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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 screechingwind, 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 untilI 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