VOYAGE OF THE YACHT " MISS FIDGET "
BY LIEUTENANT COLONEL R.A. PREEDY OBE RA (RTD)

For reasons which should become apparent, I intend to sketch only briefly the first part of this story.

In order to raise part of the £16,000 needed annually to operate our RNLI inshore lifeboat at St Agnes, Cornwall, I was due to leave St Agnes beach as part of the local Lifeboat Day on August 1984 to begin a single-handed double crossing of the Atlantic. The journey of some 12000 miles in my 26' Super Seal lifting keel sloop "MISS FIDGET" was likely to take 11 months via Spain, Portugal, Madeira, the Canaries, the West Indies and thence, via the USA inland waterway, back across the North Atlantic to St. Agnes.

Official start by 29 Commando Regiment

That at least was the plan. But after 6 weeks of unbroken fine weather the 0625 forecast on 4 August had other ideas. "Sole, Lundy, Fastnet, north westerly 5 to 7, backing westerly and increasing 7, possibly severe gale 9". To encounter this when already at sea would be one thing. To leave the relative security of St Ives Harbour and go looking for it would be quite another. So I waited until the weather changed and at 1400 on Saturday 6 August my voyage was officially started from St Agnes by a light gun of my old regiment, 29 Commando Regiment, Royal Artillery.

After two glorious days of beam reaching at 6 knots, frequent visits from dolphins and another from a school of whales, I eventually met up with a north easterly gale in South Finisterre which blew me the rest of the way across Biscay under storm jib alone. So it was that the morning of my fifth day at sea saw the coast of sunny Spain stretching away down the port side, while to starboard a large British yacht under full sail plus engine overhauled me to ask the way to Corunna! Sending him happily off northwards, I was soon lying to two anchors in the little harbour of Los Camarinas on the north west tip of Spain (easy entrance, pleasant fishing village, deep anchorage, basic shopping, no harbour charges).

Thick fog

I spent a full week at anchor, more to establish a proper domestic routine than to shelter from the strong winds. I completed the next leg to Beyara overnight in light airs and steadily worsening visibility and next morning felt my way cautiously in thick fog past the dangerous group of rocks guarding Vigo Bay to an anchorage opposite the embattled Club Nautico at Beyara (fairly crowded; pleasant, friendly club; no charge for lying to anchor, ample depth reasonably clean).

The next leg - to Leixoes in Portugal - was again a short one and I entered the inner marina just as dusk was falling. By next morning, however, I was sufficiently put off by the congestion and by the pronounced lavatorial smell to decide to seek local colour and carry on up the river Douro into Oporto. Together with SEA LARK a Rival 34 owned by a young couple from California, I spent the next three days alongside the town quay (rather dirty river, good security from thieves, no charge for lying alongside). Incidentally, the journey up river had involved negotiating a very narrow, winding sand-bar entrance against a four knot current, a manoeuvre made even more difficult by fog and by a dozen Portuguese boats fishing in the very neck of the entrance!

By now it was the end of August and time to head on south once more. I completed the 94 mile trip to Figuera da Foz in 21 hours and by 0200 was searching in vain for the two red lights that should have led me over the outer bar. Finally I gave up and without mishap followed a small fishing boat into the long, narrow entrance. It was at this precise moment that the entire local fishing fleet decided to leave port - and evidently they were late. For the next 5 minutes about 30 large, powerful, and very fast fishing boats surged past either side of me in the darkness with only inches to spare. Shaken but intact I moved gingerly on into the yacht basin to snatch a little sleep before dawn. In company with SEA LARK and a Canadian Contessa called TILIKUM II I spent the next day shopping and sightseeing. Returning to our boats at 4pm we were appalled to note visible evidence that an untreated sewer emptied straight into the yacht basin and decided to leave the next morning.

From Figuera to Nazare (a small harbour about 20 miles north east of the Berlingas Islands) is only 35 miles and we made a race of it. SEA LARK beat me by 250 yards with TILIKUM coming in ten minutes later.

Live artillery practice was going on ashore

The harbour at Nazare is, deep, clean, and very easy to enter. The town is outwardly attractive but very "touristy". After resting a day I set off alone on the last leg to Cascais, near Lisbon. It was another glorious sailing day and we were romping along the coast before a quartering F5 wind when a Portuguese frigate appeared and ordered me to clear the area. Apparently live artillery practice was going on ashore and the officer with the megaphone on the bridge wanted me to turn back northwards. Eventually, however he agreed to let me skirt the area to seaward. It was ironic really. In the early 70s I spent three years conducting live firing practice from St Albans Head and became well used to chasing yachts out of the area. The biter bit.

Well aware that Cascais can be very exposed in certain winds, I nevertheless spent a week there in perfect peace apart from occasional rolling (friendly and helpful Club Nautico, no charge for anchoring, bad epidemic of thieving, pleasant town geared to tourists). Then, poorer by one set of oars and a valuable nylon warp, I set off for Lagos on the Portuguese Algarve. This time the wind failed during the latter part of the trip and my 9.9 hp Evinrude had emptied two full tanks of fuel before we rounded Cape St Vincent. By way of compensation, however, I was extremely fortunate - earlier on when the north westerly wind was still blowing - to have the huge Argentinian sail training ship LIBERDAD overhaul me under 27 sails in the full blaze of a pink sunset. Quite unforgettable.

I stayed four days at Lagos (secure harbour, narrow but safe entrance, 10 feet minimum depth, pleasant tourist town, cheap shopping, no harbour charges) before starting the next lap - 470 miles out into the Atlantic to Porto Santo, a small island 35 miles north east of Madeira. This took me just three and a half days in absolutely glorious trade wind weather. Entering the bay at midnight I anchored off the jetty and went straight to sleep.

...a quite enchanting island

I reached Funchal, Madeira in time for tea. Altogether I spent 3 weeks in Madeira and you would only need to go there once to understand why. It is a quite enchanting island; perfect climate, staggering coastal and mountain scenery of infinite variety, luxuriant vegetation, pleasant lively people, relatively cheap shopping; it has everything. I stayed in the new marina which has excellent facilities and was very cheap at £1 per night.

And a rat-infested slipway!

I was extremely lucky whilst in Madeira to be able to get MISS FIDGET hauled onto a nearby, rat-infested slipway. Normally, there are no suitable cradles for keel boats but in my case, with the keel raised, I was able to use a local motor boat cradle. At the end of three days MISS FIDGET was back in the water again, her bottom scrubbed and anti-fouled. It had been hot, dirty and awkward work but now we were ready for the Atlantic. And the cost? For hauling out, use of the cradle and slipway for three days and re-launching, the total charge was £12.

From Madeira to Las Palmas, Gran Canaria took just under two and a half days via the Selvagen Islands, a small, desolate, barren group about 100 miles north of the Canaries. I reached the Selvagens by 1430 on the second day. Apart from a stone cairn on the highest point there was little other sign of human activity and none at all of the navigational light indicated on the chart (other boats, having passed at night, later confirmed this). Las Palmas, like any other large commercial port, is robust, sleazy and very, very oily. I stood it for three days until the worsening tidemark round the water line drove me south on Sunday, 15 October to Pesito Blanco; a tiny "dormitory" harbour tucked just behind the Mespalomas lighthouse.

The next port of call - only 5 miles along the coast - was Arguineguin (pronounced as in Michael Finnegan). Completely different in character, this is a Spanish fishing village untouched by tourism. There is a smaller inner harbour - which I did not use - and a very pleasant outer one offering ample depth of water and shelter from all but southerly winds. Here I spent three pleasant days without charge before being `moved on' by Las Palmas - based police patrol boat. No reason was given. Onward another five miles to Puerto Rico - again completely different in character. This relatively small tourist resort has two marinas, a beach (originally brought in by a lorry) hundreds of holiday apartments, a three-masted barque for day trips around the bay, some shops, many bars and thousands of tourists. Over all this the transistor radio reigns supreme, day and night.

...by far the strongest wind I have ever experienced...

I had been warned about the "wind tunnel" between Gran Canaria and Tenerife - and not without reason. The high peaks (up to 12000 feet) on either side of this 30 mile wide gap habitually produce gale force winds in the channel on one day in three and storm force 11 winds are by no means unknown. Fortunately, I noted in good time the ominous line of surf ahead and had shortened to No.1 jib and double reefed the main before things became really lively. There followed, for the next 6 hours, a very rough, wet and bumpy close reach at an average of 6 knots. By 1 pm, however, we were up to the lighthouse at the southern end of Tenerife where, suddenly, the wind dropped from F 7 to F 1. It was uncanny. Almost becalmed, I could look back over my shoulder to see and hear, not two hundred yards away, all the anger of a near gale. Relieved and relaxed, I motor-sailed on for about half a mile until I suddenly saw only three quarters of a mile away, a very severe disturbance on the surface of the water. A mass of white horses seemed to be spitting straight upwards into the air and as we got closer to this narrow strip of foam it looked as if the surface of the water itself was actually smoking. Then the wind hit us, setting up an unearthly low moaning in the rigging. It was only for fifteen seconds or so but I was very thankful indeed that we were pointing dead downwind. Had it been otherwise, I am certain that we would have been comprehensively knocked down. Without question it was by far the strongest wind I have ever experienced and I have still no idea what caused it.

An hour later we were lying to two anchors in Los Christianos. This is a very pleasant, albeit "touristy" town on the south coast. Although the harbour itself is quite large, much of it has to be kept clear to allow access to the large Gomera ferry. Hence the need for the two anchor rule to reduce swinging.

Two weeks later I left Los Christianos on Saturday, 3 November and crossed the 20 mile stretch of open sea to the tiny island of Gomera. Here, in San Sebastian harbour, Columbus had picked up water before finally leaving Europe for the new world. And now I was following suit. For some reason the water is much purer on Gomera than almost anywhere else in the Canaries.

...I set off at last for the West Indies

So it was that, at 1300 hours on Monday 5 November, under the scrutiny of a large stone statue of Jesus set on a nearby peak, MISS FIDGET and I set off at last for the West Indies. In my stomach the butterflies were doing nicely but the knowledge that I was about to realise a long-standing dream gradually helped to settle them down. During the first week at sea my basic tactics were to go as far south west as necessary - even as far as the Cape Verde islands - to ensure that I was well into the trade wind belt. Too often I had read accounts by those who had turned almost due west at their first encounter with the trades. As a result they had soon sailed out of them again to the north to spend many days becalmed. Anne Davidson came to mind. She was the first woman to cross the Atlantic single-handed, yet, it took her nearly ten weeks to do it, mainly as a result of staying too far north.

My main worry during that first week had been of calm. Quite apart from the extensive wind-shadow to leeward of the Canaries, I knew that I could easily meet with light winds for the first four or five days as others had done before me. However, I had not taken hurricane "Klaus" into account. Happily unknown to me, this - the last hurricane of the season - was centered about 700 miles north-east of Barbados when I started across the Atlantic; and I undoubtedly felt its effects. On two days at least I had to reef right down, while on three occasions I actually hove to. Nevertheless, what this unsettled weather lacked in warmth it made up in distance made good. Thus were laid the foundations of a fast crossing.

..I felt something odd happen in my lower back

By the first Sunday morning - nearly 6 days out - we had covered just over 700 miles. The Cape Verde islands were already abaft the beam and some 180 miles to the south east. Just after nine o'clock I prepared to take the first morning sight which together with a near transit, would give me my daily fix. Using my legs to steady me, I sat astride the top of the main hatchway and began a square search for the sun. Suddenly the boat did one of its occasional sharp lurches to port and as I jacknifed my body to retain balance I felt something odd happen in my lower back. The pain in my right leg started about two minutes later. Gradually over the next 45 minutes - and notwithstanding 2 pain killers - it grew from dull ache to something close to agony. Then, as I was really starting to panic, the pain receded again to be replaced by pins and needles. Half an hour later only the dull ache remained. I spent the rest of the day worrying, debating whether or not to cut and run for the Cape Verdes. In the end I decided against it. For one thing I was already sufficiently far downwind to face a really hard - perhaps impossible - beat to windward. For another, I was doubtful about my chances of obtaining expert treatment. So I carried on, taking two pain killers a day to help things along. I soon discovered that the pain could almost be eliminated if I kept my right leg above the rest of my body.

Later that day the trade wind arrived with its puffy white clouds, its lively blue sea; and by teatime I had set the poled-out genoa goose winged with the double reefed main. For the next eight days I touched neither sail nor tiller in what for me was the most marvelous sailing experience of my life. Now and then I adjusted the Navik self-steering a touch and twice I had to replace the rubber shock cord damping down tiller movement. But apart from this, my daily celestial navigation and my twice daily checks of sails, rigging, etc., I had little to do. Flying fish abounded and it was rare indeed not to find some on the deck each morning (The record one morning was 45 - very small, but still flying fish). Dolphins, however, were very scarce indeed. As for bird life, the only variation from stormy petrels and the occasional "brown backed" gull was provided by tropic birds. Altogether I was visited four times by these delicate looking creatures and greatly admired their coral-red beaks, and long white streamer tails.

My Stowe log packed up on Wednesday, 21 November. Pulling in the rotator, I discovered teeth marks round the end of the cable but my spare cable made no difference. Clearly, the trouble lay elsewhere. The log reading from Gomera was 1974 miles - about 800 miles to go - and from now on I would have to estimate my daily run, confirming it with the fix. In fact this proved much easier than it sounds and I was rarely more than 5 miles out in my guess. By now the weather had become rather unsettled again. Rain squalls began to occur and the wind, though still strong, began to vary in direction. Still, we were continuing to make excellent progress and I came to realise that we might well complete the crossing in 21 or 22 days; some five days less than I had estimated before leaving Gomera.

..within seconds I was lying on my back in agony...

The world fell apart the next day - on Thursday, 22 November. Just after 0800 I suddenly noticed an ominous-looking black cloud overhauling me fast on the starboard quarter. I just got the main secured to the boom when it hit us. Immediately we began to yaw wildly as the poled out genoa took the full force of the squall. Letting go the sheet, I went forward to unship the pole and drop the sail. I had just pushed the genoa down through the forehatch and was hanking on the No.1 jib when the pain in my leg came back. This time, however, there was no gradual build up and within seconds I was lying on my back in agony with my right leg propped up on the starboard lifeline.

...I rolled around the bunk, trying to control my panic

I cannot possibly put any accurate time-scale to what happened next. Suffice it to say that in due course I managed to hoist the sail and get below. There followed an experience which, even now, I find very painful to recall. Whatever I did, whatever position I adopted, nothing seemed able to diminish the quite agonizing pain in my leg. Altogether I took eight pain-killers in what I now judge to have been about two hours. Far too many, of course, but now I was way past caring. Bathed in sweat, I rolled around the bunk, trying to control my panic. Finally, in desperation, I reached for the SARBE beacon. The prospect of alerting the entire international search and rescue organisation appalled me - yet I could see no alternative. I ripped off the black plastic strip which prevents accidental activation and for a few minutes more just held it in my hand. Then either inspiration struck on its own or I had a little help from elsewhere. I found a strong strop - six feet of webbing in a continuous loop - and hung it from one of the levers securing the centre hatch in the top of the cabin. I then lay on the port bunk, raised my right leg into the loop and let the strop take the weight. Almost immediately the pain eased and after fifteen minutes it was under control for the first time.

By the end of 24 hours I had worked out the ground rules. I could spend just under two minutes out of the strop and no more. Twice I tried to be greedy by extending this period but each time I regretted it bitterly for the next fifteen minutes or so. Changing head sails took 3 separate sessions out of the strop - 4 if there was any snag. Sight taking also took 3 sessions; one to remove the sextant from its box and prepare it, one to get the sun close to the horizon and one to take three or four sights. I could then work the sights out in the strop. Making coffees - two sessions. Going to the toilet - one or two sessions (tricky). And so on.

A question of when tiredness would outweigh the dull pain

I didn't sleep at all on Thursday night and by dusk on Friday evening I was looking forward to making up for this. It seemed to be a question of when tiredness would outweigh the dull pain and I felt fairly certain that the balance would shift sometime during the coming night. Sure enough, by 0200 I was feeling very drowsy indeed. My eyes started to close................

I am in a large, completely bare room, dragging myself across the floor towards a single door set in the far wall. Once through this door and the pain will stop. I reach the door, open it and pass through. Another room, another door. Somewhere a faint voice is saying "Get your leg back into the strop!".

I set off across the second room, the pain worse, more insistent. No matter, this will be the one. Just get to the next door. Finally I do so, open it and pull myself through. Another room, another door. No room for disappointment, too much pain for that. Just concentrate on getting through the next door. This will be the one.

So it continues. More rooms, more doors, more pain, more depression. Can't be helped. Must keep going.

"Get your leg back in the strop!".

The voice is louder, clearer now. But it doesn't seem to be making any sense. My one overriding aim is to get through the next door. That's the only way I stop the pain.

"No! Get your leg back into the strop! That will stop the pain!".

I keep moving across the floor. "What strop, for God's sake?".

"The strop. You remember the stop. Get your leg back in the strop!".

"But I can't, not while I'm trying to reach the door."

"Forget the door. Concentrate on the strop. Wake yourself up, get your leg back into the strop and the pain will go!"

Little by little I come to realise where I am. I am in the cabin, writhing around on a port settee soaked in sweat. It is completely dark; it is night and the oil lamp has gone out. I try to collect my thoughts through a mist of pain. The strop, that's it. My leg is no longer suspended above me. It must have fallen out while I was asleep. I turn on my back, raise my right leg and feel for the strop in the darkness. After two or three misses my heel finally catches in the loop. The pain continues unabated but I am fully awake now and know that if I can just stay as I am it will soon start to ease off. Meanwhile I swallow two pain killers dry and try to relax the leg muscles.

By the time the pain has subsided enough for me to push it from the front of my mind, to think about the time and look at my watch, it is 0330 hours. I can hardly believe it. Was it really just over an hour ago that I began my search through the rooms of my nightmare?

I lay there counting off the long minutes until dawn

If I now recount this experience exactly as I remember it, it is not, you may legitimately suspect, for dramatic effect but because at the time it was so vivid, so unpleasant as to influence my subsequent actions quite significantly. Thus, as I lay there counting off the long minutes until dawn, I realised that, if I once fell asleep again, exactly the same thing could happen. At some stage, therefore, as the boat rolled, it would fall out again without actually waking me up. And then my nightmare would return to torment me. To be honest, I had to admit that I felt considerably more rested. So a little sleep was worth having. But not at that price. From now on I would stay awake, no matter what.

Thankfully, the dawn was clear and relatively quiet, with a lively trade wind freshening to force 5 or 6 soon after 0800. Later that morning I tried to get the BBC World Service. But it had been getting fainter every day and now I couldn't hear it at all. Then, just after midday, I tried to find Radio Barbados on medium wave. Seconds later, I was listening to someone interviewing shoppers in a furnishing store somewhere in Bridgetown, ending each interview by playing a record of their choice. This was followed by a Barbadian equivalent of "Grandstand" - an afternoon of live commentary on horse racing and cricket. Every ten minutes or so there would be a commercial break from which it was clear that Christmas in Barbados is even more commercialised than in the UK.

It is an indication of how slowly my brain was working that it was late afternoon before I even considered picking up the Barbados aero-beacon on the RDF. Granted that its range was only 200 miles but I was aware that most stations can be picked up, if inaccurately, well beyond their rated range. And so it proved. The moment I finished keying in 345 kcs the continuous signal came clearly through the headphones.

These contacts with Barbados raised my morale enormously, creating the comforting illusion that we were much closer to our goal than we actually were. In fact my sextant sight at 1410 local time had shown that we were still some 270 miles away. So we were not there yet by any means.

.....my subconcious was as worried about falling asleep as the rest of me.

I noted the approach with something close to dread. Another twelve hours of darkness were about to begin and now there was not even the prospect of sleep to break it up. In the event, however, the night proved to be much less of a trial than I feared. Not only did Radio Barbados provide a welcome diversion until nearly 0200 but, surprisingly, I had little or no trouble staying awake. I can only conclude that my subconscious was as worried about falling asleep as the rest of me. Yet to offset this I had to admit that I was now very tired. The slightest physical effort tended to tire me quickly, while I was finding it increasingly difficult to sustain my concentration. Never mind, with any sort of luck the coming night would be my last at sea.

Another fine, sunny day of steady trade wind followed. By now, though it had backed quite markedly and as the day wore on I realised from the RDF that we were being pushed more and more to the northwest of our course. This could be remedied, of course by coming off our dead run and going on to a broad port reach. But I resisted the idea. The wind might yet veer again in the next few hours and needless struggling with the booming-out pole was something I could do without. So I decided to leave things as they were until evening. Then, if the wind direction had still not changed, I could alter to a broad reach and head directly for Barbados on what would be MISS FIDGET's fastest point of sailing.

I had known for some time that my pain-killers were not going to last out. At my current reduced-rate of consumption I would swallow the last one just after midnight. That would help get me through the night. Thereafter I would have to rely on aspirin. Partly to take my mind off this problem, I decided to tackle another. Basic common sense dictated that, once night fell, I would have to maintain a proper watch in the cockpit. The noon sight at 1442 local time had shown that there were just 138 miles to go to Ragged Point on the east coast of Barbados. So we were not going to close the coast or even raise the light until well after dawn. Nevertheless the closer we came to land, the greater the chance of meeting up with other ships. Somehow or other I had to find a way of remaining in the cockpit. Repeated experiments during a hot, sunny afternoon eventually produced a solution. I found that lying at a certain angle along the top of the starboard cockpit locker with my right leg raised, bent and resting between two halliard winches on the cabin roof, I could sustain a tolerable watch position for up to an hour at a time. Better still - and somewhat to my surprise - I found that I only needed about 10 minutes in the strop below to recover.

The prospect of a 24 hour calm was too appalling to contemplate

As one source of worry faded, another appeared to replace it. As much as I had been trying to ignore the fact, the wind had undoubtedly dropped quite a bit during the early evening. The prospect of a 24 hour calm was too appalling to contemplate in my present state. But even light winds would be, to say the least, serious. In some way that I cannot explain I knew that I really couldn't go on much longer now without starting to lose contact with my surroundings. And that would be disastrous.

At dusk I trimmed the sails to put MISS FIDGET onto a broad port reach. Then just after dark I had to start the outboard engine. By then the main had started to slat to and fro, while the genoa was spilling its wind with every swell that passed. Thankfully, the engine started on the third pull - and this from a lying position on the starboard cockpit seat - and for the next hour we chugged on at 4 knots. At last, as I watched a substantial bank of cloud overtake us in the starlight, the breeze picked up once more.

It was just after this, as I was enjoying the quiet after the engine's noisy clatter, that I saw, for the first time in nineteen days, the lights of a ship. It was about 3 miles away on the port beam and for a fleeting moment I considered whether or not to try and stop her with a red flare. But I quickly rejected the idea. There was still quite a sea running despite the recent lull and I had a horrible vision of scraping MISS FIDGET's hull and spreaders along the side of the ship. And anyway, what did I expect her to do? Granted I could probably get some pain killers, but it wasn't worth the trouble. We were nearly there now.

Fortunately, after two or three more sessions under engine, the wind picked up convincingly soon after midnight and thereafter blew steadily throughout the rest of that seemingly endless night. By now the desire to go to sleep was almost overpowering, particularly when down in the cabin in the strop. It was just as well that I was spending most of the time in the cooler, breezier cockpit. At last, however, the first glimmerings of dawn appeared and soon after 0700 I was taking a final set of sights as the sun cleared the horizon. Just over 40 miles to go - about 7½ hours sailing at our present speed. Assuming that I sighted land about fifteen miles away, that ought to mean a landfall around noon.

Just after 1000 hours I passed out. It can't have been for long but it scared me. I can remember feeling a bit dizzy when filling the kettle for a cup of coffee. Then I got back in the strop while the kettle boiled. When the whistle went I got out again and was reaching for the coffee jar when the dizziness returned. The next thing I knew I was lying crumpled up on the floor. The coffee jar, thankfully still with its lid on, was rolling to and fro beside me, while the whistling noise in my ears was actually coming from the kettle, still boiling away on the stove. I pulled myself back into the bunk, leg aching badly. I realised that it was now very important indeed to get into Barbados as quickly as possible. Either that or stop the first ship I saw.

I spent that dull, cloudy morning alternating between cockpit and cabin looking ahead every 10 minutes or so for any sight of land. Noon came - 1300 - 1400 - still nothing. By now I was really worried. Clearly, I decided, there was something wrong with my sights - or even with the sextant itself. Otherwise I must have sighted land by now. Had I been more alert, more aware of my surroundings, I would undoubtedly have realised how poor the visibility had become. As it was, I could only conclude that we were still a long way from Barbados - a thought that brought me very close to despair.

Barbados at last!

Soon after 1400 I must actually have dozed off while lying in the cockpit. The next thing I knew, something wet was splashing my face. It was raining. I looked at my watch: 1445. I pulled myself up into an upright position and peered, blinking, at what lay ahead. For a few seconds I could see nothing. Then, as a rain squall up ahead moved away to the right, I saw it. Through the murk appeared the dark, blissfully solid bulk of the land. Barbados at last!

By 1500 I had identified Ragged Point, a low promontory pushing out into the sea about three miles dead ahead. After a quick look at the chart I realised that the shortest route to Bridgetown lay to the south of the island and altered course accordingly. Throughout that wet and windy afternoon we pushed on along the coast. By now I was close enough to pick out individual buildings, the ordered rows of green crops that I guessed were sugar canes.

It was close to dusk when the lights of Bridgetown appeared around the last headland. It would be pitch dark by the time I arrived. But I wasn't really worried. Once I reached the anchorage in Carlisle Bay I would be able to attract someone's attention - and my troubles would be over. Somebody else could worry about anchoring, getting me ashore, into hospital and so on. It was just not my problem.

I entered Carlisle Bay just after 1745. However, despite the hundreds of lights, the ships at anchor, I soon realised that the bay itself was deserted. Not a single boat was moving, not a single person could be seen. Never mind, I told myself, at least get the sails down. By the time I finish someone is bound to come along. Three quarters of an hour later - after periodic rests in the strop - the sails were down and stowed, the engine was on and we were ready to drop anchor. Still no one around. I moved forward cautiously under engine towards the beach. Thankfully, although the Admiralty chart gave no real clue to where the anchorage was, I also had a photocopy of a sketch plan taken from a French magazine. This gave seemingly undue prominence to the location of the Holiday Inn - and now I realised why. It lay right at the water's edge exactly opposite the anchorage and now I identified the huge green neon sign easily. Gradually the black silhouettes of motor launches and small yachts appeared ahead against a backdrop of shore lights. I chose an empty space about 300 yards offshore and dropped anchor at 1830 precisely. Although I didn't know it then, I had sailed 2773 miles in 21 days and 6 hours. This meant an average speed of 5.4 knots and an average daily run of just over 130 miles.

Even now, though, there was still no sign of movement anywhere and I finally realised that this little drama was going to play itself out to the bitter end. For the next 15 minutes I stowed below all the attractive items that would otherwise be stolen, before dragging my collapsible dinghy from below and assembling it. Here again, a job that would normally have taken less than 5 minutes now took over 20 to complete.

Still no one around. Yet in a perverse way I was almost glad. At least I would have the satisfaction of getting into port and ashore unaided. Even now, though, one more hurdle lay ahead. Presumably because of the physical exertion involved in rowing, I found that my useful working time was reduced to less than one minute, at the end of which I had to flop backward into the bottom of the dinghy with my right leg propped against the side. Altogether it took about 12 sessions of rowing. Then, at last I was right alongside the pier of the Holiday Inn, with the beach only yards away. I made one final effort before the wave surge picked up the boat and swept me ashore onto the steeply shelving beach.

"You do have another boat besides that dinghy?"

I called out to a group of people I could see enjoying Monday evening drinks on the patio of the Holiday Inn. Moments later a large, bearded man had run across to me. I soon discovered that he was an American doctor on holiday. That was fortunate because he was able quickly to assess my condition and seconds later had asked someone to call an ambulance.

"Excuse me asking" he said hesitantly as we waited, "but you do have another boat besides that dinghy, don't you?"

I laughed despite myself. He obviously suspected that I might have crossed the Atlantic in a six foot collapsible dinghy.

Twenty minutes later, at 1930 precisely, I was wheeled on a trolley through the entrance of the Queen Elizabeth hospital. It was immediately apparent that the hospital was packed with people. At the time I was delighted to see them but as yet the full significance of seeing so many had not dawned on me. I was parked at the side of a long corridor. Looking ahead I counted at least twenty more parked trolleys, each with a patient aboard.

If I had expected to receive instant attention, I soon realised my mistake. By 2000 hours the queue of trolleys had hardly moved at all, while by 2100 I had still only moved up some seven or eight places. The pain in my leg was now very bad indeed. I had been taking aspirin - a poor substitute for Paramol - since 0300, while the effort of keeping my unsupported leg in the air only made things worse.

For some reason the queue did not advance at all between 2100 and 2200. I decided I had to do something. After several attempts I managed to waylay a chubby be-spectacled black sister as she came hurrying by.

"Yes, I know you've been waiting a long time" she said "but we are very busy I'm afraid we've had a lot of trauma cases this evening - traffic accidents and so on. The doctor has just had to attend to them first."

"Can you give me any idea of how long it will be before .........."

"No. I'm sorry but I just couldn't say" she replied.

"In that case, I wonder if I could have some pain killers?" I asked. "I'm in a lot of pain and the last one I took at 3 o'clock this morning."

"No, I can't do that" she said, not without sympathy. "We are not allowed to administer medicines of any kind at this stage in case it interferes with any treatment the doctor may decide on."

Even as she said it I realised her decision was undoubtedly the correct one, however hard she may have found it to refuse me. But now it was nearly 2230 and I knew something had to be done. I had one more card to play - contact Ted Sworder, the Royal Naval Sailing Association Liaison Officer in Barbados. I had written to Commander Sworder to explain my plans before leaving the UK and once again from the Canaries. Yet so far there had seemed no point in disturbing them. After all, my only aim had been to get to hospital. Now, however, things were different. I was nearly at the end of my rope and the prospect of enduring this pain until at least the early hours of the morning was just too appalling to accept. I needed help.

At the far end of the corridor a sister was busy with paper work at a small wooden desk surrounded by people. After five minutes persuasion - most of it spent lying on the floor she let me use the telephone.

"This is Peggy Sworder speaking" said a pleasant, confident American voice .

From that moment things began to get distinctly better. Ten minutes later Ted Sworder drove up to the hospital to find me lying in the corridor with my leg against the wall. It took him just two minutes to speak to a sister, size up the situation at the hospital and decide to take me back to his house. We were soon there and I staggered up the stairs into the Sworders' pleasant seaside apartment. Peggy quickly rang a doctor friend who prescribed four Panadol and asked to see me next morning.

After the pills, a marvellous cup of coffee and a cigarette I was ready for bed in the Sworders' empty holiday flat on the ground floor. I tried to thank Peggy before going downstairs with Ted but she cut me short.

"You know" she said in her beautifully dry, humourous way "I guess this is the first time I have ever held a conversation in my own house with a strange man who was lying on the floor - sober!"

I could not possibly list the hundreds of things that Ted and Peggy Sworder did for me during the next nine days but at least I can mention a few. Peggy cooked most of my meals which Ted brought down to me on a tray (I had rented the downstairs flat from them). Peggy washed my clothes. They took me in the car for my visits to the doctor. They did my shopping. And so on. Most of all, they kept my morale up with their cheerfulness and irrepressible good humour.

Dr. Gale was a very able general practitioner with, fortunately for me, a particular interest in neurology. He quickly diagnosed a slipped disc and explained that my right leg was reacting to a "referred" pain caused by the disc pinching the sciatic nerve in my lower back. He also explained the potential danger to my spinal cord and the dire consequences that would follow any further displacement. After trying two prolonged epidural sessions, involving the injection of cortisone into the nerve endings in my lower back, he noted without surprise that it did little to relieve the pain and advised me strongly to return to the UK for further treatment, including, if necessary, an operation. He advised me equally strongly against having it done in Barbados.

Once again the Sworders swung into action. It happened that HMS BROADSWORD and RFA OLNA were briefly in Bridgetown en route from the Falklands to the UK for Christmas. Despite the fact that both Ted and Peggy were heavily involved with the social activities surrounding the visit - some of it at Peggy's own house - they were quite tireless in trying to arrange for me to return to the UK on board one of the ships. Then we learnt that both ships would be at sea in the North Atlantic for another fortnight before reaching Devonport - not recommended treatment for a slipped disc. Nothing daunted, Ted then set about arranging for me to return to the UK by air on a British West Indian Airways DC5. There followed hours more work for him in sorting out my bank draft from the UK to pay for the 3 seats required for the stretcher, cashing travellers cheques, etc., etc. Fortunately, I had taken out medical insurance before leaving the UK.

All of this would have been a creditable effort from a young married couple in their thirties . Yet not only were Ted and Peggy both getting on in life, but they both had a history of heart trouble. Now, perhaps, you begin to realise why I found it so difficult to thank them.
As I write this on New Year's Eve I am still in Devonport Naval Hospital. The slipped disc has been confirmed. Prolonged traction has brought about some improvement but it looks as though surgery may yet be necessary. Time will tell.

MISS FIDGET, of course, is still in Barbados, lying safely to two anchors in front of the Sworders' house. I don't think she'll come to much harm from wind or weather but the risk of burglary worries me, I confess. Still, that can't be helped.

Provided the back mends, I firmly intend to return to Barbados to complete my voyage for the RNLI. In the meantime I can only say that if other RNSA LOs are anything like as dedicated as Ted and Peggy Sworder, then the RNSA is fortunate indeed. I know I was.

After five weeks of traction in the Naval Hospital at Devenport Ron flew back to Barbados where he found `Miss Fidget' still lying happily at anchor where he had left her. He sailed her up through the West Indies, along the American intracoastal waterway to Norfolk, Virginia and from there back to St Agnes, Cornwall. A truly epic voyage.