Trimaran solo sailor artist completes OSTAR qualifier

Lia Ditton reports on the salutory lessons learned on her inaugural outing on board Shockwave

Charging across the horizon to meet me, a plume of spray masked the definition of a RIB. Five hundred and sixty eight solo miles, three days of hunger, and enough mechanical, electrical and rig issues to keep three professionals in work for a week: the feeling of a greeted return was as heart warming as a glass of Drambuie and a roaring open fire. My expression must have been a rainbow - I wanted both to laugh and cry.

The previous 48 hours had been gruellingly slow. I had parked off Portland Bill at nightfall in a band of fog so dense, that I could barely see the bow. I was pulled in on the incoming tide and spat out by the tidal Race. A multihull crawling along at less than 5 knots can only be compared to driving a Formula 1 car through a 30 mile an hour speed restricted urban area! Without radar to forewarn, the concept of being blind and static in a no-wind zone led to creative measures - lifejacket strobes hoisted to the rig top and cyanide snap-sticks strung up like Christmas lights. I did not wish to be a stunned hare in the headlights of an oncoming car.

It was frighteningly cold. I cowered inside the God pod, breathing ghosts which condensed to pool, and drip from the cabin top. The soaked lagging from the generator exhaust was producing a wonderfully fragrant stew! I watched the night trickle away like grains from a sand timer and the light eventually grew bluish and then powdery white. A small bird tightrope walked one of the cockpit lines and finally Shockwave began to inch forward - homeward bound.



I had hoped to spend the remains of the night warm, dry and tucked up in a real bed! At 9.30 I had ripped away from Start Point matching wind speed for boat speed at a steady 17 knots. Shockwave was skimming the surface like an insect water boatman on a duck pond. My ETA at the Needles then stood poised at 2am. I was re-energized to be returning and revelled in the speed of easy miles. I say re-energized, because on Friday the stove flame appeared alarmingly small, and by the end of heating water for a small cup of tea, petered out entirely. Any conclusions as to the cause of my gas shortage were not going to lead to its remedy, instant or otherwise!

Four months of seven day weeks of effort to get Shockwave looking sexy and water-borne, were not going to be eclipsed by a few days of post-Lent fasting on a 500nm qualifier! Trying to avoid an ‘I ate cornflakes for breakfast,’ log diary, my ships log could now not escape colourful food inserts: Friday 1440 ‘Had cold pasta sauce on its own for lunch. Yep, just the sauce!’ And other summaries: ‘The good news is that three more cereal bars have been uncovered! [To make a total of 3!] two oranges, some grapes [but whose last sighting was not recent!] and one packet of hopefully pre-cooked soup.’

But as the tide began to turn, the 2am ETA started to slip frustratingly out of reach. Portland Bill I decided was ill described as a tidal ‘Gate’ in the Nautical Almanac. For me, it was a wall and tonight there was no way round it.

This was not the first time that Shockwave had run out of steam. As I stormed down the English Channel, I was preparing for the equivalent of a Southern Ocean war! On the precipice of the Atlantic, I had expected the Celtic Sea to be awash with life - a rumbling pitch of ocean rollers. Instead at 50 deg 43N 8 degrees 0 min W, I was cruising at 6.4kts and facing a night of low level cloud and poor visibility. It was becoming a painful pigeon step to Ireland.



Little did I know, that the Irish Air Core were on standby and excited to be flying out to Fastnet Rock to photograph Lia Ditton tear around it on trimaran Shockwave. Lia in the meantime was having a small logbook discussion with herself "having knocked out over half the miles [275.5 nm] going one way, should I be mustering on to the Fastnet for the sake of something to go round?’ I opted then to fast reach back. In waving the half way flag, I snuck below to assess ‘The Energy Shop,’ and doing so I realised an alarming fact: My batteries were not charging. Incoming voltage was registering but the number of amp hours had yet to increase during the trip so far. Diving below between passing ships, I multi-metered out the answer. Somehow the polarity on the wind generator had become reversed and was draining charge from the batteries.

With the wind generator now whizzing happily, I inadvertently entered into a race with a 250ft freighter! Barrelling along at 16kts, one by one the crew appeared on the rain driven decks. My imagination read their lips. ‘What the hell is that?! It’s going as fast as we are!’ With the wind now peaking at 30kts of true breeze, something was audibly amiss and Lia had to abandon trimming the sails which had been keeping Shockwave neck and neck with the freighter. The wind generator was vibrating the boat like a turbulent aircraft in descent. I had to hold down the kettle, in order to have a conversation on the satellite phone!

With great caution, I clipped myself to the boat in order to lean out and lash down the generator tripod. I could only suppose that a nut or bolt in the generator head was shaking itself free, because with a whirring guillotine in the way, there was no getting at it. A very surprising ‘kapow!’ followed, admittedly, by a rather pleasant tranquility. One glance behind pin-pointed the missing pieces. Time of Death Saturday 1945! My principal thought was ‘The Expensive!’ The list of carnage was growing and this one ranked higher in the chart than the Suzuki outboard hood which had earlier been an accidental sacrifice to King Neptune. I had met my match in wrestling the outboard safely back on board its cradle. It had been hanging on by a single rotating pin.

‘Won’t you be bored and lonely sailing alone?’ Boredom on a racing yacht is a luxury of which I have yet to have had the pleasure! As for loneliness, a medley of sleep deprivation and hunger was about to take care of that. Lia wrote, ‘Hunger leads to further fatigue. I find myself very slow at the moment. Knowing that a reef or two needed to be put in, I watched the world go by in a haze and then went for a nap!’



By midnight on Saturday I was so cross-eyed with lack of sleep, that I was beginning to hear voices! The custom creaks of Shockwave in motion were now funny cartoon characters saying ‘hello’ and asking questions! For the masthead light to extinguish at this critical time, less than two miles from the lee shore of Lizard Point, could not have been any unluckier. How could ships avoid me, if they couldn’t see me? I was rocketing like a juggernaut down a major highway. There was no having a nap now and yet I woke with a fright. I had fallen asleep at the helm, still clutching the tiller. The off course alarm was ringing and had been for how long, I wondered? Putting my fate in the hands of the gods, I set my egg timer for a few minutes and went to lie below, slumped in dry suit and lifejacket like a washed up sea-creature. On opening my eyes, I caught a reflection of a ship’s lights in the kettle, but in my delirium, I was convinced that someone else was onboard and that they would take care of it! Like a splash of cold water, I shot out of the cabin. NO THERE WASN’T ANYONE ELSE ONBOARD! Tacking….

A fishing trawler loomed to pass the starboard side by four inches. The fisherman messing with his nets on the aft deck did not even notice. It takes one close encounter to remind you sharply of your own mortal vulnerability. Skirting the southern Scilly Isles, I had noticed a chafe mark on the port running backstay. This I hoped would be my one statutory climb, Ellen Macarthur style! Thankfully the three pairs of fleece trousers worn underneath my dry suit kept me nicely padded! Still, climbing the mast with the autopilot left in charge to pummel down waves, is as crazy as climbing a swaying palm tree while it rains coconuts. I considered informing someone of my imminent ascent, but then assessed the consequences of that action a) I would have to check in post-climb, b) the chosen friend or family member would be scaling the walls with worry in the meantime and c) what were they supposed to do if it all went a little pear-shaped? So, I gave myself a focus/efficiency lesson and scooted up and down as fast as feasibly possible, thankfully with a successful mission behind me.

Departing Portsmouth Harbour six days earlier, I had inhaled an elixir of independence, solitude and adventure. The highs of speed sailing and smooth running since proved to be very high. The lows, the breakages, the problems, correlatively, very low. Zipping myself back into my damp dry suit, reminded me of the single most important mantra: Preservation of Self. You have to finish in order to win.