Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed Read Free

agreed that the resin was faulty. Since Stan had already lost three weeks’ work with his truck, he asked for a replacement hull already brought to the same stage as his own. The company offered to supply a man and materials, whereupon Stan rebelled. Next day his tipper had gone, having upended our mountain on the floor, bigger than ever. Only the rats were smiling.
    Bing, a scientist, was helped by two teenage daughters. His keel had been formed along with the hull and was a box section some 8ft long, 3ft deep and 9in in the middle, tapering to rounded ends. This box took two tons of ballast which would prevent the yacht, with sails raised, from flopping onto its side. In theory you could stand the boat on its nose, roll it upside down, or simply drop it from an aircraft and it would still bob right side up. There was a disadvantage: if you ever put a large hole in the bottom of your craft, your life savings would go down like a brick.
    At this time we could use two materials for the keel: iron or lead. The first to build a hull (Berny and Vic) had made a plaster mouldof the inside of the keel from which a local foundry would make a 2-ton iron casting for £90. Lead, which took up less room and gave a lower centre of gravity (thus making for a stiffer boat), would have been preferable, but the price was more than double – £250.
    Bing called a meeting and described how we might use the non-active atomic waste, heavier than lead, which the British government was dumping in the North Atlantic. Bing thought we might get a load cheap. We were all keen on the idea until someone asked, ‘Since we will be walking over the stuff, what would happen if it became active?’
    Without hesitation Bing replied, ‘It would have the same effect on your sex life as the loss of your testicles.’
    As I hurried away I said to a newcomer, Rome Ryott, ‘I don’t mind risking one but not both.’
    â€˜I’m risking neither!’ said he.
    Rome had arrived in my life with dash and style, driving directly into the building in a sporty red Capri, complete with beautiful blonde passenger. He was tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped and as he walked in with quick, bouncing steps, full of purpose, I fully expected to hear James Bond theme music. His first words were not ‘Anyone for tennis?’ as I had anticipated, but enquiries about the boat he was due to start building the following week. His soft, educated voice had a Wodehouse stutter assumed to give him time to choose his words. He became my closest friend.
    The yacht’s deck was made from a female mould, a process that took only a few days. The principle was much the same as housewives have used for years to turn out fancy jellies. First you coat the mould with wax (release agent) which in turn is given a heavy coat of paint (gel coat). The laying up, as for the hull, starts with very fine lengths of fibreglass, looking much like tissue paper, and is built up to heavier grades, with a layer of woven rovings. Water is then forced between the deck and mould to break it loose, and there is your completed deck, already smoothed and painted.
    One Sunday night at the end of his month, Rome, packed and ready to set off, called at my caravan. ‘I have to be at worktomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘Since I’ve just had one leave I’ll only manage to get here for long weekends to build the deck. I... I... was wondering if I gave you a hand to build your deck, would you help me to get mine finished?’
    â€˜Sure, Rome,’ I replied. ‘By the way, what
do
you do for a living?’
    â€˜I’m a pilot in the RAF,’ he answered.
    From that moment I knew Rome would not figure as one of my pieces of driftwood: it was perhaps because I had always wanted to be a pilot but more, I suspect, because with his quiet unassuming manner Rome accepted me for what I was, ignoring my background, lack of education, working-class