Philipp Hympendahl: Non-stop solo sail around Great Britain and Ireland with a gale hot on his heels

​We set off in the late afternoon of 16 July. Aboard my nine-metre-long ‘African Queen’, I set sail from Poole Harbour on the south coast of England. Having travelled here from IJmuiden in the Netherlands, I’d been forced to seek shelter from a storm here unexpectedly and then also had to have a loose upper shroud repaired by a professional rigger. Never mind – I’ll simply set off on my project from here: alone and without stopping at any harbour, I intend to try and sail around the whole of Great Britain and Ireland.

Just a short while ago, Boris Herrmann’s ‘Malizia’ completed the same route as part of the Course des Caps regatta – in six days and six hours. I won’t be that fast. Still, it’s an incentive to follow in the professionals’ footsteps.

More on this topic:

• ​Philipp Hympendahl: On failure and new plans – “I’ve come to terms with it!”
• ​Sailing solo on a long-distance voyage: An interview with Philipp Hympendahl – “Putting all my eggs in one basket”
• ​Adventure: Philipp Hympendahl completed a training lap on the Atlantic Ocean

No sooner am I out at sea than dusk gives way to darkness. At around 11 pm, just as I’m about to start taking short naps, I spot two yachts heading towards me. I’m on the port bow and have right of way, but I stay awake for the time being. Just as well, because one of the boats is heading straight for me, undeterred. So I alter course to avoid a collision. I vent my frustration over the VHF radio. I receive an apology, but that does little to calm my racing pulse.

During the night, the wind dies down a little, visibility worsens, and fog settles over the water. The weather forecast for the Celtic Sea is very mixed, with a bit of everything. I therefore decide to exercise sound seamanship and get some sleep in the riverbed of the Helford River near Falmouth. There, I drop anchor near the mouth of the river at a depth of about four metres.

There are already a few other boats moored here. The densely wooded bank is less than 50 metres away and dotted with small stretches of beach. On the other side of the river, a picturesque panorama unfolds: green hills covered in pastureland, interspersed with large trees and a few cottages. The play of light from the sun and clouds the next morning bathes the spot in a magical glow. I spend several days here at anchor.

Then a window of good weather opens up for the Celtic Sea, and in the early morning of 22 July I am able to continue my journey. By midday, Land’s End is directly abeam – the famous landmark marking the end of the English Channel. As a young man, I once stood up there and looked down at the sailors. Now I’m passing the cliffs in my own boat, in sunshine, with a light breeze and a proud heart.

In the afternoon, I swap the British host nation’s flag for the Irish one. The wind direction forces me to take a wide detour northwards during the night. Later, sailing close-hauled with reefed sails, I set course for Fastnet Rock. On the way there, the wind dies down more and more, and I reach the lighthouse off the south-west coast of Ireland at a snail’s pace. It seems almost strange, given that we sailors tend to associate the turning mark of the legendary Fastnet Race with rough conditions.

Most sailors are drawn eastwards from here, towards Cork. This town on the south coast of Ireland is a mecca for sailors, boasting the world’s oldest yacht club and one of the largest natural harbours. I, however, am heading north-west, approaching a rugged stretch of coastline that lies completely exposed to the North Atlantic. The swell rolling in here builds up over thousands of nautical miles. As I sit under my sprayhood, gazing absently into the distance, my gaze is caught by something out of the ordinary: a long, pointed fin protrudes from the water some distance away. Shortly afterwards, water shoots into the air as if from a spray nozzle. The dorsal fin cuts powerfully through the sea, and more appear: orcas! I watch the animals through my binoculars and am glad to know they are at a safe distance.

The weather is becoming more Irish

A fur-lined fleece jumper, which I once bought in Hamburg for a winter circumnavigation of Denmark, is now in constant use. It feels like a second skin to me. I sail past the fjord-like bays and finger-shaped headlands of the south-west of Ireland in a 15-knot westerly wind. The long, rolling swell gently lifts the boat up and then lowers it again. Nature is flexing its muscles, but isn’t straining them. Not yet, anyway.

My alarm clock goes off after 20 minutes of sleep. I wake up immediately, leave my dream behind and check my position. Then I climb onto the large step of my engine compartment and lean far out from under the sprayhood to look in all directions into the cloud-shrouded darkness. No other boat in sight, no lights to be seen. So I clamber back into my bunk, reset the timer, tuck myself in and drift off for another 20 minutes.

Stronger winds are on their way; I’d better get out of here. As I try to make my way to an anchorage along the coast, I suddenly find myself in choppy seas. The ‘Queen’ is being shaken violently from all sides by waves towering metres high, and is being thrown from side to side. On the spur of the moment, I turn away and head out to sea again until I’m back in calmer waters. I look for a new place to anchor and find another one 25 nautical miles ahead in the natural harbour of Ballyglass.

The queen stage to St Kilda

Hours later, I finally pass the small lighthouse at the entrance to the bay. Although the flat surrounding landscape does nothing to shield me from the gusts, the anchorage near the beach is good and there is no swell. I am glad to have found a sheltered spot. In the distance, I can make out a village with scattered houses on its outskirts, some of them dilapidated and empty. On the other side of the bay, a hilly landscape stretches out beneath a contrasting blanket of clouds. Every now and then, the sun breaks through, making the meadows glow a rich green. Welcome to Ireland!

The next day brings the highlight of the journey: far to the north, off the Hebrides, lies the small uninhabited island of St Kilda. That is my next waypoint, over 200 nautical miles across the open North Atlantic. At midday I weigh anchor, and that very afternoon I am treated to a visual spectacle that I alone am privileged to witness – and which reaffirms my love for the sea once again: a low-hanging band of clouds is illuminated from behind by the last rays of the setting sun. This casts an orange glow across the sky, which is reflected on the waves, whilst my ‘African Queen’ glides alone across the vast expanse of water into the approaching darkness.

At midday on 29 July, St Kilda lies directly off the coast. Unfortunately, the island is hidden beneath a thick blanket of cloud. Only a narrow strip of coastline is visible. The colourless view does nothing to dampen my spirits. From here, I’m now heading on to the Orkneys. But then I receive some bad news from my German marine weather expert, Sebastian Wache, via my Iridium app: “Storm from 5 August, a real danger! As of today: right on target.”

Hurricane on the way

It is midday on 31 July as I leave the northernmost point of my journey behind me. North Ronaldsay is an inhabited island, just a few kilometres long, with a couple of wind turbines, a few houses and a lighthouse. As soon as I’ve passed it, I can bear away on a southerly course.

Knowing that the Orkneys are behind me is a huge relief. However, the weather forecast presents me with a difficult decision: a front is blocking the route south, and because of the approaching storm, I cannot wait until it has passed. This means that tomorrow morning, at the headland off Peterhead, I can expect winds of up to 30 knots and correspondingly high waves.

In the morning, I alter my course so that I can navigate through the strong winds whilst keeping a fair distance from the coast. The current is running against me, whilst the wind is pushing from behind and the sea is building up. When a wave pushes the boat, the line of the drift anchor I’d deployed earlier tightens and the ‘Queen’ stays on course. The sun keeps peeking out from behind scattered clouds, offering some comfort. By the afternoon, things finally calm down.

Perception vs. Reality

Over the next few days, just as a storm is brewing, I find myself in an area with very few anchorages. As the winds are still light to begin with, I don’t reach the mouth of the River Humber until after dark. Many lights are shining and twinkling; the distances are much greater than I had anticipated. Carefully, I carry the individual parts of the anchoring gear to the foredeck and attach them. Then I cross the main channel and head upstream with the incoming tide towards the anchorage. The headwind has now picked up considerably. The current is pushing from astern. A steep wave is building up. Suddenly, the plastic box containing my anchor chain slides across the foredeck and threatens to fall into the water. Just in time, I manage to get everything back into the cockpit. That was a close call! Losing the chain or the anchor would spell the end of this challenge.

I had chosen the anchorage based on a handbook and detailed maps. However, the reality the following morning did not match my expectations. Misjudged distances and a rusty Second World War fort, revealed in the first light of day, unveiled an unexpected reality. The protective riverbank was barely visible in the distance, and the other side of the river could be explored more easily with binoculars than with the naked eye.

Before the first weather front approaches around midday, I quickly lower the second anchor onto the seabed, offset to act as a counterweight. That’s all I can do. And then the wind picks up. In the afternoon, I film the bow rising and falling with the waves, as if I were out at sea. The mast rattles and the rigging whistles; I can’t switch off. It’s not until evening that the wind dies down, at least for the night.

The route demands more than just a crossing of the Atlantic

The storm has been given a name: ‘Floris’. Off the Hebrides, where I’ve just been, wind speeds of up to 200 kilometres per hour have been recorded. In the morning, whilst the wind is still light, I make a decision: I start the engine, and shortly afterwards I’m standing at the bow pulpit, pulling on the rope, chain and anchors until, with my last ounce of strength, I hoist the main anchor onto the deck.

Even as I sail downstream towards the estuary under the headsail, the wind picks up. The jib is almost completely furled, yet the ‘Queen’ sails at four to five knots parallel to the coast, heading towards a wind farm. Time and again, the pressure in the sail increases – not in short, gusty bursts, but at long intervals and with unexpected force. It is not until the afternoon that the conditions settle down. I set a course eastwards to round the large headland in the south-east of England.

In the darkness, the tide carries the boat along parallel to the coast at speeds of up to nine knots. But this stretch of water has two sides to it: the wind has shifted, the current has changed direction, and so I’m tacking along the coast with poor turning angles and end up back at almost the same landmarks.

My exhausted body and weary mind are powerless to resist the sense of despondency that is creeping over me. As a single-handed sailor, this stretch of water is proving more demanding than my Atlantic crossing. New challenges are constantly arising, which I have to overcome whilst severely fatigued. From the ever-changing weather to currents, shoals, fishing nets, lack of sleep, exhaustion and loneliness. Making the right decisions whilst in this state – that’s what I wanted to test and practise on this voyage. Because that is my task as a solo sailor if I ever want to sail solo non-stop round the world.

After 26 days: We’ve done it!

As the sun sets, I set off on the final leg of my crossing of the English Channel. After a gruelling tack off Dover, I’m making good progress. It’s 11 August. Some friends of mine are standing near the Needles, taking a photo of our arrival. In the photo, the ‘Queen’ is a tiny white triangle, lost in the vastness of the sea.

After 26 days, I’m back in Poole. “Yes, I’ve done it!” I shout towards my GoPro camera. As I sail into the Poole Yacht Club, I pull the string on a flare to celebrate my arrival in the most symbolic way possible. The harbour master comes running over, startled, and shouts to ask if anything has happened. Later, I’m sitting in the restaurant, relieved and happy. With a pint in my hand, I look up at the masts: “That’s the only harbour you’ve seen,” I tell myself.

Two days later, on the way back to the Netherlands, two very different German boats and sailors cross paths: My 45-year-old ‘African Queen’ comes across the flagship of German ocean sailing, the ‘Malizia Seaexplorer’, which is en route to Southampton as part of the Ocean Race Europe. Unfortunately, it is dark when the black silhouette, with its flashing masthead light, glides past as if on rails in a light breeze off the sparkling coast near Brighton.

But my ‘Queen’ too stands proud, under full sail, illuminated by the headlamp of her weary skipper. These are two worlds that meet here for a brief moment, only to sail off into the night in opposite directions.

Recommended reading: “Seesucht” by Philipp Hympendahl

In his book, Hympendahl recounts his experiences of his Atlantic crossing in a 9-metre boat to the Caribbean and back. 26.90 euros, shop.delius-klasing.de