Read Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed for Free Online Page B

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.
    â€˜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