SAILOR SOLDIER LOVER

Adventures of a Twice Around Solo Navigator

by Lon Bram and Ron Llewellyn

Copyright 2008 Lon Bram and Ron Llewellyn.

Smashwords Edition

All Rights Reserved

This book is dedicated to Elizabeth (Lizzie) Simon Stone a fine yachtswoman lovingly known as “Araldite” for her reluctance to pass the helm over to the next watch.

Contents

CHAPTER I - 2nd Circumnavigation:

Force 12 hurricane; capsized near Cape Horn; devastation, broken mast and rigging; desperate pumping; manage to start engine but lose liferaft.

CHAPTER II - Flashback to Vanuatu

Romantic episode in the South Pacific

CHAPTER III - 1st Circumnavigation:

Flashback to planning the first circumnavigation.

CHAPTER IV - 1st Circumnavigation:

Start of Ron's first circumnavigation

CHAPTER V - 1st Circumnavigation:

Darwin to South Africa

CHAPTER VI-2nd Circumnavigation:

Ron decides to  motor his broken yacht around Cape Horn rather than tangle with the Chilean Navy; anchors in Bahia Aguirre at the eastern end of the Beagle Canal

CHAPTER VII-2nd Circumnavigation:

Flashback to start; Sula casts off from Australia, storms & broken gear; southwards to New Zealand

CHAPTER VIII -1st Circumnavigation

Flashback; nightmares on the long trek from South Africa to Brazil

CHAPTER IX -2nd Circumnavigation

Stubborn treck towards the redoubtable Cape Horn and the shelter of mysterious Tierra del Fuego.

CHAPTER X -2nd Circumnavigation

Through Tierra del Fuego and the Beagle Canal to the world’s most southern city, Ushuaia; recalling personality changing early traumas

CHAPTER XI-1st Circumnavigation

Flashback; from St Helena in the middle of the South Atlantic to a hedonistic time in Brazil.

CHAPTER XII - 1st Circumnavigation

Flashback; getting acquainted with the exciting underbelly of the Caribbean

CHAPTER XIII -1st Circumnavigation:

Flashback; transiting the Panama Canal or How to Hop Safely Between Two Great Oceans

CHAPTER XIV-2nd Circumnavigation:

From frozen Ushuaia to the delights of Mar del Plata and the multifaceted excitement of Argentina

CHAPTER XV -2nd Circumnavigation

Nightmare crossing, back in Brazil and falling in love with gorgeous Magdalena

CHAPTER XVI -1st Circumnavigation

Flashback; 4000-mile Pacific Ocean crossing while tasting the sweet fragrance of swaying palms and admiring the undulating hula skirts.

CHAPTER XVII -2nd Circumnavigation:

Finally anchored in a secluded bay in Brazil, Ron is welcomed by the dusky beauties of Bahia.

EPILOGUE-2nd Circumnavigation:

Between superbly contoured Elvira and fetchingly pretty Marli will Ron ever return to Australia?

ILLUSTRATIONS--Index to illustrations

The Authors:

- Lon Bram

- Ron Llewellyn

CHAPTER I

At midnight on February 4 2005, on the second solo circum navigation of the world, on his-43-foot yacht SULA, Ron Llewellyn was hit by a massive, rogue wave the noise and power of which remains for ever carved in his psyche.

In the wild Southern Ocean, 375 miles west of the ship-hungry Cape Horn, 54 years old Ron felt the boat being forced sideways and continuing to roll until she was completely upside down. With the rushing sound of ice sliding down a chute, freezing water was rising around him.

Above, through the sea that closed like a heavy curtain around Sula’s hull he could still hear the muffled roar of the savage storm.

A perennial dare-all type, for the first time in his life the illusion of indestructibility deserted him.

In fast forward, the images of his first circumnavigation of the globe three years earlier flashed through his mind.

Until now he had been naturally wary of the angry ocean, even concerned at times but never afraid of the strong gales he had encountered “Even when serving as a Special Forces Jumpmaster parachuting from 30,000 feet to achieve a five-mile freefall I felt exhilaration not fear,” Ron says.

Nor did he have time to be afraid when struggling with the controls of the plane diving at 200 miles an hour toward the rocky ground rushing up to meet him.

“Delta Papa India this is Brisbane Control. Do you have control of the aircraft?” The voice of the Air Traffic Controller broke through the noise of the screaming, wing wrenching dive.

Heaving desperately back on the column, knuckles locked, the ‘G’ force pushing him down into the seat, chin forced onto his chest, knowing that death could be only moments away, Ron croaked through the headset microphone, “Not….y.. yet.”

Totally disoriented and not knowing which way was up or down the dense cloud which enveloped the plane blocked vision of the rugged ground racing up to meet him. The technical term for this predicament is ‘spatial disorientation’. At low altitude few pilots are able to regain control of their aircraft before crashing to their deaths.

“Some years before Ron had read an article in an aviation safety magazine reporting on research carried out by the University of Illinois in which 20 ‘guinea pig’ pilots, untrained in instrument flying, were put in simulated weather conditions at an altitude of 1,500 feet. All twenty went into ‘graveyard spirals’ or ‘roller coasters’. The time interval until impact with the ground varied between 20 seconds and 480 seconds, the average was 178 seconds! Two seconds short of three minutes. “Reading that article saved my life,” Ron recalls

This was not the first time Ron had found himself in a life threatening situation, nor was it to be his last, as this narrative will reveal.

Once again disoriented upside down in the raging southern ocean, now he was afraid. Unused to this feeling he still found time to ask himself why, why? When facing death old memories flood in fast forward. Suddenly he remembered. Once before, more than two decades earlier, he had been afraid. He was 28 years old when the painful family secret of which he was the centre was brutally revealed. A man, an adult an officer in Australia’s defense forces yet he was staggered, confused, his personality undermined, he was Afraid!

Long before that, during his mother’s absences from home when his father oscillated between devotion and clumsy reserve he had felt something was amiss but the child’s heart deep inside him had been unwilling to know.

In time he angrily banished the fear from his adolescent life. But now, a mature, steel-forged adventurer, it was back, overwhelming, all engulfing like the rogue wave that rolled him over.

Only those few sailors in small boats who have experienced the murderous fury of a hurricane at sea can begin to imagine what Sula and Ron were enduring at that moment.

‘Begin’ is the correct word because, the powerful air mass that hit and overturned Sula in the vicinity of the dreaded Cape Horn had been instrument-recorded at 120 knots or 221 kph (Chilean Naval Weather Station, Cabo do Hornos) had originated in the Antarctic Ocean. Two years earlier a couple and their yacht were lost in a gale only 30 miles from where Sula was rolled.

After it rolled over Sula the storm moved on and was compressed between the Andes Mountains and Antarctica intensifying as it forced its way through the Drake Passage between Antarctica and Cape Horn.

Satellite picture of the storm that rolled Sula.
Sula's location is indicated by the small red square.

To the upper right of the image you can just make out the outline of South America, with Cape Horn almost level with Sula on the right hand edge.

After what felt like an eternity, the rolling movement seemed to stop. Ron felt it was time to stand up and face the main hatch. “So this is where it happens,” he said to himself knowing he could not survive capsized in this part of the world. Slowly, he crouched then began to stand up on the yacht’s ceiling, now under his feet, when suddenly there was a frightful shudder and in another fit of crashing and banging Sula rolled back upright - as a well built sailing vessel with judiciously distributed load should. It felt like the longest ten seconds of his life. Ron’s ship log faithfully reflects those dramatic moments. “I did not know it then but the forward hatch had been torn open and one of the storm-boards was smashed-in flooding the inside with freezing water. I sloshed my way in pitch darkness through water and debris to the main hatch. Realizing what had happened I quickly pushed half my body through only to be greeted by a torrent of water washing over the deck. “

Sula’s deck after the rollover heading for Tierra del Fuego

“The wave passed but, with monstrous strength the wind pinned my shoulders against the hatch frame. Peering anxiously through the darkness and the breaking seas I was able to make out the outline of an appalling scene of destruction. The white deck-stepped mast was lying on the foredeck resting on the mangled pulpit under twisted, collapsed and broken rigging wire. The dodger and awning over the cockpit were warped in a tangled mass of material and twisted stainless steel tubes. The disabled ship was shuddering and twisting under the attack of the giant waves at once pushing her downwind and washing over her deck threatening to pluck up and sweep me overboard together with the rest of the tortured metal all around. The knowledge that I was in very serious trouble engulfed me. I was soaking wet and knew if I didn't do something about it fast I would die from hypothermia.”

The deafening howl of the wind and brutal assault of the giant waves breaking on Sula seemed to be getting worse. Approaching stealthily panic was not far. Now Ron was having trouble breathing as if something was caught in his throat trying to block his wind pipe. Ron knew he had to shake off the paralyzing fear or go down with his boat. From deep within he called up the power of anger. The anger long blanketed by his overcompensating feelings of invulnerability. Determined to save himself and Sula he made an extraordinary effort to join the rising adrenalin-fed wrath to the strict disciplines of the true sailor and the highly trained soldier.

Propelled like a powerfully kicked football by the confused battering of the waves smashing against the hull and terrified of being rolled again, Ron nevertheless struggled to secure the hatch replacing the smashed storm-board with a spare.

The inside of the boat was a shambles. The scene was made more eerie by the scream of the high water bilge alarm siren as the automatic bilge pump kicked in. Ron clawed his way forward into the fore-cabin where he was devastated to find the hatch had also been torn off and everything inside was flooded and soaked. Things were just getting worse. He had to cover the hatch opening or else the next wave over the boat would sink them. Fighting his way back through the boat and out through the main hatch he crawled serpent-like along the deck amidst the tangle of lines and wires. But the mandatory safety harness, stored at the entrance to the cockpit ready to put on before going on deck was lost in the rollover somewhere in among the shambles of equipment inside and probably under the water covering the floor.

If he did not seal the forward hatch immediately it would not matter what he was wearing, he would lose the boat and his life. Such was the dire urgency of that moment that six years after the event Ron’s recollection is crystal clear: “I was fully aware of the risk I was taking. It was a life or death decision. I did not have the minutes to search for the harness in the pitch black, flooded interior. As it turned out there was nothing to attach the harness to. Anything I clipped onto could have been swept off the deck at any time taking me with it. My movement forward was a terrifying but resigned understanding that this had to be done. There was no option. I never stopped talking to myself and pushing myself. The cold was numbing, the wind was tearing at me and the sea was doing everything it could to throw me off the deck. If I did not secure the forward hatch, I was dead and if I could not save myself I held little hope that anyone else would have been able to help.“

The forward hatch was still attached by its hinges but trapped under the fallen mast and impossible to close. Somehow, out of sheer desperation, with fingers frozen he managed to remove the hinge pins, securing them in his mouth, slide the hatch out from under the mast and refit it to seal off the opening. As the hatch ‘dogs’ had snapped off he had to wire the hatch to prevent it from opening. All this while still at the mercy of the battering gale.

By the time Ron got back inside and sealed the main hatch the hypothermia problem was critical. Eventually he found some less wet clothing and layered it on. There was now nothing he could do on deck until daylight so he began to assess damage below.

The ingress of water had played havoc with most of the electrics though fortunately not the bilge pump. Eventually he managed to get two very small reading lights to work revealing a snake-pit of cushions, carpet, fruit, vegetables, books and other bits and pieces sloshing around on the floor. (It was a testament to the preparedness of Sula to note that not one of the two dozen bottles of wine nor any glass jars were broken in the rollover.)

Suddenly the reassuring whirring of the automatic bilge pump ceased. Pushing buttons and switching toggles did not help. The electric pump had failed. Impelled by desperation Ron struggled back outside to use the manual pump located in the cockpit.

Interminably he kept on pumping until, a life time later, arm muscles aching, heart drumming and breathing a painful staccato, the water was down just below the floor level.

While on deck securing the fore-hatch he noticed the dinghy, carefully adapted and equipped to serve also as a liferaft, was hanging over the starboard side.

In full State Transport survey as a 5 person liferaft/positive floatation tender, it was approved to category-one standard. Prepared for long-passage survival conditions, it was equipped with a full ‘Day Glo’ orange canopy, EPIRB, flares, solar still, a large quantity of water and rations plus many other articles of safety and survival equipment. With 2mm aluminium plate construction and seven watertight chambers this liferaft far surpassed the usual inflatable liferaft carried by most small vessels and was secured to the deck by a 5000 kg winch tie-down, fitted with a hydrostatic release.

The limited reliability of standard life-rafts that are also susceptible to being tumbled by high winds is well documented, as witnessed in the Sydney to Hobart disaster of 1998.

Secure in his expert mariner knowledge Ron comments: “Some sailors dislike inflatable dinghies particularly for serious cruising around coral and third-world country wharves and landings. Yet, the forces of cyclonic wind, the weight and travel speed of the rogue wave that hit Sula amidships proved irresistible despite the extraordinary precautions and care in fastening it securely to the deck ready for emergency release. Sula’s dinghy/liferaft was secured to the deck on raised chocks incorporating half inch stainless steel, through deck, eyebolts to the 5000kg tiedown and a heavy, 2200 kg line securing it to the toe rails. This and the two weather eyebolts failed. The liferaft was swept overboard. “

Wet, exhausted and shivering with cold, at 3:30 am . Ron went out to try and retrieve it. He could hardly feel his frozen arms and fingers and was now in the precarious position of clinging to a heaving deck while trying to hold on for dear life to the painter attached to the 100kg dinghy being wrenched away from him by powerful waves and high wind. At all cost, Ron felt he had to hang on. To do that he first had to gain control over Sula’s erratic movement. If read carefully before a long trans oceanic voyage Sula’s log would be a potential life saver. Here the vessel’s Master outlines the minutia of the patient, practical steps he took in this vital next phase of his self rescue at sea. “Securing the dinghy to a halyard I made a decisive movement toward the main hatch aware that the next vital task was to try and start Sula’s 50HP Perkins engine. Everything now depended on whether the engine started. Even then doubts assailed me. Had the violence of the rollover knocked it out of alignment the shaft could be bent or fractured. Then there were the wires and lines dragging over the side that could easily have fouled the propeller.”

Stiffly, reluctantly, he got up and lowered himself into the cabin. Once more the thorough training and discipline of the professional soldier took over. Ron began a systematic check of everything that would play a role in the operation of the engine. Before attempting to turn the starter key, oil and water levels, battery acid levels and battery charge had to be checked. Other than a thin dusting of scum and debris from their brief immersion, the house batteries and the main cranking battery appeared safe in their cradles with cables to the terminals well connected.

Those were anxious moments. The wind generator had been turned off in the storm abut somewhere on the rollover all three blades had broken off to less than half their original length. “Just for the hell of it, “Ron recalls, “I turned it on and was amazed to see the ampere meter registering 10 amps and the house battery meter moving into the green. I turned the propeller shaft by hand to check the engine alignment and make sure it was free. Prior to this I had retrieved all lines from overboard.”

By then it was 7am. exactly seven hours after Sula had turned over 360 degrees. He suddenly remembered that it was also the scheduled time for the Patagonia Cruisers Net radio covering the region. Ron turned on the radio transmitter and called the station repeatedly. (Prior to this he had meticulously freed the HF backstay aerial from the tangle of rigging isolating it from other metal. The aerial insulator can be seen in photos attached to a speader, the highest part of the fallen rig.) Distressingly there was no response. Even so he broadcast Sula’s position, reported the rollover and recovery and advised that he would try to start the engine and head for Chile. There was no response. Dejected he assumed the station had not heard him. But another two boats had picked up his broadcast and had relayed it on to the radio station.

The storm was still raging furiously and for all intents and purposes Sula was adrift. There was no time to waste energy in engaging in relay exchanges. Ron decided to try again if he managed to start the engine.

Now came the big moment. Would it start? With strained nerves he turned the key but … nothing. Ron immediately thought that the starter motor was probably out of action from being flooded then again maybe it was just the ignition switch, which had also been underwater. Undefeated he pulled the engine cowl off and checked the alternator and solenoid then hit the remote starter he had sensibly installed to allow him to turn the engine over when working on it. And Lo! the engine did turn over. Ron went back to the control panel to give it some throttle and thought he would just try the ignition again. His relief at it starting was exceeded only by the alternator also kicking in and charging. Now, would the drive train engage? He admits he jumped for joy as the gear box engaged and the prop started pushing Sula forward. Always careful he dived below to check the transmission rear seal, which would almost certainly fail if the alignment was out.

As long as everything held together Ron was now mobile. This was certainly the most defining moment in effecting his own rescue. It was also time to retrieve the life-raft which must have been under tow for 10 hours before he finally got the engine started and commenced to tow it toward Chile. The seas were still 5-6 meters at the time and the shock caused by Sula surging down the waves was more than the 14 mm halyard could handle. It snapped. The liferaft floated astern. In desperation Ron turned Sula around to try and retrieve it, which in the prevailing conditions was in itself a dangerous maneuver. Anxious moments he recalls vividly:

“I had lost sight of the dinghy amongst the breaking seas but eventually found it and made my approach. As I got near it Sula surged down a wave colliding heavily with the dinghy. I realized that what I was doing was not only near impossible in such conditions but that colliding with it could damage Sula’s hull. Time: 1140hrs, nearly twelve hours since I was rolled.  I abandoned the retrieval and turned for Chile. I am still in awe at the power of the water that struck me. Whereas my life-raft lasted for half an hour before it was totally overcome by the sea, an inflatable would not have lasted two minutes. I wrote in my ship’s log “I have no doubt that my life-raft is still afloat and will probably be recovered one day. I am devastated by its loss and my passages will be far less safe without it.”

Emotionally and physically played out Ron decided to wait for conditions to moderate further before crawling back below in an effort to restore a modicum of order while Sula, equipped with additional fuel tanks, continued to steam uneasily toward the nearest haven. In the cockpit of Sula, swaying with the movement of the sea, he allowed his tense muscles to distend and the accumulated adrenalin to retreat. For a short while Ron closed his eyes. Like scudding clouds, images of earlier passages flashing through his mind alternated with the fresh photo-like glimpses of the destruction above and below Sula’s deck. When he opened his eyes Sula was still riding before the moderating 40-knot gale.

Slowly he lifted his head allowing his gaze to sweep over the depressing scene of mangled and broken gear on Sula’s foredeck. Looking astern, like following angry hounds 6-meter waves galloped in Sula’s wake mostly sliding under her hull but occasionally smashing over her stern. Ron made a supreme effort to think clearly. Without her mast and rigging Sula had ceased sailing. But she had turned her stern on to the strong wind. Picked up like a toy, carried to the peak of the mountainous waves and sliding down fast, sled-like into the churning valleys below, providence prevented Sula from catapulting or from burying her bow deeply into the ocean. Yawing and sliding she had inexorably maintained a south easterly track. On the western horizon grey clouds were gathering. Were they the harbingers of another storm? Perhaps not but in these latitudes nature’s mood is notorious for changing suddenly. In her condition Sula could not sustain another brutal battering. Ron had to make port as soon as possible. With the mast uprooted and lying on deck and no other workable spar a jury rig was scarcely an option. Physically drained, cold, wet and shivering he fought off sleep. Sliding down to the floor of the cockpit he lent against the bulkhead with arms tightly gathered around his chest in a vain attempt to keep warm.

Like a starving man dreaming of food his mind wondered back to 1996/97. when he and Sula were vagabonding among the Melanesian and Micronesian islands where the warm western Pacific trade winds make cruising sailors feel like butterflies on the wing. Yet that too was fraught with excitement and some fascinating experiences: From being the first person since WWII to enter a Japanese underground bunker and discover a machine gun, ammunition and live hand grenades, to having Sula sabotaged by jealous young male villagers. Or the dry-mouth terror of grounding on a coral reef, to being the first white man to penetrate a revered, sacred ‘spirit cave’ and experiencing the soft attentions of island beauties. That of course was even before the unexpected genesis of Ron Llewellyn’s first solo circumnavigation of the world in 2002.

CHAPTER II

Sula’s for’ard cabin was bathed in the soft early morning light falling like a transparent silken gauze through the open hatch above. Emerging unhurriedly into the spacious main cabin Ron noted the ship’s clock showed 0610. There were no other boats in sight and the radar alarm had not disturbed his short off-watch snooze. Shaking off the remnants of sleep he climbed the companionway steps into the cockpit from where he inspected the set of Sula’s mainsail and genoa foresail filling full-and-by before the steady south-easterly trade wind. Stepping on deck he directed his gaze ahead toward the southern horizon. And there she was, Vanuatu, a rich jungle green canopy rising crown-like from the deep blue Pacific.  Five hours later Ron was anchored securely in the beautiful harbor of Espiritu Santo. Eager to absorb every drop of my immersion into this true Pacific Paradise I rowed the dingy ashore where the playful fairies had prepared an interesting welcome and, well.., departure.

Vanuatu is a group of 83 islands in the Southwest Pacific, North of New Caledonia and Northwest of Fiji, less than three hours flying time from Brisbane, Australia. Known as the Ni-Vanuatu its gentle inhabitants settled on the islands after arriving from New Guinea and the Solomon Islands by sea-going canoe some 3,500 years ago. It was discovered as early as 1605 by Spaniard Pedro Fedinand de Quiros who thought he had found the great Southern Continent and named the island he landed on ‘Tierra Australis del Espiritu Santo.’ One hundred and sixty-three years later French explorer Louis Antoine de Bougainville visited another three islands in the group awarding himself immortality by naming the strait between them after himself. Only six years later famous Pacific explorer and cartographer Captain James Cook charted the entire archipelago which he called the New Hebrides, a name he borrowed from a group of islands off the coast of Scotland.

It was changed to Vanuatu two hundred years later when the group gained independence from the joint colonial administration of Britain and France.

Sadly, following foreign visits and settlement after Cook’s original landing, the native population of the archipelago is believed to have been decimated by imported diseases.

History does do not record whether this knowledge played a significant role or for that matter any part in the passionate mutual seduction that followed Ron’s meeting ashore with a young Nivanuatu girl, the beautiful Florence. Coming on deck late the next morning he observed this attractive young woman on shore waving and gesturing that she wanted to come on board. Ron acceded happily and, having exchanged introductions Florence spent the day aboard being initiated into the mysteries of Sula which she found so deeply absorbing that she decided to also spend the night on the boat.

As previously planned by the playful fairies who had failed to release any information as to the young woman’s age, address or family ties and obligations, at one o’clock the next morning Ron was inconsiderately awakened by loud banging on Sula’s hull and the noise of authoritarian voices identifying themselves as Vanuatu police followed by a bright torchlight being shone into the boat.

Cringing under the covers young Florence begged him not to reveal her presence aboard. Modestly wrapping himself in a towel not to offend the unexpected visitors he raced aft to find eight large, uniformed policemen alongside in the commandeered ferry which services the island to the Capital city of Port Villa. Polite but dripping suspicion they announced they were searching for Florence who had not turned up for work and as no one had seen her all day they had been called out to find her.

Cooperatively Ron told them that she had been on board earlier that day but that she had returned ashore. But the peeved coppers would not buy it demanding permission to search the boat.

While sensing their annoyance he did not know it then but the police had earlier boarded and searched a yacht anchored next to Sula where the 70-year old man on board was rather flattered that someone should think he had a young girl with him.

A picture of righteous indignation Ron refused them permission to come on board. After additional parley and earnest attempts to talk himself out of the shallows, the most braided of the big blokes put his sweaty face very close to Ron’s nose and proceeded to inform him that the search was now official and they were coming aboard to search Sula for the missing girl.

Knowing he’d hit bottom and unwilling to let a troop of officious policemen trot through his beloved Sula Ron asked the chief to wait while he went to fetch the lovely Florence who by now was wearing more than her charming grass skirt. Saying they were taking her into police custody she was ordered to board the ferry. Turning to Ron the police ordered him to accompany them because ‘someone important’ on shore wanted to speak with him. Feeling that a night in the company of local police or who ever sooled them on was contraindicated Ron made recourse to every guilty man’s formula declaring that unless they were arresting him he would not agree to come.

Moreover, who ever wanted to speak to him could do so in the morning. Reluctantly the police withdrew.

Hoping but not believing that this was the end of the matter Ron returned below only to toss uneasily until daylight. Emerging into the cockpit early the next morning g he cast his tired eyes toward the shore to be confronted by the sight of Florence and her family including her father, mother and Aunt ranged stiffly near the water’s edge glaring at Sula nodding gently on her anchor chain.

With a cringing feeling in his abdomen but a large rictus-like smile on his face Ron waved and paddled over to them in the dinghy to parley. Papa’s mustache only accentuated the severe setting of his lips when he hissed that the family would like to come on board for a confidential talk. With a generous sweep of his arm Ron pointed to the cool shade under the majestic palm trees lining the shore indicating a preference for the natural scenery and proceeded to make this clear by sitting down native stile under the nearest palm.

A tall, authoritative looking man, as befitted a high government official, Papa resisted the invitation to join him sitting on the ground. Fixing Ron’s figure below him with his penetrating black eyes, in a deep baritone voice, speaking perfect English, Papa addressed Ron: “Many men visit Vanuatu and marry the Nivanuatu girls only to then divorce them later. Is it your intention to marry my daughter?”

Faced with this frontal attack Ron propelled himself upright to better emphasize his surprise. “Why, there is no call for that, ”Ron said,” your lovely daughter and I (momentarily the words stuck in his throat,)  are … just friends.” Although both Mum and Aunty scowled visibly at the adventurer’s light hearted rejection of honorable matrimony, Florence turned her head primly to hide her amusement.

Papa remained calm and haughty: “In that case there will be no future meetings with Florence public or private and she is expressly forbidden from boarding your vessel.”

His next words however, were delivered in a quiet but ominous hiss: “Do you understand me?”

Mustering his last remaining shred of dignity Ron nodded and was greatly relieved to see the bridal party depart.

A little older and hopefully wiser he recalls the denouement of his almost conjugal adventure in Vanuatu:

“The following day while visiting town Florence tracked me down and gave me some gifts. I told her that it would be better if we didn’t pursue this relationship as I could see it causing problems. True to my concerns who should appear on the scene but Father and this time he did not look at all happy. He said nothing but bore through me with his burning coal black eyes. Florence hurriedly left the scene.

The following morning Ron had a visit on the yacht from the manager of the resort Sula was anchored off. He said he had heard that Ron had been beaten up and that if I hadn’t been yet he was going to be. He advised Ron to move the yacht around to the front of the resort where he would get the resort security to keep an eye on Sula. Ron had no sooner dropped the anchor than a message came saying there was a girl on the shore waiting for him.

“Well, says Ron,” I always respond when the sea Siren calls. On the chance that it could have been someone other than Florence off I went. You guessed it, it was Florence all right.  I told her that things were now getting serious and that I had been threatened. I pointed out the new place where Sula was anchored and told her that the security guards on the resort had been told to keep an eye on me. She laughed at this and told me that one of the security guards had the ‘hots’ for her and was jealous. It was he who was going to beat me up.

“It was time to get out of there. Unfortunately I had to survive the weekend before I cleared Customs the following Monday morning and laid course for New Caledonia. Back in Australia I received a letter from Florence apologizing for the police interference and assuring me everything would be alright if I returned to Vanuatu. Well, one day, maybe.”

CHAPTER III

At that time the serial trials of Ron’s second world circumnavigation were still 6 years into the future as were the near loss of Sula and her skipper in the Cape Horn rollover. The first round-the-world was about to begin.

On Good Friday, 1999, back from a 72 day ‘swing’ as Mate on a scientific research vessel operating out of Dampier in Western Australia he was relaxing on deck contemplating his next adventure through the golden prism of a glass of malt whisky

Sula was securely moored fore-and-aft in the picturesque Breakwater Marina in the popular yachting haven of Townsville, North Queensland.

Across the bay was the green outline of pretty Magnetic Island. Preferring to keep his back turned on the high rises that had begun to throw shadows on Townsville’s foreshore where backpackers from three continents were happily crowding the bars Ron sat on the coach house leisurely leaning his heels on the lifeline stretching is football-hardened legs. Restless as ever, Ron tried to focus on his next adventure.

True, the seed had been sown years earlier when swapping experiences with Harald the lanky Norwegian solo navigator visiting Brunswick Heads on the northern Pacific coast of Australia’s New South Wales where they were both anchored.

Ron was listening intently to Harald‘s account of exciting battles with high seas in the Indian Ocean in his 26-foot ‘double-ender’. How he had escaped from dangerous pirate infested anchorages in the Red Sea and Harald’s skilful passage through the Suez Canal.

Realizing he had captured his audience Harald described his eventful sailing days across the sunny but often angry Mediterranean Sea and anxious dark night exit through the heavy cargo traffic of the Gibraltar Straits into the boisterous Atlantic Ocean.

He waxed romantic about the exotic South American ports where beautiful sensuous women greeted the intrepid sailor, and recounted the demandingly long, trade-wind assisted Pacific crossing to the charming little Antipodean fishing port of Brunswick Heads.

As he described his adventures Harald sensed Ron’s mounting interest and his normally moderate voice gained subtle pitch and dramatic inflexion.

The Norwegian’s blue eyes locked into Ron’s, while the younger man’s wiry 5’10’’ frame leaned eagerly forward, features taut with concentration. From time to time he nervously pushed back a stubborn strand of blond hair cascading over his forehead.

Eventually, when Harald rose to return to his yacht Ron enthusiastically gripped the old sailor’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Thanks Mate ,”he said, “I owe you!”

Harald looked askance. But, eighteen months later when he received Ron’s first email from the Indian Ocean island of Rodriguez he understood.

The post meridian sun was throwing tiny sparkling flashes reflected by the fish-like crystal scales of his glass. Ron’s epiphany came with the last sip of whisky. There and then, he knew the time had come to realize his ultimate dream, to sail around the world – solo.

Decision made, detailed planning of the campaign would have to follow. But the trained officer demanded an initial broad strategy. Which route to take and when was the best time to leave Australia? The track would be a choice between the lesser of two dangerous alternatives: pirates and headwinds in the Red sea, heading via the Mediterranean Sea and Gibraltar to the Atlantic Ocean or, take on  the storms and ‘abnormal waves’ (the term used in the cautionary notes on the chart) around the bottom of Africa.

As fiberglass offers little protection from desperados armed with high-powered assault rifles he opted for the ‘abnormal waves’ around Africa.

The best plan, would be to depart Darwin, in northern Australia, in August giving Ron time to visit a few places in the Indian Ocean and still be clear of Madagascar on the East African coast by the beginning of November – the start of the cyclone season in that region.

Settled! Next step select the charts, weather maps and Admiralty instruction manuals for the route. Exhilarated, like a compass needle responding to a vigorous swing of the helm his life had taken a new direction. And it felt great. From the moment of his initial resolve to deciding on the route and time of departure had taken just …one hour!

CHAPTER IV

One month after that memorable Good Friday Ron sailed out of the Townsville Marina on the northward voyage around the ‘Top End’ of Australia to tropical Darwin, Australia’s most northerly city – 1500 miles away.

Eager not to miss the delightful panoramic anchorages available every few hours sailing, Sula day-hopped through the beautiful islands of the Great Barrier Reef, making good time with sprung main and Genoa before the  fresh southeasterly trade wind.

Far from being a retiring hermit, as might be suggested by his predilection for long solo passages, Ron is a socially oriented ‘mixer.’

At Cooktown, he paid his respects to the memorial of Captain James Cook the ‘discoverer’ of Australia (the controversy continues today whether it was the French, the Dutch, the Portuguese or the Chinese who discovered the Great Southern Continent).

Ah, there was also Lizard Island! One of Australia's most northern islands, bathing in the clear waters of the Coral Sea less than 200 miles north of Cairns. Over 1000 hectares of national park, it is both ruggedly spectacular and ringed by sensuously fine white sandy beaches. There Ron dived on the multicolor coral reefs to swim with the equally subtly ‘painted’ tropical fish.

Later, sipping the mandatory Rum and Coke he met his namesake, Ron, the first of many interesting characters who make this lifestyle so rewarding. Newly met Ron had been a survivor of the frightful 1964 disaster when the Australian aircraft carrier H.M.A.S. Melbourne sliced through its escort destroyer H.M.A.S. Voyager on a dark night off Jervis Bay on the south coast of New South Wales. He was aboard the Voyager in which 82 sailors lost their lives.

“Rather more gamely than me on my 43’6” Sula, Ron was making a circumnavigation of Australia in his 18-foot sloop ‘MISTY.’ Over a few Ports (the sipping kind), I was very philosophical about the Voyager incident, which he described in terrifying detail. He believed it was the luckiest day of his life. I told him that if I had been run over by an aircraft carrier I would regard it as my unluckiest day. We debated this point of view over several nights’ clicking of glasses. ”Ron recalls. Sailing on to Cape York and Thursday Island he encountered Bob and Helen, a young Australian couple on their beautiful schooner “SALIBO,” also headed for Africa. So it was only natural to discuss tactics for crossing the Indian Ocean. Pilot information indicated that the frequency of winter gales decreased from August onward so he had already decided on a late August departure. Bob and Helen had made up their minds to leave Darwin earlier and did not seem concerned by Ron’s warning. How fateful their decision would turn out to be. They said their farewells and while Ron stayed on at Thursday Island as master of a tug, towing a freight barge to islands throughout the region.

With a population of about 2300 people, Thursday Island (TI) is the administrative centre for the Torres Strait islands which have been part of f the State of Queensland since 1872. According to the tourism guide, TI is the most popular of the Torres Strait Islands, just over three square km in area and 39km off the top of Cape York. The Strait's mostly indigenous population of 25 000 live on more than 20 islands and is engaged mostly in fishing, prawning and a declining pearling industry. Thursday Island is identified as one of the last great frontiers of Australia. In 1880, it was considered to have been the country’s main line of defense. Evidence remains to this day with ancient canons scattered on the foreshore.

Until well into the last century TI was also a major pearling centre. Pearlers' cemeteries, the official history says, tell the hard tale of this occupation. Some pearls are still produced here, from seeded culture farms. Although Thursday Island has lost its former importance as a transit point for vessels, it continues to be a popular anchorage for passing yachts.

“Rafferty’s Rules” are supreme in this remote outpost. Four times in one week local kids tried to steal Sula’s dinghy and outboard motor in broad daylight! In the end they did manage to steal the fuel. When Ron reported it, the police just laughed. Sniffing petrol was already the preferred destructive addiction among local indigenous children. The harsher aspects of this sojourn in Thursday Island, however, were more than compensated by one of the most memorable events of his stay. There he met another sailor, Bob, a Canadian carved in the same stern stuff as Harald but more so. Bob who was also sailing solo around the world, was 73 years old and his yacht VAYA was only 26 feet long overall. Visiting a Mexican marina Bob was given VAYA in return for paying another sailor’s outstanding mooring fees amounting to US$2000.

Bob a sailor of only five years experience had covered the 7500-mile Pacific Ocean leg from Mexico to Australia, non-stop in 83 days. Bob took up sailing at the age of 68 after suffering horrific injuries in a plane crash.

Looking into the older man’s steady grey eyes and deeply tanned craggy face, Ron could only shake his head in disbelief when learning that Bob had survived a heart attack, was a diabetic and quite (selectively) deaf. None of these disabilities seemed to worry him while casually adding that everything he had was in his wife’s name, so she would be taken care-of should anything ‘go wrong’

Mutual reliance and help are established and strongly adhered-to traditions among true men of the sea. Ron took it upon him self to monitor the seaworthiness of VAYA helping Bob with rigging repairs, testing equipment and improving the sailing set-up. It seemed to amaze Bob that Ron would spend so much time on his boat and refuse to take any payment. ”If he makes it, which I’m sure he will, the mere fact that my little bit of assistance helped in some way will be reward enough. Much to my satisfaction and relief, seven years later, I learned that Bob, then 80 years old, was well into his third circum navigation,” says Ron

Content to leave Thursday Island Ron weighed anchor and set sail across the Gulf of Carpentaria to the mining port of Gove.

Early phase of Ron’s first circumnavigation Darwin to St Helena

CHAPTER V

“After a longer stay than planned in Gove, Ron takes up the story, “ it was time to head for Darwin my port of departure from Australia where with a final rush to stock up on perishable stores and complete Customs and Immigration formalities, Sula and I were ready to begin our challenging first round-the-world journey. The 18^th day of August 1999 dawned brightly with clear skies and a light southeasterly breeze. Local friends came down early to help get Sula through the marina lock gates. Alongside, waiting in the lock with Sula, I looked admiringly at the beautiful new boat “Aphrodite III” heading for Cocos Keeling Island before making her way to the Mediterranean via the Red Sea. Later I learned that she was attacked by pirates off the Yemeni coast, stripped and left badly damaged by gunfire. Fortunately the crew were not injured. But for the husband and wife team and their two young children the experience must have had a devastating effect. With more assistance from the tide than the wind, Sula slowly made her way out of Darwin Harbor. Cocos Keeling lay 1993 nautical miles West. I estimated that with favorable conditions the passage would take about 18 days. Determined to be as close to a purist as possible I elected to use traditional methods of navigation, so the electronic wizardry (GPS) was turned off and the sextant dusted off and polished. “Apart from the satisfaction of navigating by celestial means, it helps pass the time, of which there is much to pass. Another reason for using celestial navigation was the phenomenon called ‘GPS ROLLOVER’ expected to occur this month. Nobody really knew what would happen to satellite navigation on that particular day and whether GPS receivers – especially older models – would continue to work. Some sailors avoided being out at sea on that day, just in case.”

“For the next few days I tried everything to squeeze each mile out of what little wind there was. My worst day was 17 nautical miles in 24 hours and those miles not in the right direction! A declared agnostic I even contemplated taking up religion and praying for wind. Still in Australian waters this initial leg was to prove quite eventful. On day 7 two Indonesian fishing boats were visible ahead.  Mostly sail powered craft they often follow the catch hundreds of miles from Indonesia. A real tribute to their seamanship. One of the fishing boats kept its course and headed south, while the other turned maneuvering into a position 200 meters upwind and proceeded to parallel Sula’s course evidently capable of sailing faster than Sula. Eventually, much to my relief the fishing vessel with its clearly visible crew of five turned away seemingly tracking South. As night fell, suspicious of the fishers’ intentions I decided to show no lights.

“Maybe I was being a bit paranoid, but when you are alone and outnumbered it is best to be cautious. In addition it was just about the time of the uprising and slaughter in East Timor. My caution was vindicated when, just before dawn the next day, I came up on deck to find a fishing boat 200m behind me, following in my wake. They must have turned after me as soon as it was dark. My re-emergence shortly afterwards, rifle in hand, probably convinced them that to come closer would not be looked on in a friendly manner, and they turned away immediately. On reporting this incident to Australian authorities they advised me that I was the second yacht to report an incident with Indonesian fishing boats in that area. Sula’s log records the sequel:

“On day 9 Sula was only 480 miles out of Darwin and totally becalmed. Frustrated I decided to make for Ashmore Reef Lagoon, 25 miles off course but where instead of fretting for the breeze that was not coming I could go swimming, fishing and socializing with the other waiting yacht crews. Late that afternoon, the sun was descending towards the horizon as Sula approached the entrance to the lagoon – a bad time to maneuver around a coral reef.  Not on my planned track I did not have a detailed chart.  A number of boats anchored in the lagoon were plainly visible but due to the light refraction effect I could not locate the entrance. Calling on VHF radio, someone inside offered approximate directions. Enough to clear the entrance which appeared to be surrounded by shallow water. I decided to drop anchor outside and wait for daylight. The next morning I surveyed the route into the anchorage in Sula’s dinghy and brought her in comfortably.”

Nature is not the only harbinger of dangers at sea. Litigious yachties can be high on the list especially in enclosed anchorages. At Ashmore Reef Lagoon the warden was said to be reluctant to guide yachts in for fear of being sued if a boat was damaged while entering or leaving the lagoon. Australian territory, Ashmore Reef has been catapulted into world news by the hundreds of illegal immigrants landing there in leaky boats while trying to find refuge from war and oppression. It has a permanently based warden living on a boat in the lagoon to oversee the control of the Reef which has since been declared as outside Australian territory limits to discourage legal appeals by ‘boat people.’ During my stay much of the warden’s time was spent impounding illegal boats as an almost constant stream of distressed ‘boat people’ made land fall there. Australian Navy vessels arrived periodically to remove the last group who had beached themselves on the island.

The island is now a quarantined area and no visitors are allowed ashore. The illegal boats, of which there were about five of various sizes, are stripped of fuel, oil and anything useful, then taken into deep water and destroyed. Along with other skippers Ron, was happy to help remove the fuel. One yacht took on 1200 liters. While chatting with the warden Ron learned the fate of Bob and Helen on “Salibo” who had departed Thursday Island ahead of Sula. During a fierce storm just west of Cocos Keeling they were ‘knocked down’. Helen was injured and Salibo lost her rudder. They abandoned ship to be taken aboard a bulk carrier which took their yacht in tow for a while before being obliged to release the tow. Evidently this was a big news story in Australia attracting a lot of media interest. “I wonder if Bob and Helen ever thought back to my warning given at Thursday Island,” Ron notes in Sula’s log. His next incursion into the Indian Ocean was Christmas Island, 1033 miles away. Once again, determined to test his celestial navigation skills Ron switched off the on-board GPS. Depending on winds and currents 1033 miles can be a long way for a small boat. In this case nine nights/ten days. When underway in waters out of established shipping lanes he does not keep watch but tries to sleep. Though not before switching on the radar guard alarm which gives warning of any approaching vessels. However, if Sula is close to land, or in shipping lanes, he uses everything he can to warn him of the proximity danger. Radar ‘guard’ alarm, depth alarm, cross track alarm, the radio and strobe light. Although this system does not comply with the ‘Rules of the Road’ these rules do not take into account the lone sailor. He even runs red over red ‘not under command’ lights “You have to sleep,” Ron always warns the tired solo sailors.

It was late afternoon nine days out of Ashmore Reef when Christmas Island showed over the horizon dead ahead. It had been a pretty good trip with a bit of everything but for Ron, nothing too extreme.

The last day was cloudy with squalls and difficult to get a good ‘fix’ with the sextant, but Ron was confident of sighting the lights of Christmas Island that night but he did not get much sleep approaching land. Day 10, 0608 hours, the ship’s log states, lights could be seen dead ahead. 0634 hours – LAND! At 1100 hours Sula took up a mooring in Flying Fish Cove and advised Christmas Island Police of his arrival. “To know that you can navigate such a trip by celestial means only is a very satisfying and confidence-building experience”, a justifiable feeling as any navigator will warrant.

To avoid the illegal landing of unauthorized refugees Christmas Island is also an “excised” Australian Territory, only 300 miles from Indonesia.

“The reception extended by the Federal Police was the most friendly I have experienced anywhere, they even took me for a sightseeing tour of the island”, Ron happily logs.

After ten very pleasant days it was time to tackle the 2,500 nautical miles to the island of Rodriguez. While readying to weigh anchor the Island police radioed with a plea from Bob, the Master of Salibo, for Sula to join him at Cocos Island in an attempt to recover the yacht which had been sighted floating 500 miles from where it had been abandoned. Having already spent time at Christmas Island and aware of the high fee-for-service charged by the Australian Quarantine officials as well as having to submit to the confiscation of all the fresh produce he had stored on board, Ron had planned to by-pass Cocos Island but felt he could not ignore a call for help from a fellow sea wanderer. He set Sula’s bow to cover the 530-mile run to Cocos Keeling Island with a boisterous south-easterly breeze that did not relent for five days. As Sula tacked into the beautiful palm-fringed lagoon of Cocos Keeling he was amazed to see a Telstra public telephone booth planted on the beach. (A helpful but not too subtle reminder that Cocos too did not encourage deep incursions into the interior of yet another Australian remote territory. Ron waited all Saturday and half of Sunday (26 hours) until the officials turned up – there was an Australian Rules football game on TV on Saturday afternoon! Unimpressed Ron recalls, “Then they had the cheek to charge overtime to come out on Sunday. My first encounter consisted of a threat of prosecution because I was puttering around the lagoon in my dinghy before I had received clearance. I felt like pulling up anchor and telling them where they could stick their island.

They could certainly take lessons from the guys on Christmas Island,” Ron was none too pleased with this segment of bureaucracy. Six weeks had passed since Salibo had been abandoned although she had been sighted by a passing yacht three weeks earlier some 700 miles from Cocos Keeling. The Customs people said that Salibo had been abandoned in a position only 250 miles from Cocos but had drifted steadily eastward. To Ron’s disappointment, yet not one of the 16 yachts in the Cocos anchorage seemed to have made an attempt to salvage her at the time! While waiting at Cocos for Salibo’s owner another solo sailor, David, who had weathered the same storm as Salibo while en route to deliver a yacht from Malaysia to Perth, said he had been hit by ten-meter waves causing considerable damage to his yacht. After leaving Cocos David was wrecked off an uninhabited island near the West Australian coast. He managed to swim ashore where he spent a Robinson Crusoe two-week stint before being rescued.

Bob, the master of Salibo, eventually turned up. Ron was shocked at the change in Bob’s traumatized appearance and demeanor since he had last seen him on Thursday Island. Ron felt Salibo’s master had no logical plan for the recovery of Salibo other than that they should sail Sula to the abandoned yacht’s last reported position, 700 miles distant (from where she would have drifted much further in the intervening 3 weeks) and search. Without a grid pattern based on accurate wind, current and general weather conditions over the period, Bob’s ‘plan’ seemed to be a desperate, emotionally motivated long shot with minimal chances of success. Ron was concerned that in the unlikely event they found Salibo, her master, not an experienced solo passage maker  would be alone on a disabled vessel with a very dubious new rudder constructed during his stop at Cocos Keeling.

After considering the information from the warden at Ashmore Reef and the Police at Cocos Keeling Ron decided the responsible action was not to attempt this recovery alone. Eventually, Salibo was recovered by the Seychelles’ Navy and has been returned to Bob. Great news

CHAPTER VI - AND ON TO AFRICA

Ron talks calmly about his none too comfortable adventure in waters off Africa.

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