Free Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed by Les Powles Page B

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 afootball 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.
    â€˜Adios, Leslie.’
    â€˜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.

Chapter Three
The Hallelujah Chorus
    Tutóia – Fatu Hiva, Marquesas Islands
    November 1975 – May 1976

    Slowly we motored through the watery forest into a nightmare of shallow brown waters, waves breaking over the sandy islands that threatened our passage. I raised sail, trying to lift the keel by heeling but without