SOLO

Author's note: The following log is about a recent solo adventure. I have taken for granted that you, the reader know a bit of not-so-recent history which makes this not so much an article but an ongoing story, so I think it best to take a quick moment to clarify a few points and names that otherwise might be confusing: Luke Henderson and I sailed his sloop "Shangri-la" to Cape Horn this past July and August. After that trip I left Luke in Ushuaia, at the bottom of Argentina to return to my own yacht Saoirse in Phuket, Thailand. Luke sailed by himself up the coast to Mar De Plata, Argentina and further on to Santos, Brazil this past October. Tiring of solo sailing and his girlfriend's reasonable pleas to get his ass home after almost a year of wandering on Shangri-la Luke asked me to get his yacht to the Caribbean. 33 days alone at sea and some comical shore side delays were the result of my accepting his request.

It couldn't have started any worse. And it couldn't have gotten any worse. But it did.

Phuket to Bangkok to Amsterdam. Check. Amsterdam to Sao Paulo. Problem. In all my preparations for my first long solo sail from Santos, Brazil to St. Maarten, Caribbean I forgot the most basic need: a visa. So on arrival in Sao Paulo, the world's third largest city immigration was not deterred by my excuses, wooed by my flirtations, or finally sympathetic to my cries. While Luke and my delivery job waited for me in baggage claim I was put in line to board the exact same plane I had just walked off back to Amsterdam, where I would have to obtain a proper visa and purchase another ticket back to Sao Paulo. Disgusted with my incompetence I was determined to find a better way, which I thankfully did, but in retrospect Amsterdam would have been the better option. Immigration allowed me to purchase a ridiculously priced last minute one way fare to Buenos Aires, Argentina, a much shorter flight than Amsterdam, and Buenos Aires was a city I was familiar with, which I thought would be valuable. A kindly official made the trek to baggage claim to tell Luke what an idiot I was and I boarded a late night flight to Argentina. By the time I made it to the city via taxi I took the first hotel the driver recommended and crashed around 4 a.m., thoughts of immediate procurement of a visa and return to Sao Paulo in the morning. But the fun was just starting.

I woke at 8 a.m., feeling jet lagged and not a little embarrassed after the night's antics and thought the first priority would be to email Luke and my family to let them know what country I was in and when I hoped to return to the original plan of sailing to the Caribbean. As luck would have it, an internet café (locutorio) sat just adjacent to my hotel. I plopped down at the first terminal, began writing apologetic emails and got a stiff arm to my right shoulder. Two guys were "fighting" two terminals to my right, which was unfortunate because my attention was now on them, while my backpack with everything I owned was on my left, now making a quick departure with another two guys who would no doubt be sharing the plunder with the two "fighters" shortly. Luckily I had my wallet and passport in my pocket, but I sorrowfully said goodbye to camera, full backup of everything on my laptop (yep, every password and bank account detail), cell phone, all of Jody's photo CD's, favorite cloths, and all the other tiny but important things remembered as the days go by. So after a bit of cussing I sat back down and began wracking my brain to change passwords and other account details, then made the long walk to the Brazilian consulate. The consulate didn't like the look of my passport (too "used" looking), so across town (it's a big town, Buenos Aires) to the familiar faces of the US embassy. I say familiar because it was only last June I had to obtain an emergency passport from the same office after having my passport stolen at the airport. Lesson- watch your shit in Buenos Aires. My second emergency passport would be ready tomorrow (the embassy only works until noon). Well, I hadn't planned on being able to enjoy a terrific Argentine steak on this trip as well as practice my Spanish, so now was the time. Luckily, flirting did work the next day back at the Brazilian consulate and I talked them into giving me a visa that day, instead of the usual 3 business day wait, which would have set me back another 5 days over the weekend. So back to Sao Paulo I flew after just two nights in town with nothing but a passport, airplane ticket and a stick of deodorant.

Santos is a busy gluttonous tourist city on the coast just 45 minutes from Sao Paulo. With any luck a day of provisioning and a day or two getting Shangri-la ready to go and I'd be on my way. Ah but luck, she would not be on my side. Luke and I arrived on Thursday afternoon. We promptly did all my dry-goods provisioning (enough for 2 months at sea) that afternoon and dropped Shangri-la back into the water (she was on the hardstand) the next morning. We spent the rest of Friday going over everything that Luke knew needed attention as well as getting me re-acquainted with her safety gear as I had forgotten much since our trip to Cape Horn. After dropping Luke at the airport on Saturday I spent the weekend buying fresh provisions, bought a few t-shirts and sun hat, and fixed a small engine problem and a few other bits and bobs, planning a Monday departure. Monday turned to Tuesday as 8 hours proved too little time to accomplish getting clearance from the Federales and a stamp in my passport. The hours of Tuesday began funneling away in same and I finally gave up on my passport stamp altogether. It was time to go sailing. I'd been dreaming of this day for months and I couldn't wait any longer. I said emotional goodbyes to the wonderful people at the marina (emotional for me- they were the last people I knew I'd see for a long time), who had been so helpful and who all thought I was completely insane. I fired up the engine, ran around like a seasoned solo veteran shoring off the mooring lines (heart beating like it was my first time at sea) and made it exactly one hour out before returning to the marina. Shangri-la has no autopilot and is steered either by hand or by wind vane. Being solo steering by hand is not an option, especially when undertaking a passage of nearly 4,000 miles, so the wind vane is critical. Luke had hoped to replace it before my departure, knowing it was on its last legs, but we both thought it would get me through. We were wrong. So I puttered dejectedly back to my friends at the marina.

We had the vane welded and fixed by the next day, as well as a newly installed tiller pilot which could steer the wind vane when there was no wind, giving me a poor man's autopilot when we were motoring. This time out there were no tears, just jubilation- I was finally underway! Then the engine conked out upon clearing the main channel, about two hours out of port. I was on a lee shore; a nasty squall was headed my way, so I decided to return- again. I sailed back into the main channel, frantically ran around hooking the chain back onto the anchor and figuring out how the windlass worked (wasn't planning on using either) and anchored under sail exhausted sometime after midnight. A more spiritual person would be distressed at all the bad omens lying before me, but I refused to be dissuaded. I was getting this boat to the Caribbean. I just wasn't leaving today.

My third time out of port, some 10 days after my arrival in Brazil was finally the real deal. So began one of the more difficult, boring, trying, easy, slow, interesting and ultimately strange periods of my life I've lived. The passage took 33 days and covered almost 4,800 miles, almost 2,000 longer than any I've sailed thus far in one go. Much of it was unbearably hot and the first two weeks excruciatingly slow against wind and current. In one 24 hour period I made 6 miles good, which is a brutal blow to a healthy ego. On another stretch I hardly touched the sails for 2 weeks, averaging 7.5 knots, which was incredible considering Shangri-la is hardly a fast 36' steel boat. I have forever been intrigued with the likes of Slocum, Knox-Johnson, Moitessier; sailor's who've spent ages longer at sea than I did- and I still am. But I am now convinced they and their like are completely mad. To spend that kind of time at sea alone is to swim in your own thoughts unnecessarily deep. While I am proud of my small achievement and happy to have experienced isolation in this form I will not jump to do it again. But I will remember with joy those nights howling like a crazed wolf at the moon; the deep purple of the Atlantic at sunrise; the dolphins who paid me a much-needed visit on a still day in the middle of nowhere after the engine bit the dust permanently on day 14; and my one contact with man as I sailed by the bewildered crew of an oil tanker naked, waving like a lunatic. It was a world of my own, to have in my own way and that is something special indeed.

I've been back in the "real" world now for a couple weeks. I have lists of things to do which never cease, my body desperately needs fitness, TV boggles and depresses my mind and food in every form simply spectacular. I thought coming back would move me in some way but it hasn't. How does it feel to be back in society? The same as it did before I suppose. Like it's all moving too fast.

Phuket, Thailand, March 2006