Preprint: Single-handed circumnavigator Alain Gerbault on his voyage with "Firecrest"

I'm in a friendly house near New York, it's a quiet evening. So quiet that I wonder if my extraordinary adventure of the last few months has really happened. Through the window I can see the strait of Long Island and the mast of my "Firecrest", just a few hundred metres away on the pier at Fort Totten.

It's not a dream. I crossed the Atlantic alone and am now in the United States. Less than a month ago, in the midst of storms and huge waves, I had to fight for my life at every moment.

Read more about other pioneers of sailing here:

• Single-handed pioneer: Joshua Slocum is the first person to complete a single-handed circumnavigation of the globe
• Forgotten pioneers: Ann Davison was the first woman to sail single-handed across the Atlantic
• Pioneering achievement: Jazz Turner is the first wheelchair user to circumnavigate Great Britain single-handedly
• Preprint: Pioneer Harry Pidgeon sailed around the world twice

Here, ready to hand, is my logbook, which I have kept conscientiously, even in the worst weather. I leaf through it, the salt water not yet completely dry, and my eyes fall on this part of my journey:

"On board the Firecrest, on 14 August, at sea at 34 degrees 45 minutes north latitude and 56 degrees 10 minutes west longitude, strong westerly wind. The boat was shaken violently throughout the night and heavy seas repeatedly battered it. At four o'clock in the morning, the jib sheet breaks and I have to splice the sheet. The deck is completely under water. Although all the hatches are closed, everything inside is soaked. Preparing my breakfast is no mean feat - it takes me two hours of acrobatic effort to manage a cup of tea and a few slices of fried bacon, not without banging my head on the bulkheads several times.

At nine o'clock the storm jib breaks. The boat is shaken so much and the wind is so strong that I can't even try to repair it. All my glasses and cups are broken.

At midday, a huge wave breaks over the deck and tears the hatch off the bulkhead. The waves are getting higher and higher, the sea is now monstrous and the wind is raging. It is blowing so hard that my sails are no longer holding. A hole appears in the storm jib and the mainsail tears open along the centre seam - a three-metre-long tear. I have to retrieve the sails to save them. But that's hardly possible in this wind and sea without risking being washed overboard!

I can barely keep my feet on the wet, slippery deck and it takes me a full hour to get this dangerous job done. I think about hoisting the drift sail, but the wind continues to pick up. Now it's a real storm. No sail can withstand this weather. The shrouds are singing exactly the same pitch as a fast-moving train - that means the wind has reached over 60 miles per hour.

It's time to try out my drift anchor - a large conical canvas bag, the opening of which is held open by an iron ring. I attach a 40-thread rope to my main anchor and connect it to the anchor chain. Then I throw the bag into the water, using a small buoy as a float. The bag fills up under the water, the line tightens and the bow slowly turns into the wind.

The 'Firecrest' is now rolling less, even though I'm still being buffeted by the sea. I have to put old canvas over the bulkhead to prevent further water ingress. I am completely exhausted, but there is still a lot to do. I bring my torn sails into the cabin, lock the hatches behind me and spend the evening and most of the night patching them up with sail thread and a needle.

Now it's raining cats and dogs. The water in the lounge is already above the floor. To my great annoyance, I realise that my pump is not working. It's raining harder and harder, I'm soaked to the skin, there's not a single dry spot on board and I can't stop the water from penetrating further through the skylights and the sail bulkhead."

Formative childhood in Saint-Malo

I'm closing my logbook. This was just an ordinary day during the stormy month I had to endure halfway through my journey. But what a wonderful life! Although I've only been back on land for a few days, I'm already longing to weigh anchor again, head out to sea and resume the life of a sailor. I start to daydream. How did I actually become a sailor? Where did my love of the sea come from?

I spent most of my youth in Dinard, near the fishing harbour of Saint-Malo, which two hundred years ago was famous for its fearless corsairs. When my father didn't take me on his yacht, I spent the day on a fisherman's boat. In Saint-Malo, the rugged Breton fishermen would equip their boats for the dangerous voyages to the Newfoundland banks or the fish-rich waters of Iceland.

Even back then, I dreamed of owning my own boat. At one point, my brother and I had saved enough money to buy one - but someone else beat us to it.

I envied the Breton fishermen their lives and shuddered at the tales of their daring and enduring exploits. There, in Saint-Malo and Dinard, I learnt to love the sea, the waves and the raging winds.

The dream of El Dorado

My favourite books were adventure stories. Many were about the search for gold, the adventures of gold diggers in Alaska and the Klondike. The word "El Dorado" had a magical fascination for me. Sometimes I thought: When I grow up, I will find my own El Dorado.

As a child, Joseph Conrad once put his finger on a map of the unexplored areas of Central Africa and said: "When I grow up, I'm going to travel there." He fulfilled his dream. He travelled there. Less fortunate than Conrad, I will probably never realise my childhood dream - my fate will be more like that of Edgar Allan Poe's hero:

"A gallant knight / Had journeyed long / Singing a song / In search of El Dorado. / But he grew old / This knight so bold / As he found / No spot of ground / That looked like El Dorado."

"A brave knight / Had travelled long / Sang his song / In search of El Dorado. / But he grew old / The brave knight! / And he found / No spot on earth / That looked like El Dorado."

Boarding school and war years

After my happy childhood years in Dinard, I was sent to Paris to study and was sent to boarding school in Stanislas. I spent the most unhappy years of my life there - locked up behind high walls, dreaming of the wide world, freedom and adventure. But I had to study, I was supposed to become an engineer.

Then the war broke out. I joined the air force. After experiencing the exhilarating freedom of space on my fighter plane through the clouds, I knew that I would never be able to lead a settled life in a city. The war had torn me away from civilisation. I no longer felt any desire to return there.

One day, a young American flying squadron mate lent me a book by Jack London: "Travelling with the Snark". This book taught me that it was possible to travel the world in a relatively small boat. It was a revelation, and I decided at that moment to take the plunge - if I survived the war.

Later, I teamed up with two friends. We wanted to equip a boat and sail to the islands of the Pacific together. But these two friends were killed in action. That's when I decided to set off on my own. I gave up my engineering career and spent a year searching all the French harbours for a boat that I could sail alone.

The discovery of the "Firecrest"

Two and a half years ago, when I visited my friend Ralph Stock, the author of "The Voyage of the Dream Ship", on his yacht, I discovered a small boat in an English harbour. It was the "Firecrest". Before I start with the report of my journey, I would like to introduce you to my "Firecrest". It is a cutter designed by the late Dixon Kemp and built in 1892 by P. T. Harris in Rowhedge, Essex (England). If he was still alive, Mr Kemp would surely be very surprised to learn that his racing boat, designed under the length and sail area regulations of the British Yacht Club, crossed the Atlantic and proved to be one of the finest vessels ever built.

It is a typical English cutter, narrow and deep, considering its length. It is eleven metres long and nine metres in the waterline. Its greatest width is two metres sixty. It is probably the narrowest boat that has ever crossed the ocean. A draught of one metre eighty is an extraordinary depth for its size. Its draught and the three and a half tonnes of lead it carries in its keel make it impossible to capsize. The deck has only two skylights and two hatches and can withstand the pressure of the waves breaking on board.

A cutter against all advice

It is rigged as a cutter, which means it only has one mast. And I can hear the great army of theoretical yachtmen exclaiming: "A cutter is too difficult to handle on your own. Why not a yawl or a ketch!" That's a matter of taste. Personally, I prefer to pull in reefs instead of changing sails. I think the cutter is the best rig because it achieves maximum speed with a sail area reduced to a minimum.

There's not enough room on deck for a proper lifeboat. Besides, I love my boat so much that I don't think I would care about being rescued if it sank.

But in order to stick to the conventions and allow me to go ashore when I'm anchored in a harbour, I transport the smallest possible canoe. It's 1.80 metres long, a berthon, similar to those used on submarines. Once folded, it doesn't take up any space along the skylights.

Floating home

The "Firecrest" is solidly built from oak and teak. Although it is already thirty-two years old, it is in perfect condition and I could go on at length about its resilience. But it's better to hold back and describe the interior of my floating home. It consists of three compartments.

Aft my cabin with two berths, under which there are two chests. A washbasin receives water from a 50-litre tank below deck. The woodwork in the cabin is made of mahogany and bird's eye maple. The cupboards on both sides are full of books. In front of the cabin and in the centre of the boat is a saloon, also with mahogany and maple panelling. There are cupboards and lockers on both sides where I keep my tennis trophies. There is a folding table in the centre.

The crew accommodation with two folding bunks and the kitchen is located in the foredeck. Here I prepare my meals on a Norwegian paraffin stove, which is gimballed so that it remains vertical even when the boat is rolling. Numerous chests are filled with provisions: Rusks, rice, potatoes. There is a pump on the port side, which is connected to the two fresh water tanks. For lighting, I have a paraffin lamp and candles that are gimballed. My boat is my only home. I have on board all the familiar objects I love, my tennis prizes and my books. What does it matter if there is no wind! I'm in no hurry.

Library at sea

I don't have much space on board, but I can carry four metres of literature, which is about two hundred volumes. My library is therefore inevitably limited, which is why all my books are adventure books or volumes of poetry.

Finally, there are some favourite books on a shelf above my bunk. They are all my favourite books: poems and ballads. The ballad is indeed the poetic form best suited to depicting the lives of sailors. It contains all the old laments of the sailors and the old songs of the wooden navy that served to accompany the sailing manoeuvres.

There is the Ballad of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, which is unrivalled in the English language for the beauty of its composition and the perfection of its rhythm, as well as the poem of the Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. Then, finally, there is John Masefield, the poet I love above all others, with his poems and ballads of salt water, among which I must mention "Seasickness" and the "Lament of Cape Horn". Masefield, who lived on board sailing ships for a long time, knew better than anyone how to describe the sea and the life of sailors.

About Alain Gerbault

The French writer lived from 1893 to 1941 and was the first European to sail single-handed around the world from 1923 to 1929. He learnt to sail from his father and acquired his cutter "Firecrest" in England. The book about his voyage has now been reprinted in German. More information: Kontrabande.de

Technical data "Firecrest"

• Design engineer: Dixon Kemp
• Shipyard: P. T. Harris
• Year of construction: 1892
• Torso length: 11,00 m
• Waterline length: 9,00 m
• Width: 2,60 m
• Depth: 1,80 m