I am reminded of one of my favorite books of all time. (This has been a week of book reminders. Yesterday it was Earth Abides, written by local author George R. Stewart and set in Berkeley. Such a good book.)
Today, I’m thinking of The Strange Last Voyage of Donald Crowhurst by Nicholas Tomalin. Not a popular book by any means. I doubt many reading this blog will have read it. Although—there was a play produced (I didn’t see it), and even a movie.
Here’s a quick summary. I came across the book because it’s about sailing—specifically, a solo, non-stop race around the world.
Quite the adventure. It attracted the most daring sailors of the decade.
Most entrants were well-known, with experience, and well-founded boats. The “Golden Globe” race would become another remarkable sailing event, as dozens of boats faced the dangerous Roaring Forties, rounding Africa and the tip of South America.
That story alone would’ve caught my attention. I love sailing and all the drama of facing fifty-foot waves in tiny boats.
But there’s a wrinkle.
As the story goes, Donald Crowhurst was a weekend sailor with a trimaran he took out on the local estuary. Decent boat, casual experience. And, like many Englishmen, some of his best sailing decisions were likely made in a pub.
Somehow—perhaps through overconfidence, perhaps peer encouragement—Donald filled out the entry forms and committed himself to the race.
Looking back, many have said: someone should have stopped him. His boat wasn’t ready. He had never sailed long distances. Some committee should have stepped in. But there were no committees. And the race deadline was fast approaching.
His last hope? His family. But they, despite their fears, wanted to be supportive. They let him go.
So he left with the others. Trapped by his own words and pride.
He was one of the last boats to depart—intending to sail around the world, non-stop, solo.
Don’t you want to read the book now?
Well, spoiler alert:
Donald realized early on he wouldn’t survive. His boat was unprepared. His skills, inadequate. But his ego was large.
So he devised a plan. He sailed as far as Brazil, then hid—sailing in circles while transmitting fake navigational updates. He kept two logs: one real, one fake.
The plan worked—for a while. He had food. His boat mostly held together. He got lonely. It took months. But the idea was to slip back in with the returning pack, as if he’d been there all along.
Eventually, the race ended. But Donald Crowhurst never sailed in.
Weeks later, his boat was found adrift off Brazil. Still circling.
Both logs were onboard. The fake log had him nearing England. The real one was different—confusing, possibly tortured. Entries suggested madness. Strange visitations. Final notes implying he was told to walk off the boat.
He was gone.
No one knows what really happened to Donald Crowhurst.
Why does this story return to me?
Maybe it’s my upcoming motorcycle trip. Maybe it’s the thought of circling Crater Lake, Oregon for seven days straight.
Some stories—whether under sail or under stars—just get under your skin.
