Cape Horn – Lymington
February – June 1981
Week 32 saw my dreams of rounding Cape Horn come true, six years after hitting the reef off Brazil, five-and-a-half years after the birth of the idea in Tahiti.
Wednesday, February 18th, 1981. Noon position. 57°30´S, 80°23´W. Sights are not good as sky changes every few seconds. Sun shoots through scurrying grey clouds. Changed up from storm to working jib this morning although winds very strong at times. We don’t want to go much further south as we are well into the extreme limit for icebergs. If we could pass Ramirez Island at this latitude all would be fine, 90 miles south of Cape Horn with 2,000 fathoms or more below our keel. Approximately 360 miles to go. Very, very cold on deck. It will be good to sail north into warmer seas.
Thursday, February 19th. Noon position 56°48´S, 77°41´W, some 290 miles from the Cape and 18 miles south of the Diego Ramirez Islands. Log shows 20,061 miles sailed non-stop. Light winds from the south so we have up a full main for the first time in days. Spent last night without my wet weather jacket. Hard to believe we are so close to the desolate Cape Horn in such conditions, with no winds howling in the rigging and the seas flat apart from a constant high swell. Temperatures up to 45°F so we have spent the morning with the carpets drying on the cockpit.
Friday, February 20th. Latitude 57°01´S, 60 miles further south than Cape Horn and we have just spent the night becalmed! I left up the main to stop our swaying in the swells. The chart shows that we have added only 30 miles in the past 24 hours. Now we have gusting southerlies Force 3 to 7 under a main with one reef and working jib. Engine turned by hand seems free enough. A look over our stern for the first time in many a day reveals a crop of goose barnacles that could give trouble. The cold seas are not killing them off as expected.
Saturday, February 21st. Lovely sailing yesterday afternoon on a bright blue sea under a bright blue sky. Winds went to the west Force 5. Gorgeous night with a full low moon, the sky covered with a carpet of stars. Two hours before dawn we ran into our present conditions when the winds died for three hours, then came back gusting from the north to north-east, anything from Force 4 to 7. Reaching under a main with two reefs and working jib occasionally luffing into the gusts on top of the waves. No visibility at times thanks to heavy rain so no sights today so far, but dead reckoning shows us 60 miles below Ramirez Island, with about 200 miles to reach Cape Horn’s longitude. And Rome’s parcel! Good sight for longitude during afternoon, which confirms our position. Clouds have cleared away. Should not have said anything – we’re back to black squalls!
Sunday, February 22nd. Strong squalls through the night reduced us to working jib only. Winds perfect this morning, Force 5 to 6 from the west, for doubly reefed main. Have been taking sights all morning, which confirm that we are still 60 miles clear of Ramirez Island. No noon sight. Winds have dropped and given way to rain and drizzly fog. Would have liked sights but at least we are well clear of land and lee shores. At one time I had considered closing Cape Horn but decided it was asking too much of our guardian angel. I would have welcomed a few photos to replace those I ruined, but Chichester nearly lost his yacht by cutting in too close so it is much safer to stay in these deep waters rather than risk the Horn’s shallows just for a few pictures.
1650 GMT. I believe Diego Ramirez is 90 miles and Cape Horn 150 miles north-east of us. With reasonable winds we should have reached Cape Horn’s longitude by tomorrow evening. At present becalmed in heavy rain.
1832 GMT. Our position 57°30´S, 70°55´W with winds again gusting from the west Force 5 to 6, higher in squalls. Only 75 miles to Ramirez’ longitude of 151°W. Shallow waters extend for 40 miles below these islands so our present position is fine.
Monday, February 23rd. Lowered main yesterday evening during fierce gusts. Sea remained quite flat so I had a peaceful night after all and winds dropped to Force 3 to 4. Awoke to heavy rain so after hoisting the main with one reef I spent the morning catching rain water for drinking and taking photographs of the operation.
1640 GMT. Noon position 57°03´S, 68°19´W. Distance run 20,380 miles. We are about 10 miles beyond Ramirez Island with 35 miles to go to reach Cape Horn’s longitude. Good conditions at the moment so with luck we should pass soon after dark. I have opened Rome’s parcel after cheating a bit. It’s such a glorious day I wanted to take some photographs, with their letter attached to the flagstaff. I have included Peter’s bottle of champagne by tying it to the pulpit rail.
2100 GMT. Further sight confirms previous position. Now only 16 miles to pass Cape Horn’s longitude. Solitaire is pointing due east on latitude 57°S, 60 miles below the Cape in a perfect position with 2,000 fathoms below our keel. Black squalls keep building up astern of us and passing through. How about the navigation? Must have improved since Brazil. Wish the cook could do as well. He dished up Bloody Rice again today.
Tuesday, February 24th. The end of our 33rd week at sea, 231 days in all. We passed Cape Horn at 0100 GMT this morning, 20,473 miles from home. Yesterday’s sunshine has turned into a mixture of gales dying to whispers, rain, fog, drizzle gusting back with squalls then storm force winds again and changing so quickly that I’m leaving up just the storm jib. Below, everything is wet and miserable. I have just taken off my socks for the first time in more than a week. My feet look like two dead cods and surprisingly white.
I knew something was missing but could not figure out what until I realised that I was minus my black toenails. When I turned the socks inside out I found them nestling at the bottom. I was now fleshless, toenail-less and my gums bled so badly that I would soon be toothless as well. What else I had to give before this voyage ended I shuddered to think. All I wanted now was to head north and sail into warmer seas, opening hatches and washing myself and clothes if only in boiled sea water. The thought of sitting in a sunny cockpit with cooling breezes that soothed my blistered, itching back was a dream of paradise. I could imagine a shrivelled old man with wrinkles around his eyes eating his daily rice with a gummy smile on his face.
There was no feeling of achievement, only gratitude that the seas had allowed Solitaire to pass over them without making too many demands, and relief that the oceans were now open to us. I had my celebration dinner on February 25th, the start of Solitaire’s 34th week at sea. We had been becalmed all morning following the previous day’s storms. The afternoon was like an English spring day, clear blue skies with a bite in the crystal air. As the carpets dried in the cockpit the temperature went up to 59°F. Solitaire started to make her way north with an escort of dolphins to welcome us back into the South Atlantic.
For that night’s dinner I reckoned on half a tin of meatballs accompanied by beans and finishing with a third of a tin of sponge cake. Between courses the instructions on the champagne were adhered to: not to be opened until Cape Horn is abaft the beam (although I wasn’t too sure what that meant).
The second part of the instructions – ‘for internal use only, contents to be consumed in one sitting’ – gave no problem. Following these orders I realised how warm and cosy the cabin had become. The saucepan’s water had boiled away and my tin of sponge was virtually glowing! In my inebriated condition I forgot about saving some of the sponge for the following day and scoffed the lot, and for a few hours drifted warmly in sleep until a screeching night awoke me. I staggered on deck into biting spume flying from the tops of freezing breaking seas. After reducing to the storm jib I returned to my damp, stinking prison, and lay shivering under a sodden sleeping bag.
With the broad Atlantic stretching ahead navigation was less important. Had I lost the last spinner on my trailing log, or had the portable radio packed up it would not now be too serious. We still had 8,000 miles to go before we reached Lymington, if the charts proved correct and we did not have too many calms. Provided the antifouling prevented our hull from turning into a wet sponge, we would make it home non-stop. All rather iffy.
Two days after rounding Cape Horn we were becalmed again. To sit for hours without movement watching my scant food supplies dwindle was stressful and only partially relieved by my remarks in the log.
It seems hard to believe but we are once more becalmed. Solitaire is lying with just her mainsail and one reef. For the second day we have waves and a high swell but we don’t have the most important ingredient, WIND. The red telltales are hanging straight down from the backstays like a girl’s skirts, our sails slamming back and forth with frustration. I wonder what the price of property is around here. Might pay us to rent a house while we’re sculling about. The log line is visible only for a few feet, dropping out of sight into the sea’s black depths. There must be some forward movement as we have progressed two miles in three-and-a-half hours. The Falkland Islands are 230 miles due north so at this speed we could be there next Christmas. After our celebration meal we are back to skipper’s choice: half a cup of rice, a third of a tin of peas with curry powder. Sounds bloody delicious. Bet you any money the cook serves up the dish again tomorrow. If we have wind – if – we will soon be sailing over the Burwood Bank where the ocean depth shelves from 2,000 fathoms to 40. Let’s hope the winds don’t about face. I would not fancy these shallow waters during a storm.
There were good days. On one I was looking over Solitaire’s stern when a whale surfaced. A few seconds earlier he would have certainly given us a lift in life. Near the Falklands I picked up some lovely music on the restricted medium wave, probably from Argentina as the announcer appeared to be speaking Spanish. All my old favourites, played by a string orchestra, came across: Tales from the Vienna Woods, Maria, and what seemed appropriate at the time, All the Lonely People.
We were carried over the Burwood Bank shallows by current and wave rather than by wind. At times the boat’s forward speed was faster than the following breeze, the mainsail backing itself so that for a few seconds the wind seemed to come over our bow. As we dropped off the shallows into the 1,000 fathom line we ran into a vicious storm and were thankful it had not arrived a day earlier. The rest of the week passed in a mixture of gales, storms and breaking seas, Solitaire dragging herself north to break the Southern Ocean’s icy grip.
On Monday, March 2nd, Solitaire slipped unnoticed past the Falkland Islands, 60 miles to the west. Only their local radio playing request music proved their existence. Next day we ran out of the Furious Fifties and fell off the end of our last decent chart. Now all we had for navigation was a pilot chart, which proved sufficient. The South Atlantic lay before us, its welcoming arms opening wide for a thousand miles.
Week 34 ended with the Falklands 185 miles in our wake, having logged 575 miles despite the calms, 21,117 miles in all, but it would be another week before Solitaire cleared the limit of the icebergs and the high storm areas. My log ended with good and bad news. The good news was that the temperature in Solitaire’s cabin topped 50°F, the bad was disguised in a few words: ‘Checked food supply. Not good’. In fact it was serious. As the food had disappeared from under the bunks the space had been filled by other pieces of equipment. My main food supply, the rice, was kept in a sealed bucket adjoining Rome’s last two parcels and such other food as remained was stored behind the main bunks.
Sometimes I failed to understand the speed of its disappearance, as if I were spending £5 notes and finding each was worth only two pence. No sooner had I broken into a fresh cache of food than it seemed to vanish, despite cutting down on my rations so that my bones cried out in protest. At one period I found I had more powdered milk than I needed for tea so I started mixing two spoonfuls of powdered milk, sugar, flour and water which turned out like soft toffee when fried. I would have a little of this at night and cut my rice to half a cup a day.
My last checks on the food supply took no time at all as once I had dropped the bunk backs every morsel of food aboard was in full view. Although we could be at sea for a further three months, hunger was not really all that important. There were millions of people who would have been grateful for a tithe of what I had; it was more a case of wanting to play my part in returning home and not lie on my bunk, too weak to help Solitaire on this last stage.
Over the months my attitude had changed frequently. As far as nerves were concerned the worst period had been from England down to the storm off the Cape of Good Hope. In a way I was lucky that it happened so early because, once it was over, it served as a reference point: we survived that one and this is not so bad so we’ll survive this one, too.
Week 35 started with a storm that brought some of the worst seas of the last stage. On the first day we had northerlies gusting up and down our nose. Solitaire was sailing reasonably into a fairly flat sea with a full main and working jib but just before dark, for no reason that I could explain, I felt uneasy and put two reefs in the main. Much later I awoke to a violent gale which, had I not reefed the mainsail before turning in, would surely have caused us serious damage. Next day the storm increased and I recorded: ‘Worst condition since Cape of Good Hope. Severe storm, squalls from the south-west reaching an all-time high. Bad cross-seas. Solitaire running on broad reach under storm jib.’
My attitude to this storm is shown by the fact that during its worst period I tied myself to the mast and spent an hour taking photographs. Every now and then I found I was standing without Solitaire, clinging to the mast. After an hour I gave up, having failed to take a decent picture. Below, wet sleeping bags and the usual smell of rancid cabbage, dirty clothes, and unwashed bodies greeted me. All I had to write about that was, ‘Oh well, things will improve further north’. Although I felt no great achievement in rounding Cape Horn the pressure of passing it before winter set in had disappeared. The worst of the voyage was behind us, the best to come.
By noon next day the gale had dropped and I even wrote about a beautiful afternoon, a clear sky and a sparkling sea with the temperature up to 59°F. For the first time in months I dropped the pram cover from the main hatch and removed stinking sea boots and socks.
Monday, March 9th was probably the best day of the voyage. We had been at sea for eight months covering 21,568 miles. The South American coast was 600 miles to the west. Our latitude was 43°06´S which left us only with 186 miles to go to clear the Roaring Forties. After opening up the forward hatch to flow fresh air through the cabin, I stripped off my filthy bloodstained clothes, boiled some seawater and washed all over, to the instant relief of my itching back. All mildewy or dirty clothing was put into a sealed bucket in which was a mixture of washing-up liquid and scented soap (for good measure).
With ropes attached I tossed the cabin carpets overboard to be washed in the world’s largest laundry, their brown water joining the brilliant blue and white one left by Solitaire.
The log summed up the voyage so far.
Let’s hope the worst is over. We have approximately 7,000 miles to go. The best I can expect is to be in Lymington by the end of May, another 80 days at sea. Solitaire is not as fast as when she left England. Her hull must be badly fouled and we have the doldrums still to pass through. With just two more strong headsails and the standing rigging reinforced we could have done so much better. The worst part was not, as I had expected, rounding Cape Horn but the storm off the Cape of Good Hope. Rome’s parcels have been lifesavers: without them I don’t know what I would have done and shall never be able to repay his kindness. I’m just sorry my performance as driver was not up to standard, something like 325 days for the round trip. Might have to emigrate to Brazil to hide my face.
Tuesday, March 10th saw the end of our 35th week at sea and another 595 miles. Used the number two genoa for the first time without having to watch it hawk-eyed. The log finished on a cheerful note: ‘Becalmed at present but having just heard the Budget on the BBC, being becalmed isn’t so bad after all!’ It was the last cheerful entry I made for some time as the calms continued where perfect sailing conditions were indicated.
Wednesday, March 11th. Dinner was a Roman orgy – tinned lamb stew! Should last two days but food really is a problem. I must start catching fish soon, which should help. No chance for a spinner now that Solitaire is barely moving.
Thursday, March 12th. Slow progress. Swell from the west pushes us forward a few feet now and again but a glorious day with a clear blue sky. Temperature 67°F. Water down to 15 gallons but food still the main problem and leftovers from yesterday’s stew will have to last two more days. Now have fishing line trailing over the stern, the last thing I want as I hate the thought of killing anything. Unless we make better progress a non-stop voyage will be difficult. Noon latitude 39°58´S. At last we are out of the Roaring Forties but still becalmed, sails slamming. We haven’t had a decent sail for four days.
Friday, March 13th. Becalmed until 0300 but good progress in the last 12 hours. Logged 67 miles.
Saturday March 14th. Becalmed again. I think the idea is to allow me to sail 60 miles a day and no more. Once the daily allowance has been achieved the wind goes on strike. If I don’t catch fish I can’t see my doing this trip non-stop. Perhaps I can ask a ship for supplies. This morning I inflated the dinghy while becalmed and cleaned the barnacles off Solitaire ’s hull although the swell made it difficult. We’ll try again further north.
Sunday, March 15th. Full gale from the north-east. Reduced to mainsail only with three reefs. Making no headway: we might even be pushed back towards Cape Horn.
Monday, March 16th. Yesterday’s storm could have been worse as we lost little ground. Now beating to NNW, Force 5 to 6 and risking our number two genoa in an attempt to make up lost time.
Tuesday, March 17th. Gale conditions have reduced us to working jib and 329 miles this week, the worst since leaving England. Feeling very depressed. I have 12 gallons of water remaining and 60 days’ rice allowing half a cup or so a day. I can cut no further and as it is am slowly turning into something dragged in by the cat. Today’s main meal will be rice with baked beans; yesterday’s was curry powder mixed with Marmite poured over half a cup of rice. Recently I have tried fishing without any luck. In these storms I’ve had to stay closed in again which doesn’t help. If I could catch more drinking water and a fish or two! I will try to pass through the doldrums to the Azores but must reckon on calling at St Helena or Ascension.
During week 37 we still progressed slowly and dinners were not quite up to Queen Elizabeth standards.
Wednesday, March 18th. Skipper’s choice: half a cup of rice, half a tin of peas and Marmite mixed with a little flour. Sounds bloody delicious. Bet the cook dishes up the same meal tomorrow. No luck with the fishing.
Thursday, March 19th. Worked on damaged toe rail and washed my smalls in boiled seawater as becalmed, which does allow one to do the odd job like building another yacht or celebrating your 100th birthday. I was right about the flaming cook: curried peas again.
Friday, March 20th. Another 400 miles should see us coming out of the high gale areas. Dinner today: half a small tin of spam, half a cup of rice with mustard. Yuk.
Saturday, March 21st. Dinner: finished the rest of the spam.
Sunday, March 22nd. Dinner: the human skeleton had baked beans and half a cup of rice but it is a glorious day with temperatures up to 76°F. Gorgeous to sit in the cockpit with the hot sun bleaching your bones. Fishing line out but no luck. Feel content despite shortages.
1500. Nearly caught my first fish, bright green and about 3ft long. I had it alongside for around ten minutes trying to get a loop of wire around its tail with a boat hook and pull a sail bag over it but it broke the hook and escaped. At least it proves my spinner and tackle work so maybe better luck tomorrow. Whoooopeeee, food!
Monday, March 23rd. A few squalls during the night, more a whisper on black velvet compared with the screams of the Southern Ocean, forced me to lower the main. No fish so settled for rice, half a tin of sliced green beans, flour and curry powder. Maybe cook will give me fish tomorrow... I could use the other half of the sliced beans.
Tuesday, March 24th. The end of week 37 with a run of 486 miles and another glorious day in the low 80s under a clear sky on a flat sea. A faint westerly barely fills main and genoa. If only I had food and water, life would be perfect. Solitaire is still the most beautiful lady in the world but her constant movement over the last months has worn down my flesh, leaving only muscle and bone, and I have to keep bracing myself against her movement even when asleep. A beautiful lady but she’s wearing me out. Dinner: beans, Marmite, curry, flour. And all there is left is hunger!
In week 38 we logged only 299 miles, the worst this voyage despite doing everything I could to increase speed. My old number one genoa I had saved for passing through the doldrums was hoisted but day after day the sail lay useless on deck. We kept up the main merely to reduce pitching and tossing. Thoroughly frustrated, I opened up the rear cockpit locker, breaking my fibreglassing, turned on the seacock and started the motor for the first time in many weeks. It ran effortlessly to charge the batteries for a couple of hours, then I switched it off to lie a-hull, rocking back and forth under a slapping main.
To vary my monotonous rice and curry powder diet I spread some toothpaste on rice and forced it down as my day’s ration; thereafter each time I cleaned my teeth I felt sick. Then I remembered that Annegret had given me a box of medicines and, sorting through it, found some throat lozenges which I treated myself to at the rate of one a day. Drinking water went down to 8 gallons so I cut my tea ration from three cups a day to three half-cups until I managed to catch 6 gallons, during a rain squall which put a stop to any water rationing. Intermittent calms and squalls gave problems with both old genoas and time after time I was caught with long repair jobs.
In week 39 the winds became more constant from astern and our daily runs increased from 80 to 125 miles, 668 miles in all by the week’s end. My spirits rose. Although my trailing line was now constantly in the water, the 9in spinner breaking the surface 100ft astern, I caught no fish. With the high temperatures and crystal waters you would have thought the ocean would be alive with flying fish, dolphins and sea birds but it was empty. Lack of wind could have been the reason for the absence of flying fish since a sea without constant wind is a death trap for them – perhaps they realised that if they dropped on deck I’d have ’em instantly.
Week 40 was one of the best as the winds continued to increase when we reached the south-east trades, and daily runs first touched and then surpassed 100 miles.
On Thursday, April 9th, we recorded our ninth month at sea and 23,638 miles, only another 5,000 to Lymington. On a glorious day with hardly a cloud Solitaire stretched her legs as we sailed past another landmark, Ascension Island, 900 miles to our east. Provided there were no major problems we would now reach the Azores, although we still had the doldrums to pass through. And I still had two of Rome’s parcels to look forward to. Solitaire was in good shape and my own health was not too bad, at least my skin was starting to tan and the blisters on my back had healed. We were progressing.
Friday, April 10th, saw us 600 miles from the Equator, and on my last parcel but one. Winds were a little light but Solitaire seemed content as flying fish started to appear, lifting in panic to splash back when their wings failed to gain lift in the zephyrs. Seated in the cockpit, two cushions protecting my fleshless posterior, I willed them to fall into our web of rigging and sails, weary flies for a starving spider. The spinner glinted appetisingly in Solitaire’s wake but attracted no takers.
Our radio, however, hauled in its own catch, gorging itself on the BBC’s overseas broadcasts. The American space shuttle epic was in progress, reducing Solitaire’s efforts to a stroll in the garden, but we shared a common aim: we were both reaching for the impossible and yet making it probable. I was content, despite settling for a dinner of... you guessed it... curry powder, peas and rice.
Next day, Saturday, April 11th, our position was 08°S, 28°53´W (480 miles to the Equator), having sailed 23,862 miles (112 in the past 24 hours). Winds were Force 3 to 4 from the east, and we were under full main and number one genoa. Solitaire made 5 to 6 knots on course. Spent morning repairing number two genoa. No luck with fishing so for dinner opened my last tin of sardines and rice, maybe the voyage’s last fish dish.
At 6pm I caught and photographed my first fish, a beauty. Food, bloody food! I was resting on my bunk conserving strength when I heard a scraping sound and lay awhile, trying to work out which part of the rigging was causing it, before staggering on deck to investigate. The fishing line was sawing back and forth across the top of the pushpit. The shock cord taking the initial strike was stretched to the limit, so grabbing a pair of heavy rubber gloves I started to haul in the line, which felt as if I had hooked a junior whale. When I had brought it within 20ft or so of the stern, I could see it was 3–4ft long. White and bright emerald green flashed as it twisted and dived, a starving man on one end of the line, a creature fighting for its life on the other. Slowly the hunger of the one overcame the will to live of the other until I had it alongside, holding its massive head out of the rushing water, staring into frightened eyes. How could I kill this beautiful creature, which would surely turn me into a cannibal! I would be eating my own kind and I knew I must not.
My fellow traveller metamorphosed from the most beautiful fish I had ever seen into fry pan potential, and my mouth filled with succulent juices which, overflowing, streamed from my lips. Lacking a gaff I feared he might be too heavy for me to pull on board and that he would escape, but I heaved him out with such force that he shot over my head to the bottom of the cockpit where he flapped and flounced, clinging to life. I grabbed him by the throat to strangle him with hands like claws but in this I failed, so dashed below for the biggest hammer I could find, scattering tools in all directions, before I killed him with one. Remorseless, I sat back as the beautiful greens faded to lifeless greys and learned something about myself: that when the choice lay between my hunger and another creature’s life, I would kill unhesitatingly.
Having hung the body on the backstays, I photographed and measured all 46in of it. Lord knows what it weighed as it was as thick as the top of one of my legs – before I started dieting. After removing its head and tail, I cut the rest into steaks, dropped them into buckets of fresh seawater, and selected two pieces, one to be left on deck to dry out for later, the other to fill my frying pan. Slowly it turned from grey to heavenly white food and, as I watched it, saliva streamed down my chin, although I managed to resist the compulsion to eat from the pan. Instead I dusted off my best plate and laid the fish upon it, ignoring the protests of my tormented stomach. The fish required a dressing to bring out its flavour so finding the remnants of some sherry, I splashed a few drops on the fish course and poured the rest into a glass which I topped with water to make a fine wine. The Queen, God bless her! I lifted the glass to check the wine’s colour, then smelt and tasted it before declaring it a vintage. Carefully I selected one of the larger flakes of steaming meat, then lay back as it dissolved in my mouth with a flavour never before experienced this side of heaven, the finest banquet, I decided, I would ever have.
For the first time in months I purred contentedly, satiated. One more thing would fill my cup: the aroma and taste of coffee. I had run out some time ago but located a jar with some dark stains in, filled it with boiling water and had my last wish, a delicious cup of coffee-coloured liquid.
The fish should have lasted a week but, fearful that it might go off, I gorged myself for three days, frying, baking and boiling it, and for the first time since leaving England ate three good meals a day. Had I known, I could have made it last longer, for after a few days the pieces I had kept in water grew slimy and started to smell, whereas the chunk left on deck to dry in the sun slowly turned white, looking for all the world as though it were frozen. Best of all there was no smell. Sliced in the frying pan with a tin of tomatoes, my last fish meal proved one of my better recipes.
Back on rice and curry powder I regretted I had not dried out more but, starvation apart, I resolved never to catch a fish again, still remembering the fading colours as the fish died. The smell of death lingered in Solitaire’s cockpit and fish scales would turn up in the most unlikely places for days to come. Solitaire’s main problem now was her passage through the fickle doldrums: if we were lucky enough to make a fast passage, there would be no need of further mayhem.
The effect of the three days’ feeding was dramatic. Bleeding gums, stomach pains, headaches, sore eyes and foul mouth vanished and if my body were still skeletal, at least now it could pull its own weight. With perfect sailing conditions it was bliss to laze in the sunny 80s, cooled by spray.
I had bouts of depression, worrying about my parents and my return to England with nothing in the world but the £60 I had left with, which would not last long as I owed the VAT on my new Lucas sails. Since I would not have spent a full year outside the country, the £60 had to be earmarked to clear that debt. Perhaps I would be allowed to see my family, then sail to the Channel Islands to finish out the year there. Also, I still had a court case awaiting me, the very thought of which sickened me. My chances of finding work would be slim, for who would want a 56-year-old electrical engineer who had spent the last six years at sea? On the dole it would be hard to look after Solitaire and get her back to sailing condition. I looked forward to seeing my friends aboard Solitaire; perhaps if I were lucky, being invited out to dinner, but that would be the limit of my social life. To go with a crowd to a pub for a drink would be out of the question: I could not stand my round.
England had no place for Solitaire and me. Had I been sponsored, things might have been different, but we had left unknown, without fuss, and were returning similarly. I had no yacht club; Solitaire and I were working-class misfits, our best hope to settle the court case quickly and sail before debts bogged us down. Some of Solitaire’s gear could be sold: I would no longer require two self-steering systems and if the worst came to the worst, I could sell the engine. Yes, I certainly had my moments of depression.
In week 40 we covered 772 miles in all, but the following week would be the important one. With luck it would see us through the dreaded doldrums and across the Equator. Luckless, we would spend days becalmed, watching our stores dwindle. We started well.
On Wednesday, April 15th, the day’s run was 120 miles, then the winds swung from south-east to north-east, a sure sign that we were leaving the constant southerlies to enter an area of uncertainty and confusion. My sextant recorded that we were just 29 miles south of the Equator. We must have been passing through one of the main Brazilian shipping lanes for during the day two ships passed down our side. That night one was in sight for hours before slipping astern of us and over the horizon, the thump thump of its engines echoing behind. After that I snuggled down in my sleeping bag for what I hoped would be a long rest, but black clouds racing across the sky brought strong winds and heavy rain.
My main concern was that for some time we had had two small islands, Sao Pedro and Sao Paulo, dancing on our bows. As they were only a few hundred feet high, they were difficult to see, but I was unwilling to spend too much time giving them a wide berth. I changed down to working jib, reefed the main and came hard on the wind.
By Thursday morning we were 40 miles due east of the islands. The wind first dropped (although there was still a sea running after the night’s squalls) then went back to the south-east, giving us a broad reach under full main and number two genoa. By noon we were 01°24´N, so despite the squalls we had covered 109 miles and were 84 miles above the Equator, Solitaire’s sixth crossing.
Friday, April 17th, was Good Friday. Although it meant opening two parcels close together, I needed to do it and then decide whether to pass through the high-pressure area of the Azores in the hope of stopping a small ship for supplies, or sail west, taking advantage of the current and the lower percentage of calms. I opened Rome’s last two parcels, one for crossing the Equator, the second for Easter, and indulged in half a tin of faggots and peas. Having read the letter accompanying the food, I changed it for the Cape Horn message pinned above the chart table, had chocolate for supper and watched the sun set while drinking a tin of Coca Cola, totally content. We had sufficient food to get us back to England non-stop, I reckoned.
By noon we were well and truly in the doldrums, with a hazy grey overcast sky whose light winds died by sunset. We drifted windlessly in to Saturday on a flat sea with the main hard in, not just to cut down our oscillation but also to alert passing ships to our presence.
Traffic grew so dense that I gave up thoughts of sleep and stayed on watch that night. Shortly after midnight a ship zigzagged towards us. Normally I show no lights as they seem to attract super-tankers like moths to a candle, but on this occasion I had no option. The effect of switching on my deck and running lights was instantaneous as the ship promptly turned towards us like a retriever wagging its tail, two searchlights bathing us in their brilliance. It is difficult to know what to do in these conditions: if you wave too much, they may think you need help; if you don’t wave at all, they may think you are too weak to do so and try to help anyway. Normally I wave until I’m sure they have seen me, then go below and watch from the porthole. In this case the light went out and the ship pulled away, whereupon I spent the next 30 minutes trying to close my eyes without seeing stars and flashing lights!
On Saturday, when we were 240 miles north of the Equator and becalmed, I sighted a larger vessel on the horizon. For some days I had been making up a chart of the voyage with messages asking that my family be contacted in England. I had tied these onto weighted pieces of rubber tubing in the hope that if I could get close enough to a ship it might be possible to toss them across.
After starting my engine we were spotted and the ship swung in our direction, passing down our port side 100–150 yards away, throwing up a decent bow wave. I held up my red ensign hoping our name would be reported to Lloyd’s. When well astern of us she started to turn on to what I assumed was her correct course but, instead, she completed the circle and steamed down our starboard side. When well ahead she swung across our bows and stopped engines. Appropriately enough she was the Lloyds of Rotterdam, registered in Rio de Janeiro.
She lay dead in the water, rolling back and forth in a high swell, her hull offering a good windbreak, so I started circling, each time closing the ship. Passengers looked down on us from every vantage point. I went within 40 yards of her then, as we were sucked closer to the towering side of the ship, I realised I could not safely make contact. The spreaders on Solitaire’s mast pointed like fingers about to be crushed against steel plates. In panic I pushed the throttle fully open, my heart missing a beat as the engine hesitated before we slowly drew away.
I made a few more passes, showed the flag and pointed to the name on our stern while the sun set in a blaze of colour. With a final wave I resumed course for home, hoping that we would be reported. I would have given much to let my family know I was safe but not at the expense of having Solitaire damaged in the process. We motored until dark when, with the ocean to ourselves, I shut down the engine to enjoy a night broken only by the crack of sleeping sails.
Sunday, April 19th, was spent going around in circles, sails constantly backing, the air full of vacuums and bad language. To prevent Solitaire running over the non-trailing log I hauled it aboard, but despite this and the confused conditions, we still managed to log 53 miles. Sights gave us a distance of 90 miles with another 300 to go before we cleared the doldrums and sailed into the North Atlantic. With luck we would then have 1,000 miles of easterly trades. That night we surged along under a full main and jenny.
Monday was a great day. With dawn the winds backed to NNE and dropped, enabling me to hoist the big number one genoa. I thought about spending the day fishing but discarded this idea when dancing dolphins surrounded us. Two ships came over to take a look at Solitaire and her performing circus, clapped briefly and departed. Having nothing better to do than relax contentedly, I tried to sum up our present position: the Azores were approximately 2,200 miles away and England another 1,800 miles, say 4,000 miles to Lymington. Provided our guardian angel looked after us for a further few weeks, we should make it non-stop. Even if I had to cut down my rations to a mouthful of rice a day we would still carry on, skirting the Azores to the west and leaving their high-pressure area to starboard. Temperatures hit 92°F. Man, Solitaire and sea sighed in luxygence, a harmony of luxury and indulgence.
Tuesday, April 21st, brought week 41 to a close. We had sailed 583 miles through the doldrums with far less trouble than I had dared to hope, the nor-nor-easterlies blowing at anything from Force 4 to 6. Still concerned about damage to the worn number two jenny, I tried sailing hard on the wind with reefed main and working jib, but clearly I was under-canvassed and would have to use the genoas even if they were sacrificed in the attempt for more speed to overcome the close chopping waves. Solitaire’s staccato steps of the Cha, Cha, Cha turned into a graceful, gliding waltz. Now and again a vicious wave would vent its anger and spray, filled with rainbows of a thousand colours, would shoot up from our bows before cooling the cockpit. At times mast and rigging would vibrate and the leech of the reefed main flutter. Solitaire would tremble and shake, matching her movements to the rhythm of wind and sea.
For a week she danced the miles away effortlessly, 878 by the end of week 42, our best run yet. Thanks to our speed through the doldrums, I thought I could risk increasing my third of a tin of soup or greens to half a cup and my rice from a half cup a day to two cups over three days. I had 10 gallons of water left – no worry there.
We still had to pass through the Azores high-pressure area when I could really start thinking ahead. Whether we could reach home by the end of May was a question that could be answered only when we had passed Flores, 1,100 miles to the north. Next day, Wednesday, April 28th, things worsened. I should have learned my lesson by now, not to take too much for granted. The log reports:
Over the past 24 hours our luck has changed. The seam on the leech of the number two genoa has ripped and the bottom piston hank has broken through its holding eye, cutting the luff rope. Islands of yellow and brown Sargasso weed have started to appear, promptly wrapping themselves around the self-steering rudder and forcing me to pull in the trailing log. The winds are still light from the north-east but the occasional squall prohibits our using the large number one genoa, so we ghost through a sea, half blue, half brown, chasing more wind.
I still felt cheerful. The number two jenny had lasted much longer than expected and, if the problem arose, was still repairable. But I would have to cut back to my old food rations, for there was no hope of fishing in this expanse of weed. Thursday was spent working on the jenny and by clearing weed from the self-steering blade, we managed to push 80 miles through the jungle of floating Sargasso.
By Friday morning the headsail was repaired and ready to offer a few more hours of its valuable time, at which point the wind died to a faint breeze, barely giving Solitaire steerage way. To make up for the slow progress, I had a celebratory ‘parcel’ dinner, half a tin each of pilchards and coleslaw, the closest thing I had had to fresh vegetables since South Africa. From the BBC I learned that a certain Bobby Sands was deliberately starving himself to death.
Saturday was gloriously sunny but we made only 16 miles in 24 frustrating hours.
Sunday, May 3rd. We still had 600 miles to go before clearing the high-pressure area. Although supposed to have only two per cent calms, we spent hour after hour rocking in great puddles of flat water, rising and falling with the islands of yellow weed. I started the motor, which at least charged the batteries as we found a path through the islands, jumping from one puddle to the next, the sails still flapping. Once more I cut my ration to half a cup a day, with a small tin of beans for luck today.
Monday, May 4th. In 24 hours Solitaire had moved only 10 miles through an oily sea with not a ripple on its surface. I hoisted the sails a dozen times but Solitaire was asleep. Dinner was half a tin of mixed vegetables and my rice ration. The entry for the day ended, as had so many, ‘Worried about Mom and Dad. I must get word to them somehow.’
Week 43 ended on Tuesday, May 5th, with a mere 395 miles on the clock and with another 670 to the island of Flores in the Azores, plus 1,700 for Lymington. Our chances of being home by the end of the month were fading and food was at a premium. Although I dared not risk losing more weight, I felt reasonably fit and since my fish banquet had no further problems with teeth and eyes. If I did not fancy climbing the mast, at least I felt I could – at a pinch.
Week 43 was depressing. On Wednesday I heard on the radio that the imprisoned Bobby Sands had died and remembered that I had been in Birmingham on the night that the IRA killed 22 young people there. I could feel no sympathy for him. Since the start of my voyage on July 8th, 1980, four leaders in their own fields had reached the top of the tree only to find there a pool of blood: John Lennon, ex-Beatle, shot and killed; President Sadat of Egypt, shot and killed; the Pope, shot; President Reagan, shot.
I had watched nine security guards accompany ex-President Ford around a golf course, condemned, as all presidents are, to being watched over for the rest of his life. Millionaires live in secluded fortresses and spend fortunes protecting their families; bank managers work all their lives to be rewarded with a gold watch and a first-class funeral. I wanted no part of their world, my epitaph read.
Dinner consisted of half a tin of beans with rice and it was while eating it that I heard that Bobby Sands had died of starvation. Bloody amateurs!
That Saturday, May 9th, I celebrated our tenth month at sea, sailing 26,368 miles, by deciding to wash my shoulder-length hair. I remembered that Annegret had been the last person to cut it before I left England and I hoped she might be the first to cut it on my return. With this in mind, as a treat I added tomatoes to the beans and rice before lying on my bunk to hear the Cup Final.
Next day the winds increased at the wrong time from the wrong direction. We were sitting on top of the mid-Atlantic ridge when clouds from the north raced over in evenly spaced banks and as the day wore on, the howling in the rigging started to revive old memories of air-raid warnings in the last war. The storm could not have come at a worse time. The seas that had travelled for a thousand miles now hit the shallow banks surrounding the Azores where Solitaire lay, burying her bow and running down her decks in gurgling rivers. I reduced sail first to storm jib with two reefs in the main, then just before dark, when I discovered that we were making no forward progress against advancing seas, to just the mainsail with three reefs, pointing into wind and weather but getting nowhere. Here the current flowed south, trying to take us back over hard-fought ground. Had we been 300 miles further north, we would have been in the homeward-flowing Gulf Stream.
The cook belatedly served up half a tin of chicken soup with rice to a crew close to mutiny. Each wave that slammed the boat was answered by a head thrust out of the hatch and an abusive flow of foul language. When another wave was about to sweep over us, I would hurriedly drop below and carry on the diatribe from the safety of my bunk.
The storm continued throughout Monday and Tuesday, when I managed a few poor sun sights, which indicated that we had been pushed back 31 miles over the last 48 hours. The trailing log for week 44 showed 421 miles covered when in fact we had made good only 390. And the blasted pilot charts showed no gales in our area! That I could live with, but the poor food situation and the beating Solitaire was taking were raw salt in my wounds. Not that I felt endangered or even threatened. There was little chance that Solitaire would capsize so late in our passage or that her equipment would let us down. I could make it non-stop, but my growing concern for my mother and father was rubbing my nerves raw.
Wednesday, May 13th, saw the start of week 45. ‘The storms have died down. I changed up to full genoa and main, then the winds fell away altogether to leave us rocking and rolling in a high swell. By noon we had logged 60 miles, which meant that we were precisely where we had been on Monday; time, food and effort wasted for nothing. One good thing about the high winds is that they have blown away most of the Sargasso weed. If we could start sailing again it would be possible to put out a fishing line.
That morning the first big turtle came drifting down Solitaire’s side, unaware of the hungry eyes watching it. I could very easily have reached down and patted him on the head, or slipped a rope around his neck. Turtle meat, I’m told, is delicious but as I looked upon its worried, wrinkled brow, I knew I could never kill it. So for dinner I had half a tin of mixed vegetables with rice, after which I wondered if I could catch the damned thing up.
Thursday, May 14th, was no better as we covered only 30 miles in 24 hours. I left up main and number one genoa and sat in the cockpit watching them slam back and forth, oblivious to their wear and tear. What with calms, northerly storms and southerly current, we had made hardly any progress in five days and the food position was now dangerous. I had 14 cups of rice left, which, if I cooked two cups to last three days, meant I would have rations for 21 days. Apart from rice I had six 15oz tins of mince, soup and goulash. A third of a tin a day would feed me for 18 days. Also I had two small tins of mixed fruit that I desperately tried to ignore. They were for emergencies. And I still had 30 tea bags left, with enough sugar and milk.
All in all I felt we could last another 21 days, after which I would have to go without. The sensible thing would be to call into Flores but, having got this far, I put aside the temptation: it had to be England non-stop now, so I would have to put up with starvation.
Friday, May 15th. At noon the Azores were 200 miles to the east and in another 80 miles we would pick up the east-flowing Gulf Stream. If becalmed after that, we would drift towards home and not back to Cape Horn. Dawn’s light winds strengthened to a westerly five and Solitaire started to stretch her legs with the smaller genoa. My fishing line found no takers although three or four turtles drifted by, looking so contented that I knew I could not hurt their feelings by catching, let alone eating, them. As we had made good 90 miles in the past 24 hours, I celebrated with goulash and rice.
Saturday, May 16th. Solitaire had covered 121 miles in the last 24 hours in mixed conditions: heavy rain, drizzle and sunshine. Fortunately the winds that gusted up to Force 7 were from astern and for which I reduced sail to our number two genoa by itself. Flores Island lay 120 miles east of us with Land’s End only another 1,500 miles away by crow. Having no wings Solitaire would most likely log 1,700 miles but I would pick up BBC local programmes (perhaps Radio Solent with their weather forecasts and lovely, lovely music) after another 1,000 miles or so. I finished off the goulash and rice.
During the night I had to change down to working jib as the fronts passing through were too strong for the weakened jenny, but Solitaire still surfed forward on the top of breaking waves. Temperatures were now in the low 60s and I was back to wearing sweaters and quilted trousers which, once more, were keeping my legs hothouse warm. ‘As I am on my last 5 gallons of water Solitaire’s floor is now unnaturally clear after so many months of clutter.’ Sunday night’s dinner consisted of a third of a tin of mince with rice.
Monday, May 18th, was bad. The fronts swept through from NNE to north and we made only 63 miles. The waves she rode yesterday now buried her bow with sheets of cold salt as she tried to stagger forward, halting, burying her hull and breaking free only to be submerged again. I had to put three reefs in the main and hoist the storm jib as the BBC reported that gales were sweeping England’s south coast. Then my rice deliberately jumped off the stove onto the deck, so dinner had to consist of mince, brown rice and gritty carpet.
We passed over Chaucer Bank on Tuesday when the winds dropped to 5 but with only 15 fathoms under our keel, the sea ran high accompanied by a heavy swell. Week 45 ended with a run of 572 miles.
Land’s End was 1,030 miles away on Wednesday, May 20th, but I smelt green fields despite spending the day under a grey overcast sky trying to place a misty sun on an indifferent horizon. As we cleared the shallows, the wind dropped, the sea flattened and Solitaire glided through banks of fog, a ghost ship returning from the dead. I started to tidy up, cleaned the cabin and heads, and found some yellow cloth with which to make a Q flag for the Customs man. Able to spare a little sugar and powdered milk, I fried it into a sticky toffee, not my favourite sweet but at least something to suck. For dinner I opened another tin of mince and took out my rationed third. Solitaire made 82 miles in silence.
Thursday, May 21st, saw us glide 113 miles, drifting in peace more or less in the middle of the Gulf Stream to Land’s End, 1,000 miles ahead. Dinner: mince and rice.
Friday, May 22nd, bit off another 121 miles despite a stormy night when I reduced to working jib only. During the morning the weather cleared, leaving a high swell behind, but the winds stayed around six and seven. I left Solitaire to do all the work while I sat contentedly below as we rolled along under the smaller jenny, thankful for the luxury of a following wind. For dinner, the last of the mince with, you guessed it, rice.
Saturday, May 23rd, saw us bowling along in rough seas under broken cloud, content to sit below out of the flying spray while Solitaire chopped 130 miles off our voyage under working jib. For dinner I had a change, one third of tinned beef and...
Sunday, May 24th. Gale force winds and high breaking waves made sights impossible but we made good progress with just the working jib on a broad reach. Log shows 125 miles in the last 24 hours. Dinner: guess.
Monday, May 25th. Squally winds from the north as we reached with working jib and three-reefed mainsail. I picked up the BBC last night and for the first time in nearly 11 months, actually heard a local English station. Batteries, like the crew, were nearly worn out. By day I could pick up Irish commercial stations, which proved we were in the right ocean, and managed some sights that confirmed yesterday’s dead reckoning. Dinner: minced beef and rice served with curry powder.
Tuesday, May 26th, saw the end of week 46 with 124 miles in the past 24 hours, 801 for the week, 27,856 in all, which Solitaire could have bettered with more help from me. We still had the working jib up with three-reefed main as the winds gusted from the north. Were I not so tired we could have been tearing along on a reach with a single reef. I was feeling the cold, perhaps because my blood was so thin. Better that I kept what strength I had for sailing up the English Channel, with its heavy shipping, even if we lost a few miles. Land’s End was now only 420 miles away. Soon I’d be with parents and friends, I thought – may they please feed me with anything but rice, bloody rice.
Wednesday, May 27th. The winds died during the night but still we managed 90 miles turning east for the English Channel. When I tried to start the motor that morning, I found the tank had rusted and lost 7 gallons of fuel. Luckily I had 8 gallons of diesel in plastic containers so I disconnected the fuel line from the tank and fed it directly into one container and, after bleeding the system, the motor started without fuss. The sky became hazy with a weak sun apologetically trying to force a way through. Warmly wrapped I settled in the cockpit listening to BBC music before starting my last tin of mince, after which I would have only rice, the chink in my armour.
Thursday, May 28th. Just before dark the wind strengthened and the main started to slam. Instead of dashing on deck I dithered and the sail’s seam ripped open just below a reefing point after 28,026 miles of constant use and only a few hundred miles from home. I replaced it with the mainsail from our first world voyage rather than waste time with a repair. Wednesday had not been one of our better days, what with the fuel tank and then the sail. Dinner consisted of curry powder on mince. Land’s End was now 240 miles away.
Friday, May 29th. Becalmed since dawn and all I have left is half a gallon of water, half a tin of mince and less than two cups of rice. And, unable to get them out of my thoughts, I’m worried sick about my family. All morning I have been trying to catch the attention of fishing boats for whom I have made up more messages and charts, asking them to contact my family. They come within a few hundred yards but when I start Solitaire ’s motor and try to close them, they pull away. After a few minutes’ chase I lose ground, switch off the engine and lie lonely in a world of mist and lifeless sea.
Dead reckoning shows Land’s End approximately 160 miles away bearing 075°, with Bishop Rock in the Scillies on the same bearing 30 miles closer. Had I a good directional radio there would have been no problem pinpointing our position as we were now well within range of British and French stations, but mine was playing up. There was a faint chance it might give some indication when close to the station and assist our Channel passage. For dinner, half a cup of rice with mince-and-curry-powder gravy.
Donning my warmest white sweater I sat in the cockpit while the boat idled on an oily sea, the only sound the faint rattle of her rigging caused by my own movements and disease. I was attracted by movement at the bow which at first I thought was a butterfly but, as it neared, I could see was a small land bird, black in colour with bright blue markings. For a while it performed acrobatics then, having sung for its supper, landed on the foredeck and walked towards me hesitantly, bowing shyly as if unsure of its reception. I slipped below for food, trying not to disturb Solitaire for fear of scaring away our visitor. There was little with which to tempt him but a few grains of rice and sugar, which I put on a piece of paper, filling a saucer with fresh water.
Back in the cockpit I feared it had flown away until its head popped from around the mast as though it had been playing hide and seek. The bird took an age to reach the cockpit, sometimes standing for minutes looking around, ignoring me completely. After gaining a few feet, it would scurry back in panic while I sat motionless. Reaching the cockpit it flew directly onto my knee from where it stared at me, head to one side, then ducked under my sweater and worked its way up until it lay above my heart, its own rapid beats demanding care and protection. Nothing could have made me move, neither storm nor tempest. For hour after hour I sat, unmoving, worried about my family but strangely comforted. For the first time in nearly 11 months, Solitaire and I were no longer alone.
Shortly before dark it came out of its hiding place and flew into the cabin. I put on the kettle and worried when the bird settled on its handle, as if still deprived of warmth. I made a nest of cotton wool and placed the food and water beside it.
Then a faint wind sprang up and as I hoisted main and genoa, Solitaire started moving, trying to hold a heading for home. With thoughts of more fishing boats in the area I switched on our running light, lay on my bunk and to the faint accompaniment of passing waters, slipped into a restful sleep. I awoke to find Solitaire’s cabin pitch black. The wind had strengthened and we were moving quickly but the sea was flat so nothing was straining. I checked our course and looked around for shipping before remembering my new shipmate. Finding a torch I searched the cabin, only to discover a fluffy mound on the chart table, head to one side, its eyes finally closed.
Saturday, May 30th. No noon sights possible. Since raising sail yesterday we have been beating hard on a Force 5 south-easterly through drizzle and fog, trying to head eastwards but slowly being pushed too far north. Despite being becalmed in the early stages, we have managed to log 100 miles in the past 24 hours and have also picked up faint RDF signals putting us 20 miles north-west of Bishop Rock, which means Solitaire will now have to sail 40 miles south in poorish conditions to round the Scillies. The winds are gusting and swinging a good deal with mist and rain, so visibility is minimal. Instead of cutting through the shipping lanes at right angles, we will be sailing down them. It’s going to be a bad night. To prove it, I dine on half a cup of rice and the last of the mince – with curry powder. All I have left now is half a cup of rice.
Sunday, May 31st. Some 87 miles logged in the past 24 hours but thanks to tacking back and forth, our forward progress has been only 40 miles. At noon we are 30 miles south of the Scilly Isles, becalmed and bewildered, sails sagging under a blanket of drizzle. For dinner, a quarter cup of rice mixed with sugar and powdered milk, which makes two mouthfuls. Thank goodness I can still enjoy a cup of tea.
Monday, June 1st. Logged 81 miles with more tacking into strong gusting winds from the ESE accompanied by heavy rain. Solitaire is sailing as close to the wind as possible but a short, choppy sea sends up sheets of spray. Water is now very short but unless I turn and run with the wind, there’s no way I can catch any. Noon position by faint RDF and dead reckoning shows us 10 miles beyond and 30 miles below Lizard Point, with Lymington less than 150 miles away. Both RDF and portable radio have heavy background noise, which suggests there’s a storm about. For dinner another quarter cup of rice mixed with curry powder to make a weak soup, a terrible recipe! Wind is still increasing as I try to round Prawle Point but, without tide tables, find it impossible to calculate the current. With luck I’ll be with friends and talking on the phone to Mom and Dad very soon. I propose lying alongside Lymington Town Quay until I have talked to Customs about the money I owe them.
Tuesday, June 2nd. At 0400 GMT Prawle Point light is flashing 5 miles due north and with dawn the outline of land appears, the first I have seen for 326 days. Since noon yesterday conditions have been ghastly and the radio is reporting the worst storms for 20 years with lightning turning night into day. Strong winds have died, only to allow heavy downpours of rain. Our deck and running lights vanish as a blinding zigzag flashes across a black sky, destroying my night vision. I imagine Solitaire being found at dawn, her mast struck by lightning, a burned, shrivelled figure at the tiller. My trailing log line was cut during the night and I had no spare, but we were only 90 miles from Lymington and once past the Portland Bill tide race, we could move inshore and follow the coastline.
Scenting she was nearly home, Solitaire moved effortlessly over a flat sea and as the wind fell, the mist lifted. Then Lyme Bay fell away from us and we could no longer see the land. As we neared Portland, the Royal Navy started to appear and a couple of submarines swept down our side. By noon we were 20 miles from Portland Bill but land was still invisible. Late that afternoon the wind dropped completely, the sun emerged and the mist lifted. For the first and only time in the English Channel I took a sun sight, which put us east of Portland, time to come on course for Lymington.
No matter what happened I wanted to be home the following day. For dinner I had eaten a spoonful of rice with powdered milk and sugar. Now there was nothing. As the sun set we picked up a faint breeze from the west and Solitaire crept home like a runaway child, uncertain of its reception.
My own feelings, too, were confused. I dreaded my return to bureaucracy with the problem of deciding how Solitaire and I should spend each day. Once alongside, and after phoning my parents, my every move would be controlled by strangers. Customs officials would see a battered salt-encrusted yacht with a skeleton trying to form words for the first time in nearly a year, trying to explain that he had no money with which to pay the duty on torn sails. They might feel sympathetic but, responsible to higher authority and books of rules and regulations, what could they do?
After that I would have to phone the solicitor. Had there been any way of avoiding courts I would have taken it, but I was in too deep. The best I could hope for now was that, since I had sailed non-stop around the world and proved my point about the rejected sails, the manufacturer might wish to settle out of court. If I could get back my money speedily and sell my spare self-steering gear, I could leave England for America in two to three months’ time. By August Solitaire and I might be free. Some time before I had decided that for my next voyage I would sail to Newport, Rhode Island, following the course Rome had taken on his transatlantic trip. After that I would sail down the inland waterway and cruise in Chesapeake Bay before setting out for Cape Town and the Christmas tree in Hobart Square.
I started the motor, reduced the throttle until it throbbed in a contented tick-over, and held a close-hauled course for the Needles, 25 miles away. The 3 knots we were making meant a dawn arrival. Perfect. I spent the night in the cockpit watching the shore lights to port and ships’ navigation lights to starboard. I was tired and the slow beat of the engine made me feel sufficiently secure to nod off from time to time, only to jerk upright. Just before the dawn I must have drifted into deep slumber for on awakening all signs of life had disappeared. Solitaire’s engine still held its constant beat as she pushed through banks of fog but our course had changed slightly, taking us farther south into the shipping lanes. Without a trailing log I had no idea how far we had travelled, but when I tried the RDF I heard a weak signal from St Catherine’s Point, halfway down the Isle of Wight, and decided to home in on it.
With dawn the sky lightened and the fog eased. When we broke out of one bank the white cliffs of St Catherine’s lay off our bow, and the greens and golds of patchwork fields greeted me for the first time in 329 days. In the small box-like homes ashore well-fed people drank water that flowed from taps, talking together with faces that showed love and kindness and caring. After so long with only the background noise of wind and sea and the expressionless front of a portable radio, we were close to the old sounds, of a footstep, the bark of a dog. When the wind blew, it would no longer start the blood racing; we would hear only the rustle of leaves in bending trees.
I turned Solitaire north-west, following the island’s shoreline to the Needles Channel 10 miles away. Tipping the last of my water into the kettle, I washed my face with some and boiled the rest to make a final cup of tea with my last tea bag. Now we had neither food nor water, just half a cup of sugar and a quarter tin of condensed milk.
From the Needles I turned into the Channel past Hurst Castle, where I dropped the mainsail and put on its sail cover, then stowed the headsail and sheets, making ready the berthing lines and fenders.
At 9.15am on Wednesday, June 3rd, 1981, Solitaire nodded to the line of buoys she had last seen on July 9th, 1980. I intended carrying on to the Town Quay, with its public mooring, but the thought of the people in Lymington Yacht Haven proved too tempting. As I neared the entrance I weakened, pushing over the tiller, and Solitaire swept down the lines of moored yachts towards the visitors’ berth.
A solitary figure awaited us. Keith Parris had been the last person I had spoken to when I left; it was appropriate he should be the first to welcome me home.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ was his greeting.
People were lining the upstairs’ balcony, many of them old friends. When I arrived in the office, they had already phoned Customs. The good news was that the VAT I had been worrying about since round Cape Horn was payable only on the sails’ value and, after a voyage around the world, that was nil.
As soon as practicable I rang my family. My father, over the moon, spoke first, having long since given me up for lost. Then I asked to speak to my mother, only to learn that she had died eight weeks earlier.
Keith gently wondered if there was anything my friends could do. They had all known about Mom, but not how to break the news to me. So I returned to Solitaire and made my last entry in the log:
Wednesday, June 3rd, 1981. 0915 GMT. The end of week 47 after 329 days and 28,496 miles at sea. Arrived Lymington Yacht Haven and learned that my mother has died.
Solitaire had shown me the world. Now I was lost.