It's April 22nd, 1969, in Falmouth, a Cornish coastal town in the southwest of England.

It's a windy day and the sea breeze is blowing into the port.

Women tie scars around their heads, men wear hats to keep out the cold.

Despite the weather, people are willing to battle these elements to get the first glimpse of what's coming into view.

A quarter of a million people had gathered, all looking out to sea.

And suddenly, they see it.

Not one ship or one sail, but a whole flotilla of boats coming over the horizon.

All there to accompany one man on the final leg of his journey.

Canons are fired.

Fog horns echo around the bay, and photographers bustle for the best shot.

The first people to board with the customs jumped on board and said,

good afternoon, captain, where from. And I said, Falmouth.

But they're just joking around because this man hasn't traveled from another country.

He left Falmouth this very same port, 312 days earlier, without stopping.

He had become the first man to sail all the way around the world, nonstop, and on his own.

His name was Robin Knox-Johnston, and to many he was a hero.

And the crowds couldn't wait to welcome him home.

So then I was taken to the town hall, and had to make the first speech I've ever made in my life, which was a bit.

Not really good.

I had the dinner I'd ordered, it'd be a chain locker.

Imagine being at sea for almost a year, then you come home to a proper cooked meal.

Oh, absolutely.

...