Solitaire Spirit: Three Times Around the World Single-Handed Read Free Page A
Author: Les Powles
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accent and financial standing. Rome was someone I could always look up to, yet he never once looked down on me. His father had been a silent movie actor (hence the sonâs exotic name) who had died leaving a widow, Grace, with two young children, Rome and his sister Terry, to bring up. After a short period in the Merchant Navy, Rome joined the RAF, where he learned to fly first helicopters, then jets. Interested in sailing since an early age, he had already owned several boats, which he changed regularly along with sporty cars and even sportier girlfriends.
I was born in Birmingham which, for an Englishman, is about as far from the sea as you can get, on October 24th, 1925, and was brought up there, living in a small terraced house with parents and young brother, Royston. We were a normal working-class family, never well off, my father employed as a foreman at the Rover car factory. During the Depression the rent man would bang on the door while we cringed inside: they were terrible years for my father, a proud man who stood on his own two feet and never failed to pay his debts.
The Second World War broke out when I was 13, and the following year I went to work in an aircraft factory as a machinist on Pegasus aero engines. But my ambition was to be a pilot. As a boy I had spent hours at the local airfield watching Tiger Moths, Hawker Hinds and Gloucester Gladiators drop over the boundaryfence. Aged 17 I joined the RAF, not as a pilot but as a wireless operator/air gunner.
Having completed the training I became a sergeant but the war was over before I could join an operational squadron. My service career ended running a station laundry in Italy, with 12 lovely young women to look after â an occupation in which I upheld the finest traditions of the British Empire but for which, unfortunately, no medals were awarded. Since then I had had many different jobs, in many countries. In my time I belonged to four skilled unions, only because I had to in order to work. I had had my own businesses including a garage, a haulage firm and shops. I was always a loner, never feeling I belonged.
My introductions to the opposite sex started with Nancy in Crewe, courtesy of two American Eighth Air Force bomber wings. As I had just been promoted to sergeant Nancy came in the form of a celebration and I shall always remember her with gratitude for her understanding, kindness and tuition. âNavigator to pilot, left, left a bit. Hang in there old buddy... bombs awaaaaaaaay!â
I married two charming ladies and was divorced from two charming ladies. No children came from these associations, only cocker spaniels whose custody was fought over with more bitterness than the D-Day beaches of Normandy â the battles were always lost when it was pointed out that I was a wandering soul, unable even to provide a proper home for them.
Brian Gibbons reached Liverpool to build his boat â by Jaguar. He owned a factory in the Midlands (not far from my home town). He was a boss who wasnât frightened to get his hands dirty and, without doubt, the finest all-round engineer I have ever met. Married, in his mid-thirties, his friendly, rugged face was topped by a mop of unruly hair. His clothes, like his hands, were likely to show oil or grease stains and he spoke with assurance and authority in a Midlands accent.
Brian had bought a finished hull and deck and would turn up with lumps prefabricated in his garage or works which slotted precisely. He overtook us all: I was for ever seeking his advicewhich he seemed to encourage, mulling over problems with the same sort of concentration some people show for
The Times
crossword. It was never long before he would return, a stub of pencil and scrap of paper in his hand. âThis is what you do, our kid.â And you had your answer.
Once the plug was removed, the hull was placed in its cradle. Then 3in channels were chiselled out of the foam to form stringers and bulkhead recesses. The
I was born in Birmingham which, for an Englishman, is about as far from the sea as you can get, on October 24th, 1925, and was brought up there, living in a small terraced house with parents and young brother, Royston. We were a normal working-class family, never well off, my father employed as a foreman at the Rover car factory. During the Depression the rent man would bang on the door while we cringed inside: they were terrible years for my father, a proud man who stood on his own two feet and never failed to pay his debts.
The Second World War broke out when I was 13, and the following year I went to work in an aircraft factory as a machinist on Pegasus aero engines. But my ambition was to be a pilot. As a boy I had spent hours at the local airfield watching Tiger Moths, Hawker Hinds and Gloucester Gladiators drop over the boundaryfence. Aged 17 I joined the RAF, not as a pilot but as a wireless operator/air gunner.
Having completed the training I became a sergeant but the war was over before I could join an operational squadron. My service career ended running a station laundry in Italy, with 12 lovely young women to look after â an occupation in which I upheld the finest traditions of the British Empire but for which, unfortunately, no medals were awarded. Since then I had had many different jobs, in many countries. In my time I belonged to four skilled unions, only because I had to in order to work. I had had my own businesses including a garage, a haulage firm and shops. I was always a loner, never feeling I belonged.
My introductions to the opposite sex started with Nancy in Crewe, courtesy of two American Eighth Air Force bomber wings. As I had just been promoted to sergeant Nancy came in the form of a celebration and I shall always remember her with gratitude for her understanding, kindness and tuition. âNavigator to pilot, left, left a bit. Hang in there old buddy... bombs awaaaaaaaay!â
I married two charming ladies and was divorced from two charming ladies. No children came from these associations, only cocker spaniels whose custody was fought over with more bitterness than the D-Day beaches of Normandy â the battles were always lost when it was pointed out that I was a wandering soul, unable even to provide a proper home for them.
Brian Gibbons reached Liverpool to build his boat â by Jaguar. He owned a factory in the Midlands (not far from my home town). He was a boss who wasnât frightened to get his hands dirty and, without doubt, the finest all-round engineer I have ever met. Married, in his mid-thirties, his friendly, rugged face was topped by a mop of unruly hair. His clothes, like his hands, were likely to show oil or grease stains and he spoke with assurance and authority in a Midlands accent.
Brian had bought a finished hull and deck and would turn up with lumps prefabricated in his garage or works which slotted precisely. He overtook us all: I was for ever seeking his advicewhich he seemed to encourage, mulling over problems with the same sort of concentration some people show for
The Times
crossword. It was never long before he would return, a stub of pencil and scrap of paper in his hand. âThis is what you do, our kid.â And you had your answer.
Once the plug was removed, the hull was placed in its cradle. Then 3in channels were chiselled out of the foam to form stringers and bulkhead recesses. The