Sir Francis cobbles together his impressive tale of small craft circumnavigation of the globe in this book, relying on notes from his log and long ornery recollective tales that seemed to always follow this formula:
“My leg hurts, yet I reset the sails 87 times today, repaired the self-steering mechanism, enjoyed a gin/tonic which brought on a gale and got no sleep. Haven’t eaten in days due to lack of appetite.” Substitute in a sore elbow instead of leg and you get the homeward voyage.
More faux quotes that sum up the book;
“Wah wah, the boat’s construction sucks, I get leaks into my favorite bunk, all the drawers in the cabin are sealed shut. Hoping for some flying fish to land themselves on deck for my breakfast. I put on my velvet smoking jacket and cracked some champagne for rounding the horn. Too bad it was Aussie champagne.”
Ok, so it’s not cool to evaluate this book on literary merits, and it’s unfair to rail against its incomprehensiveness because I am utterly lacking of sailing knowledge. “I gybed my f’sails and ran the halyard up the scupper.” God help me if I ever set sail.
Still, it was an interesting glimpse into the solitary life of a sailor, tossing his 19 dozen eggs overboard after they’d spoiled a few weeks out of Plymouth, constantly problem solving with the myriad of things that went wrong onboard.