Lewis, a New Zealand physician and adventurer, took it into his head a few years ago to circumnavigate Antarctica singlehanded in a 32-foot yacht, the sturdy (but not that sturdy) Ice Bird. Starting out from Sydney Harbor in late winter after what sounds like the world's most inadequate preparations, he shortly lost both motor and mast in a hurricane, suffered frostbite struggling to cut away the wrecked shrouds, and by all odds should never have ended up: eight and one-half weeks and 2500 miles later hailing the startled Jacques Cousteau at 2:30 a.m. one morning at Palmer Antarctic Station south of Cape Horn. Sanity temporarily prevailed, and Lewis was persuaded to leave Ice Bird to be repaired by volunteers from the amazingly cooperative Palmer Station staff while he spent the better part of a year licking his wounds under the auspices of the National Geographic. The second lap of the voyage--much more adequately out-fitted--came to grief with equal promptness, and Lewis limped gallantly to Cape Town, only two-thirds of the way to his goal. All the elements of a fine sea yarn are here--man against the elements (the polar seas which sweep around Antarctica are the fiercest on earth), plagued by physical hardships and failing or entirely lacking equipment (Lewis didn't have so much as a working radio, a reliable compass, or an alarm clock), at one with the faithful ship. But it ends up sounding oddly lame, cursory, and anonymous--perhaps it's due to a would-be-breezy writing style becalmed by every new event.