would I like to shower? I was shown across a dirty yard to what I first thought was a lavatory but inside which was a 40-gallon oil drum filled with water and a pannikin for throwing it over oneself. There was no soap or towel, but it proved the finest shower of my life. I patted myself dry with my shirt and tried to finger-comb my hair. As this hurt I simply pushed it back from my forehead and replaced the four-knotted handkerchief I had been using as headgear.
I was given two boiled eggs, some bread, and the worst cup of coffee I had ever tasted. There was another person in the room, a young Castro, with thick black hair and beard. About 30 years of age, he could speak a little English and introduced himself as Professor Maguil, a visiting teacher. He asked if I would visit the local girls’ school that evening and give a talk, explaining that although the children would be unable to understand what I was saying, nevertheless they were trying to learn English and would welcome an opportunity to meet their first Anglo-Saxon.
A second man entered, Maguil’s age, slightly built and beardless, a Dr Benedito Carvino. They talked together awhile, and from their glances clearly they were discussing me. I heard Lieutenant Orland’s name mentioned.
Maguil turned. ‘Leslie, hospital,’ he said seriously.
Already I felt I had been separated from Solitaire too long, so I shook my head and returned to her. Tony took me back to my boat in his canoe and spent the afternoon aboard. Married, with six children, he lived in a small concrete box containing several beds built from odd pieces of wood, covered with bits of blankets, with a cooking fire in the middle of the dirt floor. Whenever I wanted to go ashore, I would blow a whistle: either he, his wife or children would row me.
The youngsters added a touch of drama to this task. With a paddle as big as they were and a fast-flowing current, they had to drag the canoe well upstream before starting across, timing their meeting with Solitaire before being swept past. I showed Tony how to use my gas stove and where the tea and coffee was kept. Considering their poverty Tony and his family were the most honest people it has been my privilege to meet and nothing was ever taken without my say-so.
Just before dark a single-engine aircraft, a Cessna 126 I reckoned, landed close to the village. That night I returned to the hotel for dinner, ready for my solo performance at the girls’ school. Seated at the table with eight or ten other men eating prawns and rice, the man opposite me spoke in English. He was Ivan, the pilot of the aircraft I had seen land, and someone with whom I thought I could hold a conversation at last. Alas, he knew only a few phrases and words. In fact I was having difficulty myself with sentences, remembering only a few words at a time: if anyone spoke for too long I would forget the earlier part. In fact I found it easier to understand Orland, who spoke no English, than Ivan who in normal circumstances I would have been able to hold in conversation.
What happened that evening frightened me. At the school I was introduced to the teachers and then taken into a classroom with around a hundred females, aged between 14 and 60, all wearing grey skirts and white blouses, a government perk for attending school was the impression I got. There was a good deal of laughing and shouting and the odd word of English. Since I knew they would not understand if I just talked, I drew a chart on the blackboard showing my voyage from England to Martinique, then out to sea and back to St Lucia, at which point the shouting and laughing suddenly stopped and a chill ran up my back. When I turned around my audience stared at me as though I were mad. I had experienced this type of thing before when talking to the fishermen and Orland. I was trying to be friends with these people and I could not understand why they kept trying to frighten me. An attractive girl, aged about 20, was about to leave, her provocative wiggle marking her out as the village flirt. She stopped in front of me, eyeing me up and down with a smouldering look as she said something to Maguil. The silence was broken by roars of laughter. Maguil indicated she wanted to kiss me goodnight. My answer was to point to my blistered mouth and say, ‘Problem!’ I started to enjoy life again.
Next morning Tony arrived early with a gift from Orland of a plate of toast which we spread with marmalade and shared for breakfast, helped down by coffee. Later Ivan joined us and we sat talking in the cabin for a while. When he said he had flown to many islands and, indeed, Miami, I produced my Caribbean chart and pointed to Miami. He nodded, then, smiling, pointed to Havana. I tried Barbados and got another ‘Yes’. Warming to the game I pointed to St Lucia and was amazed when he shook his head. I did not appreciate his sense of humour. I had seen him land, he was with me now. Why was he trying to worry me? My head started to ache again and Tony led Ivan away shortly afterwards.
While they were ashore I found a stainless-steel mirror which I cleaned and polished. The reflection surely was not me, not this ugly mass of blisters and yellow, weeping sores? The ginger beard was encrusted with filth, the eyes barely visible, just red swollen lids with slits which started to run as I became sorry... not for myself, but for the poor fool in the mirror.
That afternoon Orland, Maguil and Dr Carvino came on board. Again I was told I must go to hospital, and again I refused. There would be no charge they said, apart from for medicines and food. Finally I gave $10 to Tony to fetch the antibiotics and disinfectants the doctor prescribed. Professor Maguil was leaving to visit another school and promised to ask the teachers to look after me while he was away. The doctor cleaned my face, gave me some tablets and then they all left.
On October 26th I cut my feet, swollen like glowing balloons, with a razor blade to release the fluid. Later Orland arrived with the doctor and for the first time they saw me in shorts. The condition of my legs seemed to make them angry but lying on my bunk I had the feeling that it had little to do with me. Now and again I tried to explain that there was something wrong inside my head, that I could no longer understand anything. I kept making circular movements by the side of my head saying, ‘Loco.’
I was asked again if I would go to the hospital, and again refused. The doctor cleaned me as best he could and angrily pointed to the swarms of flies. ‘Englishman loco,’ he agreed. They left, none of us happy.
I spent a restless night, my only relief to keep the blood from my feet by holding them above my head. In the morning I asked Tony to fetch the doctor, who inspected my legs.
‘Hospital,’ he said again, shrugged his shoulders and closed his bag. ‘Fini,’ he said, which I took to mean the poor man had had enough of me.
It was my turn to say ‘Hospital’ and I even managed, ‘Please, doctor.’
Satisfied, he gave me some tablets that seemed to ease the pain. Later he returned with Orland and a stranger. John, who had been in the Merchant Navy and had spent a good deal of time in British ports, spoke excellent English. The fault was mine that it took so long to explain things.
Tony, who had been pumping Solitaire dry every day, would now live aboard and look after her. I was asked to write a brief statement to the Captain of Ports, along with a sketch of Solitaire’s damage and a rough chart of my voyage, which I duly did and included a thank-you note for all the kindness and hospitality of the people of St Lucia.
It was arranged I should enter hospital next morning. I spent those last few hours on Solitaire with my feet above my head before being carted off to hospital on October 28th, Tony canoeing me to the jetty to save the long walk. Our trail up the cobbled streets was marked by flapping bandages I could no longer be bothered to tie, and the bottom of my pumps dropping off as I staggered into the village square. I went forward bare-footed, vaguely aware of a green building on my right, a church in the left-hand corner with two buildings alongside.
Tony pointed to the far one and said, ‘Hospital’, towards which I stumbled drunkenly.
As I entered I looked up, my embarrassment at finding myself in Brixham about to be surpassed. Over the door for all the world to see were the words Hospital Maternidade. I considered trying to return to Solitaire but a light nudge from Tony pushed me into Tutóia’s Maternity Hospital!
Maria da paz Rodrigues – a long name for someone so gentle and pretty, so I shortened it to Maria that first day. She started working on my suppurations as soon as I arrived. The bed had clean white sheets and since I could not wear pyjamas because of my weeping sores, I lay on top of them clad only in boxer shorts. Maria had her back to me when I suddenly drew in my breath as though hurt. She looked round, her large brown eyes full of concern, until I started laughing, at which point she joined in. When she had cleaned my face, I made signs I wanted to shave off my beard, which she did for me. Already I was feeling much better.
The first week passed quickly. Tony turned up each morning to report on Solitaire. Orland would visit and the teachers and girls from the school stayed with me until lights out. After their departure the main entertainment was provided by bats performing acrobatics in the open rafters to the screams and groans of pregnant women – so much better than any late night horror film, with the added spice of finding yourself a blood donor if the bats included you in their act.
During the second week things improved and my head pains eased. I learned a few Portuguese words – and the names of the girls who were visiting me. The doctor’s wife would sit with me at night and we would read together from an old English textbook of hers, trying to increase her tiny vocabulary. Little old ladies would stay for hours without speaking, just holding my hands. Lovely young ladies would lean over, their black hair cascading down the sides of my cheeks, and would slowly moisten luscious red lips and expect me to repeat some Brazilian words after them as they tried to teach me their language.
The night before my release a fisherman, a new patient, came to my room to complain about the noise. Although I thought it a bit of a liberty, I asked the young ladies to take away their tape recorder. I would learn the Bossa Nova another night, I explained.
‘What’s your next port of call?’ the fisherman asked.
‘Barbados,’ I answered.
‘How long will it take?’ he queried. When I said two days, he told me it was impossible. We argued awhile and he left, saying he would give me some charts. Next morning he handed me two of Brazil which I promptly gave back, saying I had no intention of going there. He looked at me as though I’d just landed from another planet and pointed to a chart showing Tutóia.
‘No,’ I said. ‘We’re on Saint Lucia.’
He pointed to a town 80 miles away called Sao Luis. For a moment I stared at the charts, expecting my head to explode.
I was in Brazil.
I was 1,000 miles south of the Caribbean St Lucia and had sailed over the Equator to hit a reef 100 miles south of the Amazon. How could I have made such an incredible blunder?
On my return to Solitaire, I re-read the instructions for taking a noon sight for latitude. ‘Declination, North and South. These two elements are additive or subtractive according to the following simple rule. Same names add. Different names (one N and one S) subtract.’ On September 23rd, when halfway across the Atlantic, the declination had changed from North to South (the sun moving south of the Equator) and I had added instead of subtracted it.
The day I hit the reef the declination was 8°S, so from 16°S should have been subtracted the assumed latitude 14°40´N for that day. I had hit the Brazilian coast about 1°20´ south of the Equator! Eighty miles further south is Sao Luis, the capital and port in that area of Brazil, its call sign SLI. Had I carried the Admiralty List of Radio Signals I would have found that St Lucia’s call sign in the Windward Islands was, in fact, SLU! But the elementary error that had brought me to this pass I now found difficult to live with. In a sense that second week in hospital saw the start of my wish to make a second, non-stop voyage around the world.
Before Solitaire could continue I had to do something about her broken bottle-screw and loose rigging. As I had no spares I removed one from the twin backstays, replacing it with four links of anchor chain, and used it on the forestay. Once more Solitaire had tight rigging.
Feeling pleased with myself, I heard a disturbance on the shore. A man in brightly coloured shorts ran up and down waving his arms and jumping in the air. We watched him awhile until I concluded that it might be a new dance craze and sent Tony over to see if he would like a partner. He was captured and brought out to Solitaire where his crew-cut and accent proclaimed him an American. He revealed that he was the aircraft pilot for the Captain of Ports in Sao Luis. When the Port Captain received my letter acknowledging the kindness of the St Lucian people, he could not read it so passed it on to the American to translate.
‘Jesus Chriiiist, this guy doesn’t even know which hemisphere he’s in,’ he had exclaimed and came to inform me.
I thanked him for his trouble, claiming that I had now recovered my marbles. After a couple of shots of my whisky and his camera, he was gone.
I had just got my breath back when Tony returned with another visitor who looked like Rock Hudson, except that he had thick grey hair and a deeply tanned face and his baritone voice hinted of a French extraction. Lord knows what effect he had on women, but they were out of luck for he was a French-Canadian priest, Father Le Brun, who had heard of my troubles on his aircraft radio and had flown down to see me. I now had visions of the village airport starting to look like Heathrow.
He asked two questions, why did I wish to sail around the world alone? And would I go to church that night? I told him about solitude and contentment: of sailing into setting suns, of shoals of flying fish lifting from the bows, of colours beyond the skills of camera or painter which only God could have created. I had been having trouble finding words so, to make him understand, I had been using my hands to show fish in flight and dolphins dancing. Yes, I believed in God, but I considered the world to be His church, it was what was in your heart and mind that made you a Christian. There was no necessity to go into a stone building to pray. If Father Le Brun did not understand my reasons for avoiding church, he nevertheless seemed content.
Later that afternoon I faced another mystery: jazz music blasting from the sky, over as quickly as a squall. That night I was invited to dine with the doctor and his wife and a few friends whose house adjoined the church. We had been enjoying both food and conversation when the musical earthquake struck and windows started to shake. I looked at the walls expecting to see cracks appear before the house disintegrated, calming down only when I noticed that the other guests ignored this interruption. Conversation continued, but now we were lip reading. Then I solved the mystery of the heavenly music. To call the faithful in a 100-mile area, the church was using four loudspeakers instead of bells, one speaker directed into the doctor’s window and my left ear.
His wife was trying to persuade me to take her to church that night, pretending she was unable to appreciate my reasons for not going. In the end she employed the normal feminine method of getting her way. Earlier I had refused more food although still hungry. She overcame my objections by saying I did not like her cooking so, not wanting to give offence, I had allowed my plate to be filled again. Now she claimed I was ashamed to be seen with her so I had to agree to accompany her to church.
The village square was crowded and I thankfully turned to go back but mysteriously a path opened up in front of us, people stepping aside as we moved towards the church. Inside it was packed, but again the people let us through. For a moment I panicked, thinking they were going to marry me off to one of the nurses but finally I found myself in front of the pulpit, looking up at Father Le Brun, who was smiling at me. He preached in Portuguese but I recognised my own name and Solitaire’s, after which the congregation repeated them the way you might say ‘Amen’, echoing through the speakers to the crowd in the square. Then he used his hands like flying fish and dipped them like dancing dolphins, having clearly understood what I had told him that morning. The scheme to get me to church had been a well-contrived plan involving Mrs Doctor!
After the service he explained how the villagers wished to bless my voyage but had not anticipated the problem of getting me into church. Had he explained the reason I would have been delighted, I replied, adding that he had pinched all my best material for his sermon for which I would forgive him if he would pay another visit to Solitaire before he flew off.
This perfect day was still not over. Back on the beach I found six of the school ma’ams waiting for me. Aboard Solitaire they produced a guitar and tape recorder and started recording the songs of Brazil, in the intervals one of them reading from some pencilled notes in Portuguese. The performance ran for half-an-hour or so, whereafter all gave our Christian names just before the tape ran out. I have no idea how long it took them to perfect their timing but it must have been hours. It was a tape I would keep all my life and play a thousand times. I cherish it still.
Next morning Father Le Brun and I discussed my ports of call en route to the Panama Canal. Cayenne in French Guiana – 650 miles to the north – seemed a good prospect, and English was its second language. There I could pick up stores at reasonable prices. Shortly after he left, a light aircraft flew over Solitaire, dipping its wings. A kindly man was off to see if any more of his flock had strayed.
Food in Tutóia was hideously expensive and in short supply, but I still had £200 left so I indulged in a couple of tins of spam and sardines and 10lb of potatoes and bananas to add to my store of three jars of marmalade, six tins of mixed vegetables and a bottle of salad cream and another of mustard. Orland presented me with a sack of oranges and 5 gallons of diesel while Tony was asked to fill my water containers. Later in the day I watched a football match and, on the way back, was shown a ditch filled with water in which children and dogs were playing. A woman filled a jug from it and Tony made a drinking movement with his hand. It seemed I would be carrying 30 gallons of well-used bath water!
I was delayed for a few days awaiting my papers from Sao Luis, which did nothing to help my nerves. Like being thrown from a horse, the quicker you’re back in the saddle the better, although I wasn’t keen on coming within a mile of the horse or the sea in case I received another kick in the teeth from sun, sea and reefs.
At first light on Tuesday, November 18th, I switched on the engine, but the diesel grumbled and showed her displeasure at being ignored for so long by emitting clouds of blue smoke before screaming at full pitch to shatter the quiet of the morning. Crickets in the mangroves on the far bank stopped their insistent chattering and the birds took flight, screeching at the noisy intruder. Pushing the throttle forward, the sound reduced to a slow, sexual throb. Tutóia slept on, palm trees lying limp with bowed heads. Over the dew-covered roofs I could see the steeple of the church in which I had received my service of blessing, and nearby the maternity hospital in which I’d spent two weeks flat on my back. Would Tony arrive to help lift the anchor or could I play safe for another day?
No such luck! Already he was making his way down the beach, followed by his wife and children. Orland, in full uniform for the occasion, was there too, with his wife and young son, scuttling any chance I had of not sailing. Tony came aboard and quickly pulled up the anchor and, on his return to the cockpit, I gave him the parcel I had made up for his family.
‘Adios, Leslie.’
‘Adios, Tony,’ I said, and then he was gone.
As I rounded the bend in the river, I looked back to wave farewell to my friends, a final glance at the kindly village of Tutóia, the home of Samaritans.