All in the same boat
Author: Earle L. Reynolds; Barbara Reynolds
Date: 2024-10-07T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Voyages around the world; Phoenix (Yacht)

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Title: All in the same boat

An American family's adventures on a voyage around the world in the yacht Phoenix

Author: Earle L. Reynolds

Barbara Reynolds

Release date: October 7, 2024 [eBook #74535]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: David McKay Company, Inc, 1962

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74535

Credits: Richard Tonsing, Brian Wilson, Tim Lindell, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

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ALL IN THE SAME BOAT

THE FORBIDDEN VOYAGE

ALL IN THE SAME BOAT
An American Family’s Adventures on a Voyage around the World in the Yacht Phoenix

By
EARLE and BARBARA REYNOLDS
DAVID McKAY COMPANY, INC.
New York

ALL IN THE SAME BOAT
copyright © 1962 by Earle and Barbara Reynolds

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or parts thereof, in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

PUBLISHED SIMULTANEOUSLY IN THE DOMINION OF CANADA

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 62–18969

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

VAN REES PRESS  ·  NEW YORK

INTRODUCTION

At a party, celebrating the passage of the Phoenix through the Panama Canal, the master of ceremonies introduced our group as follows:

This is the crew of the yacht Phoenix, now on a voyage around the world.

First we have Jessica Reynolds, who is the first little girl, to my knowledge, to have attempted this feat.

Then there is Ted Reynolds, probably the first teen-age navigator of a globe-circling sailing yacht.

The third member of the crew is Nick Mikami, from Hiroshima—the first Japanese yachtsman to sail around the world.

Beside me is Barbara Reynolds, surely the most charming circumnavigating yachtswoman I have yet had the pleasure of meeting.

Finally—here is Dr. Earle Reynolds, whose sole claim to distinction is that he is the first, and only, skipper ever to sail around the world with all these wonderful people.

Fellow yachtsmen, both deep sea and dry land, both cockpit and armchair, here we are—all in the same boat.

DEDICATED TO

“All those men who want to go to sea and never do—” (Jessica’s Journal) and to their long-suffering wives.

AUTHORS’ NOTE

For simplicity, this collaboration is presented from the point of view of the Skipper

CONTENTS

| Introduction | v
1. | THE RISE OF THE PHOENIX | 1
| “Between a dream and a deed lie the doldrums.” |
2. | PREPARATIONS FOR A VOYAGE | 20
| “Cruising is walking, talking, buying, scrounging ... but cruising is also sailing.” |
3. | FROM JAPAN TO HONOLULU | 39
| “The long shakedown ... a seven-week course in How to Sail.” |
4. | ON TO THE SOUTH PACIFIC: FROM HAWAII TO TAHITI | 61
| “Banzai!... Banzai!... Banzai!” |
5. | TAHITI AND THE ISLANDS UNDER THE WIND | 81
| “Money? What I do with money?” |
6. | WESTWARD THROUGH THE SOUTH SEAS: RAROTONGA, SAMOA, FIJI | 100
| “A broad reach, a quiet sea, a full moon....” |
7. | DOWN UNDER: NEW ZEALAND AND AUSTRALIA | 115
| “Ah-h-h, yes-s-s!...” |
8. | —AND BACK UP: THE GREAT BARRIER REEF | 133
| “Better men than we had come to grief....” |
9. | INTO INDONESIA: THURSDAY ISLAND TO BALI | 151
| “Our life at sea was teaching us....” |
10. | BALI, JAVA, THE KEELING-COCOS | 169
| “A sense of uneasy anticipation....” |
11. | ACROSS THE INDIAN OCEAN: COCOS TO DURBAN | 189
| “You have seen people of all sorts. Makes my mouth water....” |
12. | SOUTH AFRICA: BEAUTIFUL, UNHAPPY LAND | 207
| “What will you do when that day comes?” |
13. | ACROSS THE ATLANTIC THE LONG WAY: CAPE TOWN TO NEW YORK CITY | 225
| “Beautiful night, new moon, slow progress, who cares?” |
14. | EVERY KIND OF CRUISING: NEW YORK TO PANAMA, BY THE CORKSCREW ROUTE | 247
| “A man must stand up for what he believes.” |
15. | GALÁPAGOS: HOME OF THE LAST PIONEERS | 267
| “Those delicate souls whose coffee must be just so....” |
16. | BACK TO HAWAII | 286
“How come change ya mind?”
17. | THE LAST LEG: HONOLULU TO HIROSHIMA | 297
“Of course, there were a couple of incidents.”
| INDEX | 305

ILLUSTRATIONS

(between pages 182 and 183)

Map of the journey around the world

The Phoenix under full sail in the waters off Hawaii

In port, Wellington, New Zealand

Arrival in Honolulu, 1954

Japan, buying scrap iron to use as inside ballast

The timber is cut
Shaping the hull
Full-size patterns for the ribs
The Captain and his ship
Launching day
Bora Bora, French Oceania
Skipper and Mi-ke
Sextant shot on a quiet day
Mickey: Portrait of a seasick sailor
Galley scene, April, 1955
Jessica and her journal
Lassoing albatross
Rough day, Tasman Sea
Repairing sails
Marina, Staten Island
Ted refurbishing figurehead
Jessica sewing on Girl Scout badges
Reynolds family

1      THE RISE
OF THE PHOENIX

“Between a dream and a deed lie the doldrums.”

The yacht Phoenix stood poised on the launching cradle. The ways were greased, the tide at spring high, and only a single wedge restrained our newly built ketch from sliding into the waters of the Inland Sea of Japan.

Standing on deck, I looked at the crowd below, at the Shinto priest chanting a blessing at the bow, and at Yotsuda-san, my long-suffering shipbuilder, waiting alongside for my signal.

Across the bay I could see the mountainous island of Miya Jima, green and beautiful in the bright May sun. Over there, in her famous shrine which at high tide seems to float upon the surface of the sea, sleeps the goddess, Itsukushima-hime-no-mikoto, famed and feared for her jealous nature. I could only hope she would not begrudge us our brief moment of glory.

When the priest had finished, I made a short speech, and then mochi—pink and white rice cakes of ceremonial significance—were tossed to the crowd. The moment had come: it was high noon. I caught Yotsuda-san’s eye, and nodded. He smiled, bowed, and signaled to a workman. I suddenly thought, Well, Yotsuda, if this launching is a bust, I’ll be busted, too—but you’ll probably have to revive the good old custom of harakiri.

“Ikimasho!—Let’s go!” I shouted. Then everything happened very fast. Jessica, standing on tiptoe, cut with a tiny golden ax the ribbon which symbolically bound the Phoenix to the shore; Barbara swung mightily and broke the traditional bottle across the bow, cutting her finger in the process; a workman knocked out the last block. We paused for a breathless moment, and then began our slide, picking up speed as we descended rapidly, until we hit the blue waters of the Inland Sea with a grand and noble splash.

From the boat Ted and I could hear mingled American cheers and Japanese banzais floating out across the water, as our Phoenix glided, riding free on the placid bay—where she promptly rammed into the side of a Japanese sampan, and spilled the too curious occupants into the drink.

So now we had our boat, and she floated. It was another stage in a long-term dream, a dream which had been born in my seventeenth summer. With my first pay check from my first job I had bought a book: Joshua Slocum’s account of the building of the beloved Spray, and of his singlehanded voyage around the world. That was the beginning.

But between a dream and a deed often lie decades of doldrums.

During the next two decades I lived what might be called a normal academic life, acquiring three degrees (all in anthropology), one wife, a daughter, two sons, a growing waistline, and a suspicion that life was pulling a fast one on me.

It was not until 1951 that my dream of ocean cruising returned in strength. At this time I was associate professor of anthropology at Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio—where the nearest body of water is the local pond, three feet deep—and head of the department of physical growth at the Fels Research Institute.

That year the National Academy of Sciences asked me, as an expert in the field of human growth and development, to set up a scientific study in the atom-bombed city of Hiroshima. I accepted and went to Japan, together with Barbara and our three children: Tim, now fifteen; Ted, thirteen; and Jessica, seven. For the next three years I studied the effects of atomic radiation on the growth of the surviving children of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Now, for the first time in my life, I lived within sight and sound of the sea, even though it was the relatively gentle Inland Sea of Japan. Every day, as I drove to the laboratories of the Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission, I passed busy shipyards, where wooden ships, both large and small, were being built with age-old skills. Oyster boats, fishing sampans, and trading schooners dotted the blue waters of Hiroshima Wan. Gradually, as I settled into my research and got my bearings, I began to look about with a very specific purpose in mind.

There is a poem by Browning whose lines are haunting: “Never the time and the place and the loved one all together!” At last it seemed that these three magic elements might possibly be combined. We had the time—a two-year contract, with an option to extend it for a third year. This was certainly the place—the magnificent Inland Sea, unrivaled for beauty, with plenty of opportunity for sailing—while just beyond lay the vast and challenging waters of the Pacific. Moreover, there were skilled Japanese shipwrights here, with centuries of tradition in the building of wooden craft.

As for the loved one—she existed as yet only in the notes, sketches, and pictures I had stored over the years, but which I hoped might be assembled into the plans for the ideal boat.

Finally, for the first time in our lives, we had a chance to accumulate some capital. At last, and for once—the time, the place, and the loved one seemed to have met.

The type of craft that evolved in my mind was a heavily built ketch, stressing the factors of safety and simplicity. I knew about the pros and cons of light-versus-heavy displacement cruising boats, and had compared modern and old-time designs, rigs and methods of construction. One fact was all-important: styles in boats, like everything else, may change, but the sea doesn’t. Boats built along traditional lines have made long voyages in safety and relative comfort in years past, and they can do so today, even though they may be scorned as “old-fashioned.”

With this idea in mind, I made a few contacts with stateside designers and ordered a number of stock plans. I came across some very fine designs, but none completely suited me. One very real problem was the particular circumstances under which this boat would have to be built. I would have to use materials and equipment now available in Japan. The boat would have to be built of Japanese woods. Would a foreign designer know which to recommend? Also, there was the matter of the local boatbuilders, who didn’t take too kindly to plans and blueprints, to say nothing of the English language. Would an absentee designer be able to anticipate and provide for all the problems that were bound to arise?

Reluctantly I had to face the facts: if I wanted a boat built in Japan, by local shipwrights, I would have to design it myself and supervise every detail of its construction. If I didn’t think I could do it, it would be better not to start.

I settled myself to the task. For the next year all my time and energy outside the laboratory were devoted to the labor of designing the boat. It was entirely a “library research” type of job, based on my studies, collected materials, and the books I had brought to Japan with me.

I drew up the plans for a double-ender, along the lines of the early Colin Archer designs. It was to be 50 feet over-all, with a 14-foot beam and a draft of 7½ feet, displacing about 30 tons.

The ketch was to have a straight keel, high bulwarks, gaff main, topmast, inside ballast (6½ out of a total of 9 tons), and a flush deck forward of a small after cabin. Her accommodations would attempt to combine the best features of an open design, so necessary in the tropics, with the essential privacy for each member of the crew, which could make all the difference on a long voyage.

With the plans well along, we hit a real snag. For months all efforts to find a satisfactory boatbuilder, at a price we could afford, drew only blanks.

A major problem was language. I could speak enough Japanese to get a hot bath, to find out when the next train left, or to agree that the scenery was out of this world—but this was a long way from being able to discuss technical phases of boatbuilding. I began to enlist help from among my Japanese friends, and before long had built up a working team, which we called the “four-man parlay.”

Man No. 1 was Yasuda-san (“san” is a suffix meaning Mr., Mrs., or Miss). Yasuda-san was a teacher in the local high school; his knowledge of English was excellent but he knew nothing whatever about boats.

Man No. 2 was Takemura-san, key member of the Hiroshima University Yacht Club. He was a former officer in the Japanese Navy, an expert navigator, and a keen sailor of small boats, though not a deep-sea yachtsman. His interest in the venture was as a potential member of the crew. He spoke not one word of English.

Man No. 3, whom we called the catalyst, was Niichi Mikami, a fellow employee at the Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission. Nick (as he quickly became known) spoke fair English and had a good understanding of “how to get along with Americans.” He was also a fine small-boat sailor and a member of the local yacht club. He filled in the gaps in the chain of communication.

Man No. 4 was myself, who thought I knew what I wanted but was hard put, at times, to get it.

Whenever the team could be assembled, we toured the boatyards of the surrounding areas, but without success. The builders either refused outright, or quoted such a fantastically high price that there was no point in dickering, or—more in character—were so devious in their discussion that this amounted, in Japanese terms, to a refusal. Not until the search was widened well beyond Hiroshima, to the region near Miya Jima, did I find my man. One cold, wet morning in December, our four-man team set out for Miya Jima Guchi, thirty minutes by standing-room-only train from Hiroshima. From here a short walk took us to the small shipyard of Mr. Yotsuda.

As we approached we could see Yotsuda-san himself, silhouetted against the terraced rice fields of an adjoining hillside. His kimono waving briskly in the breeze, he was repairing his roof—and judging from the looks of it, none too soon. At a hail, he scrambled down, and I bowed through the rituals of introduction, via Yasuda-san, via Takemura-san, with help from Nick.

Yotsuda-san impressed me favorably when I met him, and I had a feeling he liked me. He was a cheerful, shrewd-eyed, honest-faced man of middle age. He had been a busy and prosperous shipbuilder in Manchuria until after the war, but now, repatriated to Japan, he had been able to bring back only his family and a few hand tools. At present, the Yotsudas were living precariously from hand to mouth, or rather, from fishing smack to oyster boat.

The workshop consisted of an open shed, with living quarters behind, and a nearby pile of scrap lumber. The shop had a bare and austere appearance to American, gadget-accustomed eyes. There were no high-speed tools in evidence, no laborsaving devices, no power saws or sanding machines, not even a brace and bit. There were only the traditional hand tools of Japanese boatbuilding—adzes, chisels, hammers, augers, saws. I noted that the saws functioned by pulling instead of pushing. As I later discovered, so did the workmen.

Our group was ushered into the Yotsuda living-sleeping-dining room, with its bare tatami mats and the family shrine in the corner. There we knelt about the hibachi, trying to warm ourselves from its core of glowing charcoal. The family had apparently been banished to the earthen-floored kitchen. While the wind whistled through the plainly visible cracks, the “team” discussed with Yotsuda-san in tortuous fashion the possibility of bringing to life, in wood and iron, my sketches and notes. And I thought doubtfully to myself, When this man can’t even plug the holes in his own walls, how could he ever be able to build a good boat?

At any rate, I showed him what I wanted, bringing out my plans and pictures, and discussing notes and construction. Hours passed. Yotsuda-san looked and listened quietly. Behind his impassive smile—that famous Japanese smile!—there began to glow a spark of genuine interest and understanding. Through the interpreters he began to ask pertinent questions and make sharp comments. There was no doubt this man knew his business, and that he saw, in the designs, a challenge that intrigued him. Suddenly I found myself thinking that, cracks or no cracks in the wall, this man could build our boat!

So I knelt there, with legs long ago gone to sleep, and shivered silently in my overcoat, while a long and vigorous discussion took place in Japanese. At last there was a pause, a question from Takemura-san which could be recognized as climactic, and Yotsuda-san’s answer, ending in the phrase, “Dekimasu—Can do it.”

The team summed up the four-hour meeting succinctly: “He say ‘Okay’!”

Now we had to come to grips with reality. A dream on paper is no risk at all, but the time had come to back it with a sizable wad of cash. Even though the price agreed upon was remarkably low, by American standards, it would take all the money we had and could raise. I had to face the fact that, if anything went wrong, we might be financially wrecked before we even got the boat in the water.

The contract, when completed, was a magnificent document, embodying every item and clause I could cull from legal terminology and textbooks on boatbuilding (I had eight of them). It protected us (or so I thought) from every imaginable disaster or delay, whether from act of God or from error of Nippon.

Even so, the contract contained, as I later discovered, two flaws. First, when translated into Japanese by Mr. Yasuda, the language somehow lost the force of the English version, so that the verbs “will” and “must” came out “it would be nice if” and “it would be good to.” Months later, when I came to know both Mr. Yasuda and the Japanese language better, I asked him why he had so softened the original version.

“Reynolds-sensei,” said Mr. Yasuda (“sensei” being a term of respect accorded professors and the like), “Reynolds-sensei is a very polite man.”

“Oh, I am?” I asked politely.

“Of course. And Reynolds-sensei would never say anything to make Yotsuda-san unhappy.”

“No?”

“Because then Yotsuda-san maybe not work so well.” Mr. Yasuda smiled. “So I do not translate what Reynolds-sensei say; I translate what he mean.”

“Oh.” I thought this over for a moment. “Mr. Yasuda—the boat—it’s still to be fifty feet long, isn’t it?”

“Of course!” said Mr. Yasuda, shocked. “Everything just like you say in contract!”

The second flaw in the contract was a very simple one. The time stipulated for the completion of the job, to be started in December, 1952, was June 15. The contract merely neglected to mention which June 15.

In any event, having made the down payment, as per contract, so Yotsuda-san could begin to buy the materials, I retired to the bosom of my family for Christmas. Perhaps there was something in the gifts I had shopped for so lovingly—heavy brass ship’s candlesticks mounted in gimbals, a ship’s bell with a truly mellow tone, a bright orange life jacket for each member of the family—that made the kids realize that, although this boat might be another of daddy’s whims, it was a whim that was going to affect them directly. They began to take a mild interest in the project and to look at my plans with more respect. Jessica, in particular, asked to be shown her place in the boat, and wanted it distinctly understood that she would have no part in it unless room was made for all her dolls. This was managed by simply labeling one locker in the plans, “Jessica’s Dolls.”

Shortly after New Year’s Day I returned to the shipyard, eagerly expectant. I looked forward to seeing the piles of lumber, redolent with promise. Perhaps the keel had already been laid. At least the lines of the boat would have been laid down, full size, as directed.

I was alone this trip, so as I trudged the muddy road from the station to the boatyard, I went over my meager Japanese vocabulary. But after all, I wanted only to look at the progress of the work, and surely no technical problems would come up this soon.

None did, for when I arrived I found the shop, in its original condition, together with Mr. Yotsuda, in his original condition, and nothing else. At a disadvantage, I began a conversation in my best pidgin Japanese.

“Ohio gosaimasu—Good morning,” I said, as an opening gambit.

Mr. Yotsuda bowed. “Ohio gosaimasu. Shinen omedeto gosaimasu!” This meant not only good morning but also Happy New Year, which put him one up.

“Boat,” I fumbled. “Not begin?”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Yotsuda happily. “Not begin!”

“Ah so desuka?” This is the Japanese equivalent of “You don’t say?” “Why not—begin?”

“Ah—now New Year!” Mr. Yotsuda seemed vastly surprised at my ignorance.

“But, Yotsuda-san, New Year—three days before!”

“Ah, yes!” agreed Mr. Yotsuda. “Also today—and tomorrow—and tomorrow.” His gestures indicated a vast array of tomorrows. “Many, many days.”

So I learned a new thing about Japan—that New Year’s is not a day, it is a season.

However, when we visited the yard again, together, late in January, things looked more promising. Much lumber had been assembled; nearby were many curved logs of keyaki, comparable to oak, from which the frames would be made. Set upon a foundation near the shore was a massive log of kuromatsu (black pine) which the awkward-looking adzes of the workmen were rapidly transforming into a long, gleaming white keel. As I ran my hands lovingly over the fresh, smooth wood, I knew that at last we were on the way.

The methods of the workmen never ceased to fascinate us. In one corner of the shipyard was a sight that was to become very familiar: a solemn little man in a black fur cap who, sawing horizontally with an enormous curved saw, steadily, day after day, reduced huge logs to two-inch planks. Every bit of lumber on our boat was to be hand sawn. All the workmen handled their tools with consummate skill, an ease which was deceptive when one tried to use the same instrument. For example, after the deck had been laid they smoothed it to perfection by removing almost transparently thin shavings with the swing of an adze—an operation in which a fraction too much follow-through would have removed a toe or a miscalculation in depth would have left an ugly gouge. Neither gruesome alternative ever happened.

The men worked mainly by eye, even when operating within the confines of measurements, but the completed job was always amazingly accurate. An example was the fitting of the planking which, forced into position by huge vises, was fastened to the frames with handmade, hot-dipped galvanized boat spikes, through-bolted at the butts, and then, for additional strength, edge-nailed from the inside. The planking was begun from the bottom up and completed from the top down. It remains one of the mysteries of the inscrutable East how that last plank was so cut as to fit exactly into the space that awaited it. No crack of light could be seen between the finished planking, even before calking.

Both planking and deck seams were calked with oakum. When the job was done, the cooperation of the local fire department was enlisted and a hand pump set up on the sea wall. A contingent of volunteers spent hours pumping the Inland Sea into the hull, while workmen on the scaffolding outside marked the few small leaks with chalk. At the end of a busy day, a hole was drilled in the bilge and the sea allowed to drain out.

The chief exceptions to traditional Japanese methods were in my insistence on the use of wood preservatives, marine glue and American putties and paints. Such procedures are not a part of normal sampan-building activities. A certain preliminary confusion was also caused by the fact that Japanese shipwrights do not operate in terms of feet and inches, but with shaku and sun, which are only rough equivalents. Eventually, I discovered that the work proceeded much more smoothly if I adapted to their measuring system and translated my figures into Japanese dimensions. I became quite casual, as time went on, in the use of shaku and sun, not to mention bu, ken, kan, kin, tsubo, sho, to, and koku.

We never did become casual, however, about the manner in which the workmen smoked on the job and tossed their butts and matches—sometimes still aflame—into nearby piles of trash and shavings. Naturally, there was a fire clause in the contract, but we were realistic enough by now to know that if the job came to a fiery and untimely end, Yotsuda-san would be profoundly distressed, but absolutely without means to rebuild our boat. Insurance? Just the thought of beginning negotiations made my head reel. No, the men must stop smoking on the job. I told them so, and they smiled and bowed politely. From then on, each time we came out to the boatyard, they smiled, bowed, and carefully put out their cigarettes. We smiled and bowed also, and hoped for the best.

Nevertheless, these months were happy ones for us all. The work progressed steadily, if slowly, and although we had gradually reconciled ourselves to the fact that we would not launch in June, we felt that surely by July—or, at the latest, August.... We still had much to learn.

During this time hundreds of problems arose, and each, after its own nature, had to be met and surmounted. Scores of items, major and minor, had to be hunted down, designed or made, or contracted for. A principal source of supply was in the junk and secondhand marine shops that lined the waterfronts. The nearby city of Kure had during the war been a mammoth shipbuilding center, and even then in some half-forgotten bin at the back of a shop one could sometimes make rich strikes. I would emerge sneezing, dragging out a length of galvanized chain or an assortment of bolts. The proprietor, knowing quite well who I was and what I was up to, would grin amiably. The conversation usually went like this:

“Kono jonku wa—ikura desuka?—This junk—how much?”

“Jonku!” he exclaimed in mock indignation. “Jonku nai! Yotto no mono desu!—Not junk! Yacht equipment!”

“Iie! Jonku dake! Ikura?—No! Only junk! How much?”

He laughed. “Hokay. Sekai isshu no yotto kara, jonku desu.—Okay. Because it’s for the round-the-world yacht, call it junk.” He weighed it up, I paid for it at the rate of scrap iron, and hauled it down to the boat.

In Kure also was an offshoot of the Korean War, the BCOF—British Commonwealth Occupation Forces—salvage depot, which was a high-class name for another junk yard. War materiel poured into this depot in bewildering abundance and a wide variety of conditions, from completely unused to completely useless. Climbing the mountainous piles of scrap in the yard, or delving into the bins in the sheds, I would sometimes make a fine haul, as on the day I picked up two new 65-pound plow-type anchors for one pound Australian ($2.25) apiece.

Sometimes, however, the find would turn out to be fool’s gold, as it was the time I bought a 1,200-foot coil of condemned one-inch manila rope for 10 shillings, sight unseen, only to discover that it should have remained sight unseen, forever.

In time the officers in charge of the depot became interested in our activities, and set aside items which they thought we could use. In this way we acquired such things as a ton of truck springs (for inside ballast), an Air Force compass (which we used all the way around the world), a big bilge pump (still in use), an aluminum gas tank from a crashed plane (our deck water tank), and dozens of other items, great and small.

No amount of searching, however, would dig up the outside keel we had to have cast by a foundry, or a marine engine (ordered from America), or our sails (made in Yokohama), or the many special deck irons, or the rigging. In cases such as these, I had to do it the hard way.

By September, work had progressed far enough so that we felt it was high time to decide on a name for our craft. My preference was for Daruma, the Japanese doll with a rounded bottom and the well-known ability to bounce upright every time it was pushed over. The Japanese have a saying about the daruma: “Nana korobi, ya oki!—Down seven times, up eight!” I liked those odds very much. So, when our Japanese language teacher and very good friend, Mr. Yamada, next visited us, we broached the subject.

“Daruma....” Mr. Yamada said, slowly tasting the word. “Yes-s-s ... very good.” From his tone we knew he really meant not worth a plugged yen. What we didn’t know at that time was that to the Japanese the daruma also connotes a lady of easy virtue, for obvious reasons.

“Maybe something else would be better?” Barbara said, giving him an out.

“I think so—maybe something else,” agreed Mr. Yamada. “I will think about it.”

On his next visit Mr. Yamada did not bring up the subject of the boat’s name directly. That was not his way. But he did produce a 10-yen note and point out to us the mythical bird engraved across its face, the phoenix. And during the rest of the evening the word “phoenix” seemed to recur frequently in our conversation. “We Japanese hold phoenix in very great esteem.... One of the rooms in the Imperial Palace is called Phoenix Room. It is most beautiful.” More importantly, Mr. Yamada had written out for us, in his amazingly neat script, an account of the place of the phoenix in Oriental mythology—“He is legendary king of the birds appearing to reign only in time of universal peace.” In turn Mr. Yamada seemed both awed and incredulous when we told him of the Western concept: that the phoenix is eternally born again from the ashes of its own destruction.

“Perhaps—world peace—shall rise from the ashes of Hiroshima,” he murmured.

“Mr. Yamada,” I asked, “what would you think of the name of Phoenix for our boat?”

“Phoenix....” Mr. Yamada echoed the word softly. “Yes.... I think—maybe a very good name. Very—auspicious.”

And that was that.

The next step was to arrange for a suitable figurehead—naturally a phoenix. A local wood carver submitted an ambitious design. We managed to tame his enthusiasm somewhat, but our present compromise, carved from a solid block of camphorwood, is still a very impressive bird.

By now it was fall and we had begun to adjust our sights to a December launching. After all, that would be only six months late! The work was going along well and all seemed serene when suddenly, like the collapse of a pricked balloon, everything stopped. On several consecutive visits we saw no workmen, no progress, no signs of life. Yotsuda-san seemed not to be available.

There was only one thing to do. Rounding up the “team,” I called a conference. Mrs. Yotsuda was sternly warned to have her husband there.

Yotsuda-san came to the meeting, but it was only after long prodding that the reason for the delay came out. Yotsuda had run out of money. Without pay, the workmen—even though they were his relatives—wouldn’t work. Therefore, he needed money—not more than the contract called for, but the next installment in advance of the due date.

After getting this straight, I advanced the sum needed. When Yotsuda-san, bowing his apologies all the way out of sight, had departed, I asked the natural question.

“Why didn’t he tell me at once? Why waste so much time?”

“Yotsuda-san was very much ashamed,” Mr. Yasuda explained.

“Ashamed because he needed money?”

“Yes. Contract says, ‘Next payment when masts stepped,’ but masts not stepped yet, so Yotsuda-san is ashamed to ask for money. It is a great disgrace to the Japanese people.”

“To the Japanese people?”

“Yes. You are foreign gentleman. You have made very careful contract. To foreigners, contract is important. So Japanese people much disgraced if Yotsuda-san cannot keep contract.”

“Don’t Japanese people have contracts among themselves?”

“Of course!” said Mr. Yasuda. “They have contracts, but do not use them. If contract is no good, they forget it.”

“Mr. Yasuda,” I said, “tell Yotsuda-san to forget the contract and build the boat.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Yasuda happily. “I think it would be much better.”

With the threat of disgrace from contractual obligations removed from Yotsuda’s shoulders, together with judicious advances of small sums at regular intervals, work again proceeded slowly and happily, interrupted only by the prolonged O-bon festivals of the fall months, the bad weather in November, and of course by the expected hiatus at New Year’s.

By early March the work was far enough along so that I thought we should discuss a definite date for the launching, but I was determined that this date, once set, would not be postponed, and stressed this strongly at the next group meeting.

Mr. Yasuda seemed surprised. “But date for launching is already decided.”

“Ah so desuka!—You don’t say!” I remarked. “Who decided it?”

Mr. Yasuda consulted his companions. “The priests at Miya Jima shrine,” he announced.

“Oh—naturally. And the date—may I ask when it is?”

“The fifth of May, a very good day. The priests say this is a lucky day. Also, it is big spring tide and you cannot launch except at highest tide. And it is Boys’ Day—Japanese national holiday—so everyone will come!”

This seemed to be an unbeatable combination, so May 5 was set as L day. In the meantime, we were busy as never before. We hung the rudder—a big, barn-door affair, on which the ironwork alone weighed 500 pounds. We sanded, puttied, and painted. And we stepped the masts, an all-day job using manpower alone. For this task the Hiroshima University Yacht Club, of which Nick and Takemura were members, turned out in a body to help. Even the press took notice, reporting that “A gigantic yacht is building near Miya Jima Guchi.” Compared to the snipes and sailing dinghies of the local yacht clubs, the Phoenix did indeed look gigantic as she reared up in her makeshift cradle, towering above the roof (now repaired) of Yotsuda’s humble home-shipyard.

As the date approached, our craft, superficially at least, began to take on the appearance of a boat. For the moment we refused to think of the work yet to be done: all the interior joiner work, the engine installation, the tanks, the deck-iron work, the standing and running rigging, the sails. And beyond this, such items as clothing, supplies, stores, navigation equipment, charts—literally hundreds of individual items to be obtained. And at the end of it all, the cruise itself, for which the entire undertaking was merely preparation. Of this last stage I dared not, at the moment, even think.

In the last hectic weeks before launching Barbara took over a number of items that had been added to the already lengthy list of Things to be Done. She located an upholsterer who could cover the frames for our seats and couches; she arranged for our weekly “sewing girl” to shift her talents from shirts and dresses to such necessary items as mattress covers, canvas cushions, and a complete set of signal flags.

All in all the family didn’t see too much of each other as we moved into the home stretch, but we consoled ourselves by thinking that once we moved aboard we’d be together constantly. This prospect was not one of unalloyed bliss, however, especially when Ted and Jessica tangled in a brother-sister dispute. At such times we were inclined to agree with Tim, who had announced violently, “I simply couldn’t live with my family on a fifty-foot boat!”

Soon thereafter Tim announced his decision to return to the States and go to college, rather than accompany us on our voyage. Barbara was disconsolate.

“It was one thing when I thought we’d all be in this together,” she tried to explain, “but with Tim in the States—and the rest of us out of touch for weeks at a time—possibly months—” She paused, and we both finished the thought silently, Maybe forever.

“Families,” wailed Jessica, “ought to stay together! I don’t want Tim to go!”

None of us did, but it was his decision to make. We let him go with our blessing, and went ahead with our plans. Barbara determined to do everything possible to draw the rest of us even closer together.

The last forty-eight hours before launching was a time of continuous work, accompanied by the hammering of shipwrights, who removed most of the scaffolding and poised the Phoenix in her launching cradle. They also had to demolish a portion of the heavy sea wall so that the ways could be extended out over the water. On the last night work continued long hours after dark, by the light of bonfires. The men themselves were considerably lit up by several cases of beer, so it was a tired but musical gang who saw the sun come up as the job was finally completed.

During the night Takemura-san, Nick, and I completed our preparations for the launching ceremonies, which had blossomed until they were far more elaborate than anything I had ever imagined or wanted. Much of this was due to the activities of Takemura, the prospective first mate, who had shown himself a bit unreliable in the matter of solid work but now proved himself to be a born master of ceremonies.

Among other things he had arranged elaborate king-size badges, to be worn by all participants. It was during the preparation of these badges that the first faint signs of future complications put in an appearance. At four in the morning Takemura approached and through Nick indicated that he needed to consult with me. Nick’s English, which had improved remarkably during the months we’d known him, was still strained a bit when conversations got beyond the realm of the strictly functional.

“Takemura-san wants to know what to write on badge,” said Nick.

“Do we have to have badges?” I asked desperately, but I already knew the answer to that one.

“Of course,” said Nick. “Always have badges—very important.”

“Okay,” I said resignedly. “On Oku-san—Mrs. Reynolds’ badge, write Cook.”

“Just—Cook?” repeated Nick, aghast.

“No—better make it Chief Bosun’s Mate,” I hastily amended.

“Ah, taihen ii desu—Very good!” approved Takemura when Nick translated. The title was duly brushed in, in beautiful Japanese ideographs.

I was getting warmer now. “And on this badge—” taking up Ted’s—“write Assistant Navigator, and on Jessica-san’s badge write Cabin Girl.” This was done, and Nick, who had been officially signed on, was given the title of second mate. Then there was a pause, and I could sense some sort of crisis.

“Reynolds-san, your badge. Takemura-san asks what to write.”

“Why, Captain, I should think. Unless you want something fancier?”

“Captain. Ah so desuka!” Takemura sucked air and bowed very low. All at once I got it.

“Yes,” I repeated firmly, “Captain. And on your badge write First Mate or Navigator in Chief—or both. Just as you please.”

The last two titles were recorded in a rather tense silence. I realized for the first time that Takemura had coveted the senior title and that this entire build-up may have been designed solely to establish that one point. Well, it’s been established, I thought. It’s settled, once and for all. As I discovered later, it settled something, all right, but not what I expected.

By dawn a crowd had begun to arrive, and we shared breakfast coffee with a dozen early well-wishers. The family came soon after, driven out in a truck along with the housegirls, the sewing girl, the gardener, and any number of large paper fish (for flying on high during Boys’ Day), ceremonial rice cakes, and various bottles of sake which had been dropped off at the house during the preceding evening. The most appreciated present, bar none, was the three-colored kitten which Jessica was clutching tightly in her arms.

“Miss Uchida says a three-colored cat is lucky on a boat,” Jessica announced. “Its name is spelled m-i-k-e—Mee-kay, not Mike—and that means three-colored, and it will catch rats when it gets big.”

“Just what we needed!” we managed to proclaim, to her intense relief.

In spite of my forebodings, Barbara had not forgotten to bring the champagne and a bag of netting to cover it, so the glass wouldn’t be sprayed at the critical moment. The bottle was promptly hung from the bow, convenient to the platform that had been erected for the ceremonies. Beyond this we had barely a moment to exchange a conjugal word (“Did you remember to bring the lanterns I left on the porch?” “Yes.”) before we were surrounded by friends who shoved bouquets and gift-wrapped parcels into our hands and asked us to pose, together with reporters, who held microphones of portable tape recorders in front of our faces, and press photographers, who begged for “Just one more, please!”

Long before noon all the choice vantage points, including nearby hills and the roof of Yotsuda-san’s house, were filled with people. By eleven o’clock there was no room left on shore, and very little left on the water. At 11:30 the program began, and promptly at the tick of noon the Phoenix was launched.

2      PREPARATIONS
FOR A VOYAGE

“Cruising is walking, talking, buying, scrounging ... but cruising is also sailing.”

It was almost dark before visitors ceased to stream aboard the Phoenix, now riding at anchor in the bay. Then it was time for me to go ashore for a conference with the owner of the sampan we had wrecked during the launching.

After that, I told Barbara, Ted and I would attend a party ashore, given for everyone even remotely connected with the building of the boat—except, of course, females. For the first time Barbara appeared recalcitrant.

“Do Jessica and I stay on board here alone?” she asked.

“No, you go on back to the house. The Yacht Club boys will keep anchor watch. Come back out tomorrow.”

“It was nice knowing you,” Barbara said, climbing down into the dinghy. “I hope you and the Phoenix have a wonderful honeymoon.”

Only after Barbara had left did it occur to me that she had really wanted to stay on board, even without bunks or conveniences. I suddenly realized that my actions must have revealed my misgivings about the family, their adaptability and willingness to “take it.”

The conference with the sampan owner was protracted. His boat, badly holed, had been hauled up on the beach, a mute testimonial to the ruggedness of the Phoenix, which was barely scratched.

The victim readily admitted his responsibility. He had been warned to stand clear and had ignored the warning. On the other hand, it was the Phoenix that had been launched. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been there. If he hadn’t come he wouldn’t have lost his sampan. Obviously, it was nobody’s fault—it was the will of the gods. However, since the captain of the Phoenix was a rich man—

I hastened to correct that statement.

—Well, anyway, richer than the sampan owner, and since this was an auspicious day when everybody should be happy, perhaps a sympathy offering....

“How much sympathy would the sampan owner need?” I inquired cautiously.

This required a long conference, but it came out to 2,000 yen—about $5.50 American. I announced that I could be that sympathetic, and the offering was duly made. With mutual expressions of esteem and satisfaction the conference broke up, and we moved on to the evening’s festivities.

This party, for which preparations had been under way for weeks, cast me in the dual role of guest and host. As guest, I was given the seat of honor; as host, I was expected to foot the bill. I hasten to add that I was by no means being victimized; it is the custom of the country. Besides, the whole affair came to less than a hundred dollars, including a bonus to each worker in proportion to his work.

It is also worth mentioning that Yotsuda-san never so much as hinted that a bonus should be given to him or that he should be paid more than the contract called for. This, in spite of dire predictions by fellow Americans—“old Japan hands”—who had warned me gloomily throughout that I’d be “taken for a ride.” What they failed to recognize was that Mr. Yotsuda was a completely honest man.

Late that night, after the party, Ted and I relaxed on deck, listening to the rustling of the tide as it slipped gently past the hull. Our first night aboard our yacht! In fact, I mused ruefully, it was the first night I had ever spent aboard any yacht. Ahead of us lay an unknown future but here, tonight, lying on deck and watching the stars overhead swing slowly in gentle arcs, I was at peace.

Early the next morning the Phoenix was towed to Hiroshima harbor, and the next stage of work began. A cabinetmaker and three workmen, complete with tools and lumber, moved aboard and began to carry out our plans for the interior accommodations.

Four main areas had been laid out. There were to be seven permanent bunks, each a tiny unshared domain. Two bunks were in the forecastle, just aft of the forepeak and chain locker. Between the forecastle and the main cabin an area was laid out to starboard for the head (American fixtures) and to port for a large and waterproof sail locker.

The large central cabin contained two more bunks, the main companionway, galley, lounge, and food and storage lockers.

Aft of the main cabin, and raised two feet, was the “ladies’ cabin.” It was to be finished in Oriental cabinet woods and ornamented with a ramma, or carved bas relief, and a miniature tokonoma, a replica of the family shrine that graces the main room of every Japanese home. Beneath the floor of this cabin was a large area for food storage.

At sea, there would be no traffic through the ladies’ cabin, everyone forward using the main companionway. Aft of the ladies’ cabin was a small cabin for the skipper, with navigation table and chart drawers. Beneath the floor was the engine space, and a small hatch led directly to the cockpit abaft the mizzenmast.

The entire arrangement seemed well adapted to our needs, giving adequate ventilation, but allowing a certain amount of privacy.

Once the Phoenix was afloat and nearer the house, family participation picked up. Barbara took a particular interest in the galley, and made a number of changes in cupboard and drawer arrangements. She and Jessica also ran a series of experiments in food preservation and provisioning, including a number of methods of preserving eggs. Each egg was carefully marked as to process used and date, and every few days one of the batch was tested—naturally on me. In the end we found the simple practice of greasing the eggs with oleo to be the most practical.

Meanwhile, most of my free time was spent away from home, working on the boat or roaming the streets and alleys of Kure and Hiroshima, with a few jaunts as far afield as Kobe, Osaka, and Yokohama. Only too well did we learn that cruising is not just sailing—it is walking, talking (in halting Japanese), buying, planning, scrounging, compromising—for months and months—and all on dry land. Nevertheless, we did manage to save several thousand dollars by these efforts.

Our sails were made up by the Ohara (that is not an Irish name!) Company of Yokohama and required, before negotiations were completed, three trips upcountry—a day’s journey each way. Drawing up the sail plans was a task on which I had burned a lot of midnight oil, and after the contracts were let I could only hope there had been no slip of the pencil.

At last the day came when a dozen bundles, carefully wrapped in rice straw, were dumped on the Hiroshima dock. Eagerly we opened them, to be greeted by an exciting odor of canvas, manila, and tar. Inside were the sails, gleaming white. One by one we checked them, stretching each in its appointed place. Outwardly businesslike and matter of fact, I was tremendously relieved to see that each sail had been properly designed.

We now had a mainsail, mizzen, forestaysail and jib (these four lowers giving about 1,000 square feet), plus a mizzen staysail, topsail, top jib, storm trysail, and storm jib. We had spares for the main and foresail. (Later, in Honolulu, we added a genoa.)

The arrival of the sails was a high spot during a time which was otherwise rushed, uncertain, and confused. Crew problems were beginning to emerge. We had been aware that Takemura-san was becoming increasingly uneasy. Instead of moving aboard to help with the rigging and final fitting-out, as we had agreed upon, and as Nick had done, Takemura became less and less dependable and often failed to show up at all. One night, after a long conference which put a heavy strain on both Nick’s English and his loyalties, the two men went up on deck and talked for several hours.

The next morning Takemura-san came to me, shook hands long and earnestly, and with real tears in his eyes, said “Sayonara.” He rowed ashore and out of our lives, leaving us not only without a mate, but without a dinghy, as this had been his contribution to the Phoenix.

Well, we thought glumly, we can always buy a new dinghy, and at least we still have Nick.

This was the cue for Nick to appear and explain that, under these changed circumstances, he would have to reconsider his decision to join us. Since he had been Takemura’s protégé, constant satellite, and uncritical admirer, we were sure we knew what that meant.

“Okay, Nick,” I told him. “We understand.” I held out my hand.

Nick looked a little startled. “I will go home, talk to family.” He was obviously trying to let us down easy, passing the ultimate responsibility to his parents.

“Fine,” I said, “you do that. Good-bye—and thanks for everything.”

Hailing a passing launch, Nick too went ashore. We sat on the deck and watched the harbor traffic, too dispirited to talk. Below decks, Ted and Jessica were shouting at each other, in an overheated sibling dispute. Here we are, I thought—what remains of my crew. One woman—with only half a heart in the venture. One son, age fifteen—willing, but a bit absentminded and not too good with his hands. One daughter, ten years old and small for her age, expert at handling dolls—but what good will she be on the mainsail? And myself—an armchair sailor, an untried skipper, who can cope fairly well with things mechanical but has little finesse with human beings, even his own family.

The inescapable conclusion of my gloomy inventory was: You’ve had it. A foreign country, a half-finished boat, a dwindling bank account, a divided family, and your crew has just walked off. I hardly noticed when Barbara reached over to slip her hand into mine. Nor did I note that the wrangling below had stopped of its own accord—as it always did—and that Ted was now busily entertaining Jessica with a story.

The rest of the day passed like a funereal dream. In the afternoon I went ashore and bought a secondhand rowboat. That evening we sat on deck and were uncheered by the nightly visit of the local sightseeing bus, which had added to its itinerary a visit to the docks to see the American “Around-the-world-boat.” “Around the world!” I muttered bitterly. “We couldn’t even go around Hiroshima harbor.”

Early the next morning we were aroused by the sound of oars and by voices alongside. Onto the deck clambered Nick, grinning broadly, and with him were two young fellows I recognized as members of the Yacht Club.

“Ohio gosaimasu!” Nick greeted us cheerfully. “Good morning! My father said, You promise to go, you go. So—I go. Okay. Oh—and these my friends—Fushima-san and Suemitsu-san. They will help make boat ready. They both want to go with us, which one do you want?”

From that day on, Motosada Fushima (Moto) and Mitsugi Suemitsu (Mickey) slept and worked aboard the Phoenix, splicing rope, wrapping blocks, and in general competing, in a completely friendly fashion, for the berth vacated by Takemura. In the end, unable to decide between them and perhaps feeling that we might make up in manpower what we lacked in experience, we took them both. Now all our bunks were filled, with a ship’s complement of seven.

We were an oddly assorted group: two sexes, two races, two languages and nationalities—and seven personalities, with a wide age range. How these personalities would act—and interact—would, I knew, have as much to do with the success or failure of our voyage as the seaworthiness of the boat itself. At the moment we could only guess—and hope.

Our crew selected, there remained the matter of obtaining the consent of their families, which proved not too difficult; and of acquiring Japanese passports and American visas, which turned out to be very difficult indeed. We finally got them, but it took several weeks of correspondence, several trips to Kobe, and several times the amount of patience I normally possess.

During this summer we had still another problem to contend with, and it was one we couldn’t do much about. This was the weather. In three years in Japan, only one typhoon had come close enough to Hiroshima to cause any real concern. However, in the summer of 1954, after the Phoenix took to the water, no less than four typhoons paid us an unwelcome visit.

Typhoon June, the third of the unwonted—and unwanted—series, was the worst of the lot. At the advice of the Coast Guard we took refuge in a sheltered cove behind the island of Eta Jima. On the way we tried out our newly rigged mainsail and, for the first time, had the experience of heeling. As we tilted in the breeze, Barbara, who had been making lemonade in the galley, began to pick up broken glass and lemon peel, while Jessica, a bit shaken, took refuge in the cockpit. “I don’t like it,” she said. “I’d rather live in a house where things don’t fall around!”

That night, however, she slept unconcernedly through the worst of the blow, and by the next day was ready to brag of her experiences and feel more than a little superior to her shorebound friends.

For the rest of us, however, the night of Typhoon June is one that will not soon be forgotten. Around midnight, with the center of the typhoon less than twenty miles away, the wind shifted abruptly. We were no longer in the lee of the mountainous island, but much more exposed, and the waves in this little bay built up to enormous heights. Suddenly Nick, on anchor watch, let out a shout in frantic Japanese. I rushed on deck, and though I couldn’t understand Nick, could see at once what had happened. Our anchor chain had snapped. Endless minutes passed, as we drifted inexorably toward the nearby shore, while we struggled to get the spare anchor over the side. Only a few feet short of grounding, the anchor caught—and held.

Two souvenirs remain of that wild initiation night: the broken link of our brand-new half-inch anchor chain and a sheet from our recording barograph, which charts the pattern of Typhoon June. The line of barometric pressure descended sharply until, at the passage of the eye of the typhoon, the ship was bucking so wildly that the ink was spilled out of the pen, and the record stopped.

We also gained some valuable information and experience from this episode. First, we began to appreciate the difficulties in communication that were to plague us in time to come. Regardless of how well the men improved their English, and I my Japanese, in a crisis they lapsed into “man’s talk”—rapid, peremptory vernacular—which conveyed nothing but a sense of extreme urgency. The normal, formal Japanese language, which we knew a bit, was gone with the wind.

Beyond this I learned the absolute necessity for anticipation if this voyage was to be a success. At all times we must expect the worst, and try to be ready for it. Had the second anchor been ready for instant use, precious minutes would have been saved. On the credit side, I profited, because never again were we caught without ready anchors.

Typhoon No. 4, Marie, caused no great damage in our area, but roared past us and northward to Hokkaido, where she overturned a seagoing ferry with the loss of over a thousand lives. Locally, however, she did play havoc with the tides, and drowned out the machinery in the local shipyard, so we had to postpone our haul-out, for bottom painting, more than two weeks—another unavoidable delay.

However, by September, in spite of typhoons, troubles, and tape (red), we were far enough along to be thinking about a date for our departure. We still lacked such extras as electricity, running water, gimbaled stove, radiotelephone, and a host of minor items, but we ignored these and concentrated on the absolute necessities. Provisioning, of course, led the list, and Barbara took the brunt of this terrible task. Now that she had a better knowledge of the crew’s daily food consumption, she doubled her original estimates of rice, fruits, and canned foods, and then doubled the amount again as a safety factor. The total was prodigious. Day after day, carrying yardlong lists, she set out in a taxi-jeep, to return in the evening with a mountain of supplies to be hauled aboard and stowed.

Ted, meanwhile, when I informed him that he had been promoted to chief navigator on the defection of Takemura, redoubled his studies. With a textbook and the help of a navigation officer friend, Ted gained a competent grasp of at least the theoretical aspects of his assignment. However, when we worked out our practice sextant shots, we often found the Phoenix not in Hiroshima harbor but somewhere up the slope of Fujiyama.

Jessica, too, had been given an official role, that of ship’s historian. She took her assignment seriously and, from the day we moved aboard, she kept a daily record of our activities—as she saw them (a very important qualification). I might add that this diary was continued without a break for the next six years, and by the time we had completed our voyage around the world she had filled seven large ledgers with about 200,000 words. Unprompted and uncensored, Jessica’s Journal provides a detailed, refreshing, and sometimes chastening picture of our rather unconventional family life.

Time had now become an important element in our plans, for it was late in the season. After many conferences with family and crew, after a careful (and prayerful!) study of the North Pacific Pilot Charts, and after consultation with the Japanese Coast Guard, we finally decided that November was the very latest date we could leave Japan and still have a good chance of a successful crossing to Honolulu, over 4,000 miles to the east. This would put us at the tag end of the typhoon season and, we hoped, ahead of the worst of the winter storms which roar down out of the far north Pacific.

We decided upon Honolulu as our first landfall, because it was an American port, where we could have the Phoenix registered as an American ship and could obtain certain supplies and equipment lacking in Japan.

The numerous unavoidable delays had made it impossible to fit in the shakedown cruise in the open ocean, which we had planned, but by leaving Hiroshima early in October we could have a short cruise up the Inland Sea and give ourselves and the boat at least a smooth-water test. We could then complete our fitting-out at a northern port, make any adjustments that seemed necessary, and still depart by the appointed date. It was not an ideal plan, perhaps, but it was the best we could do. For a number of cogent reasons, mainly financial, it was impossible to lay over until next June, the optimum month for crossing the North Pacific under sail.

Our departure was set for October 4, and throughout the day gifts poured aboard: flowers, candy, fruit, rice cakes, a painting of the Phoenix, a new heaving line, a can of metal paint, a gallon of used oil (“to pour on troubled waters”), and most formidable of all, a magnificent Japanese doll for Jessica, complete in a fragile glass case. This present brought Jessica exquisite joy and the captain exquisite pain, for he knew tears would flow when he had to jettison the case over the side—in anticipation of the inevitable.

We grew more and more harassed as we found our last-minute preparations and stowing of supplies continually interrupted by the need for greeting another well-wisher, making a short statement to yet another gentleman of the press, or posing on deck for one more group picture. To load last-minute supplies, we had come alongside the dock. All our friends, many of whom had never been aboard, now wanted a tour of the ship. They charitably assured us that they didn’t in the least mind if everything was a mess, and asked us literally hundreds of well-meaning questions, to most of which we didn’t know the answers. “How long will the trip to Honolulu take?” “Won’t you be bored?” “But isn’t it dangerous?” “How will the children go to school?”—all very good questions.

But the one most frequently asked, and the one we were least able to answer, was “But won’t you be seasick?” All we could reply was that we never had been—which was perfectly true. On board the President Wilson, en route to Japan—our only other experience on the high seas—none of us had been in the least sick. Of course, this wasn’t quite the same thing.

Shadows were already long when we left the dock, with all the ceremony of tossing bright paper tape, singing “Auld Lang Syne”—in Japanese—and shedding copious tears. The tears, I might add, were all in the eyes of those who saw us off. We ourselves were much too busy to have time for sorrow or regret—then—but to our hundreds of friends the whole venture was nothing less than a gallant form of suicide—for which no one has a more subtle appreciation than the Japanese.

A fleet of snipes and sailing dinghies from the Yacht Club accompanied us halfway across Hiroshima Bay, while a plane circled overhead to drop a tiny silk parachute carrying a hand-lettered scroll of good wishes and prayers for our safe return. One by one, our escorts waved and turned back until at last we were on our own.

Our first day’s destination was not far—the shrine of Miya Jima, just across the water from where the Phoenix had been hatched. There, while Barbara started supper and the men tried to find places to stow the piled-up gifts, I made my first entry in our nice new logbook:

Dropped anchor at Miya Jima Guchi harbor, opposite the shrine. Itsukushima is one of the famed “Three Most Beautiful Places in Japan.” All secure by 1900. Big spaghetti dinner to celebrate—too busy at noon to eat. Decks in good shape, but considerable of a shambles below—2 tons of last-minute ballast, now on floor of main cabin—169 iron pigs.

Many last-minute gifts—even a stack of old newspapers for Mi-ke. Poor Mi-ke—her box was forced to give way, in its nook under the starboard water tank, to a pile of iron pigs. The box is now in the aisle of the main cabin, where she is doing her business in the middle of traffic. Doesn’t seem to worry her too much.

That night, while the rest of the crew slept, I went on deck. Across the bay the shrine gleamed faintly in the moonlight. The Phoenix stirred gently in the swells from a distant ferryboat. Above were the heavy masts, the intricate web of sturdy rigging, the white sails, furled now but ready to be raised at our command. We had our boat, and though she had not yet proved herself at sea, I knew she would, and proudly. This was not entirely a matter of wishful thinking. During her construction, a number of experts had looked her over, and their reactions had been unanimously favorable. But even without their praise I had faith in the Phoenix.

About the human beings aboard I was not so sanguine. None of us had ever been to sea in a small boat. The Japanese boys were good sailors of snipes in the Inland Sea, and I had done some sailing in an 18-footer, but this was a far cry from cruising outside.

And the family. How would the children take the trip? Would they be able to adjust to discomfort and occasional hardship? How much would they miss the companionship of others their own age? What of their schooling? We were taking along plenty of textbooks and teaching materials for both of them, and Barbara, who had been a teacher, would handle their lessons, but would this be sufficient?

And what of Barbara? We had made a contract with each other—for better, for worse—but was a situation like this anticipated in the contract? Suddenly I felt a surge of deep respect and admiration for her, as it came to me with full force that I was going because I wanted to go, but she was going only because I was, offering me a rare and precious loyalty.

Our Japanese crew—what of them? How would they wear? How would two groups of diverse backgrounds get along, in weeks at sea under confining conditions? So far the men had shown themselves to be fine companions and hard workers. Moreover, on that wild night when Typhoon June almost had us on the rocks, they had proved themselves courageous and resourceful. Would these qualities last during the long grind?

Finally, the captain. Could he take it? And could his companions take him? Could he curb his temper, learn to control his impatience? I deeply felt my inadequacies, my faults, and especially my lack of experience. Whenever one of the family called me “Skipper,” as they had begun to do, I felt uneasy and self-conscious. One of the biggest unknowns was the ability of this so-called Skipper.

Beset with doubts I finally turned in.

The next day we slept late, and did not get underway until midmorning. The doubts and introspection of the previous night were swept away in the sparkling breeze. We had made our choice, we were on our way, we would do our best. From now on, all thoughts and energies would be directed toward making a successful voyage.

Slowly we drifted past the shrine, so that the men could say their farewells to the goddess, which they did, standing in a row on the foredeck with caps in hand and heads bowed. Suddenly I realized that there was still another possibly divisive factor—one I had not thought of: differences in religion.

We continued up the strait and drew abreast the Yotsuda shipyard. We broke out the foghorn, Mickey blew lustily, and the entire shipyard crew—all four of them—came down to the shore while Yotsuda-san ran up the Japanese flag, and we dipped our American colors in a return salute. Just four months ago the Phoenix had been launched from here.

The next several days were idyllic. The fall weather was perfect, the breeze light but fair, the scenery unsurpassed. We found out now that cruising may take a lot of work ashore, but that cruising is also sailing, and this is the reward.

And we were beginning to learn our boat. From the log of October 8, which was also Ted’s sixteenth birthday:

Good sailing practice today—many tacks, brisk breeze, getting smarter and smarter in handling her. If only the time element didn’t enter into the picture! But each day that passes puts us later and later in the season. Four days out and still not in Onomichi—only 72 miles (by land) from Hiroshima.

That night we dropped anchor in the beautiful harbor of Mitarai. Fishing boats were close about us and one of them, as it happened, was a bit too close, since we rammed him slightly while maneuvering for a berth. In the log, I virtuously recorded that the accident was a combination of poor judgment on my part and a shifting wind that pushed us down on the larger boat before we could stop our way.

From this we learned something about the momentum of our thirty tons and of the inability of our small engine to handle the boat properly in reverse. Later we called on the captain to apologize, and to have the damage assessed. It came to 556 yen, about $1.50 American. Accidents come cheaper in Japan!

During our trial run up the Inland Sea we made quite a few changes and improvements. We put downhauls all around, so we could get the sails down even in a gale. We rerigged our mainsail peak, painted and stowed most of the ballast, set up a third anchor aft, and got things more shipshape below decks.

We practiced, too, in the open areas, tacking over and over, learning to jibe smoothly, and establishing routines for various maneuvers. We loosed the dinghy, and practiced rounding up to it. When the breeze freshened, and we had our first taste of really brisk sailing, we found we could make seven knots with ease, using only the four lowers; moreover, the boat had a very easy motion.

We reached Takamatsu, at the upper end of the Inland Sea, on the morning of October 13. This would be our base for the final stages of fitting-out before the long ocean crossing to Hawaii. A Coast Guard boat came well out to meet us and escorted us to the Prefectural Docks, where a crowd was waiting, and we went through the usual gamut of questions.

The following morning we accepted the kind invitation of the Takamatsu Yacht Club to use their private dock, where we remained for a very busy two weeks.

Takamatsu is a pleasant city, and at this season was gay and bustling in preparation for the Hachiman Festival. In the evenings, after a day of hard work, we usually wandered into the city where the open-front shops remained ready for business. We would stop to watch groups of strolling actors, or try out our Japanese in the process of making a purchase, or enjoy a nightcap of soba—Japanese noodles—in a tiny booth before returning to the boat.

During the days, however, we worked, and worked hard. Ted and Jessica finished the job of painting countless iron pigs, and emerged at the end of each day with a new layer of orange paint. In the course of this job Ted uncovered a hitherto unsuspected talent: that of raconteur extraordinary. Time passed quickly as Ted gave the iron pigs personalities and guided them through a series of imaginary escapades in the course of getting their faces painted. As we watched the young ones at work we could sense a growing solidarity and identification with the voyage.

We made a number of changes in the rigging, based on our brief experience in the Inland Sea. We unstepped the topmast, suspecting—quite correctly—that we wouldn’t need it in winter in the North Pacific. We made stormcovers for all the hatches and portholes—hoping we would never have occasion to use them. Also, we installed additional pinrails on either side of the mainmast, having quickly learned that our one bank of pinrails was inadequate.

On one day only, October 18, I exercised my prerogative of declaring a holiday. By coincidence, it also happened to be my birthday. We took this occasion to visit Kotohira, where Kompira-san, the god of the sea and patron of Japanese seamen, holds sway. We toiled up the thousand steps to the shrine and paused at the summit to admire the magnificent view, while Nick, Mickey and Moto went inside to pay their respects to the priests and to inform them of our plans.

When they emerged they were smiling broadly. Kompira-san, they had been assured, viewed their venture with favor and predicted a successful outcome if—and this, to us, seemed to be the joker—we promised to revisit the shrine at the conclusion of our trip. It seemed to me that a sort of Delphic aura surrounded this promise, but the boys seemed satisfied, and we were only too happy to agree.

After this single day of relaxation we began our final preparations in earnest. One by one jobs and purchases were checked off, from a list which originally contained several thousand items. On the day before our departure Barbara’s most recent provisioning efforts were delivered to the dock: a box of apples packed in bran; 100 pounds of potatoes; 70 pounds of onions; 40 of sweet potatoes, 5 of carrots, 6 of green beans; and some two dozen heads of cabbage. All that day, Barbara and Jessica sorted out vegetables, setting aside the doubtful ones for early eating, while the rest were packed in wooden crates and lashed to the cabintop.

Also on that day they coated and packed some thirty dozen eggs with oleo. That night we had scrambled eggs for supper.

That evening Nick and Mickey stayed in the forecastle writing stacks of last-minute notes, while Barbara, Jessica, and Moto went out to dinner with new-found Japanese friends. Only Ted—and already I was coming to depend upon him more and more—seemed to share a realization of the enormity of the step we were undertaking. Of his own accord he turned down the dinner invitation and remained to help make a final inventory.

Together we made one more check of the entire list of Things to Do and Get. The water supply had been topped up—300 gallons in five unconnected tanks. Canned food for twelve weeks at normal consumption had been divided into separate duffle sacks, a week’s rations to a sack, and stowed beneath the floor of the ladies’ cabin. The fresh produce was aboard and stowed securely. For ship lights, stove, and engine we had 120 gallons of kerosene.

There were ample replacements for all expendable and vulnerable items, from flashlight batteries to sail needles, and safety equipment was complete from flares to heliograph.

In the navigation department we had six compasses aboard (master, steering, inside telltale, lifeboat, and two spares); four watches and a chronometer (rated); three barometers and a barograph; a sextant; anemometer; inclinometer (never used); thermometers of various kinds; a complete set of signal flags; several pairs of binoculars; and, of course, the necessary navigation books, sailing directions and charts, and the 1954 nautical almanac which Takemura had left with us at his departure.

We had a spare battery radio, with batteries, wrapped in a moistureproof package, and an emergency fresh-water still. We had adequate sail repair equipment and materials, tools of every description, and a quantity of spare lumber, in case fairly extended additions or repairs proved necessary at sea.

Our medicine chest, a gift from the doctors at the Casualty Commission in Hiroshima, was unusually complete, from antibiotics to scalpels. Barbara had taken a survey course in emergency medicine under our good friend Dr. George Hazlehurst. She had passed the final examination with honors by successfully injecting a grapefruit and suturing a sausage. As Ted wryly observed, if anything went wrong with grapefruits or sausages, we were all prepared.

As for education and entertainment, we were supplied and oversupplied. In addition to textbooks, we had a complete set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, the Book of Knowledge, and some three hundred additional books. We had decks of cards, and kits for checkers, chess, and backgammon; and sets of Mahjong and Scrabble for family games. We had a handcranking phonograph and a wide selection of records. Ted’s grandmother, Minnetta Leonard, had even sent him a plastic ukulele, evidently in the fond hope that he would be prepared for the beach at Waikiki.

In everything except that important commodity, deep-sea experience, I felt we were ready. If we were fools to embark without that vital item, at least we were fools who were operating within a framework of adequate preparation and common sense.

As to the mental preparation of the ship’s company, that was difficult to assay. Barbara had taken over without demur whatever tasks were assigned to her, and Jessica wrote faithfully in her diary, but neither of them asked questions or appeared to be overly concerned. Whether due to an inability to imagine what deep-sea life would be like or utter confidence in the Skipper, it seemed to put an extra burden on me.

As for the three Japanese men, they were, during the preparation and the trip through the Inland Sea, completely unconcerned in certain areas, and very active in others. Although well-educated men, they seemed quite content with manual skills: carpentry, painting, sail handling, and deck seamanship. They appeared to have no interest in the sailing plans, navigational methods, or the operation of the radio or auxiliary engine. Also, as far as I could detect, they didn’t seem to be worried.

On the morning of October 26, the Rev. Raymond Christopher, a British missionary, visited us and held a short service aboard, asking a blessing on our journey. His solemn words sent a sudden chill through us and more than any other event made us realize some of the implications of our departure.

That evening we sailed from Takamatsu.

Our leave-taking was strongly reminiscent of Hiroshima: crowds, press, last-minute gifts, bilingual confusion, tears. But there was one vital exception: we knew that this time we were heading not for the quiet waters of the Inland Sea but for the Hawaiian Islands, across more than 4,000 miles of open ocean.

The day was hectic, culminating in a formal send-off, for radio and national TV, presided over by the governor of Kagawa Prefecture. The circumstances surrounding our departure are shown in the log:

Final preparations completed, immigration cleared, and check made with Coast Guard; decided to leave on afternoon of Oct. 26. News of Typhoon 18 (now making up near Philippines) was received, and decision made to proceed until more details available. Decided to try to get through Naruto Straits if possible, rather than go all the way around Awaji Shima.

Also I notified the U.S. Navy in Yokosuka of the date and time of our departure, our approximate route, and the estimated length of our trip (45 days, based on an assumed distance, by sailing route, of 4,500 miles, and an average of 100 miles per day). I informed them, as I had the local Coast Guard, that we had no facilities for sending radio messages, only for receiving. We did, however, have a small hand-operated emergency set (Gibson Girl) on which we could send an automatic SOS at limited range, but this would be used only in direst emergency.

We crossed Harima Nada during the night and reached Naruto Straits the following afternoon. The narrow passage to the open ocean looked formidable. Even without binoculars we could see a white wall of foam as the tide fought its way through, at a peak speed of 11 knots. The rips were between 6 and 9 feet in height. Even as we watched, a large ship battered its way through but another, which had not been so lucky, could be seen stranded on rocks in mid-channel.

We decided in any event not to attempt the straits at night, but to check with the local fishermen and get their opinion. If they agreed it was feasible for our boat, we would try the passage at slack tide the next morning. So we crossed to Marugame, where we anchored, while the Japanese men rowed ashore to talk to the inhabitants. From them we received a golden nugget of advice: “When the fishing boats go through, you go through.”

After the others had gone to bed, Ted and I reviewed the strategy for perhaps the hundredth time. It was very simple—in theory. We would head east as fast as was consistent with safety, to get beyond the area of the late-season typhoons as soon as possible. We would sail as far south as we could, though still keeping within range of the prevailing westerlies and the eastward-flowing Japanese current. In this way we would get the benefit of warmer weather and less severe storms.

In handling the boat we would try to keep a good margin of safety, never overpressing, and we would reduce sail at night during unsettled weather, until we knew our ship and had gained experience and confidence in our abilities.

When we finally reached a position north of the Hawaiian Islands, we would turn south, using the engine if necessary to help us through the band of Horse Latitudes and into the northeast trades. We would try to raise the island of Molokai, the long island in the center of the group, and proceed to Honolulu.

This, in brief, was our plan.

There was only one way to find out whether it would work.

3      FROM JAPAN
TO HONOLULU

“The long shakedown ... a seven-week course in How to Sail.”

Before dawn we weighed anchor and sailed down to join the fishing fleet near the strait and at 0955 we fell in with a procession heading through Naruto. Great whirlpools, a threat to the small boat when the tide is running, were still circling turgidly, but now, during the slack, they had no power. In a short time, with a fair breeze, we were in Kii Suido, which funnels out to the open sea. This cutoff saved us about three days—and later was to result in newspaper headlines in our own country and in Japan that would cause much anxiety to family and friends.

The morning was mild and sunny. Our ship rose and fell gently in the long swells, so different from the shorter, choppier waves of the Inland Sea. We headed south to round the headland. As a first taste of ocean sailing, we thought, this isn’t half bad!

It took only twelve hours for the Pacific to put us in our place. Toward evening the barometer began to fall, the wind rose, and the seas built up fast. During the night we lost—permanently—any complacency we may have had. The men were all kept busy on deck, fastening down the crates of provisions which should have been better secured before we left, and putting extra lashings on fuel drums, water tank, and extra spars. The boat plunged frantically as one wave after another lifted her high or smashed against her sides.

The rain came, in a fury, and on deck the sounds of wind and wave drowned out everything except a shout at top voice. We began very quickly to accumulate that experience we had lacked. “But won’t you be seasick?” We were—and by the time we had the answer it was too late for any remedies to have effect—they didn’t stay with us long enough!

Below decks everything that could fall fell; everything that could break broke. The low railings we had just put around tables and shelves—modest, unobtrusive fiddles—proved to be completely ineffective. We had brought plenty of extra lumber and fastenings on the assumptions that a few spots of carpentry might be needed while underway, but that first night there was nothing we could do but make a mental note: “Higher fiddles.”

Our beautiful mugs—with their hand-painted phoenix designs of which we had been so proud—swung violently on their hooks and, one by one, parted company with their handles and crashed across the cabin. It was obvious that nothing fragile was going to survive this trip—and that included people.

Barbara doggedly cooked supper but no one felt like eating. The girls were told to climb into their bunks and pay no attention to any crashes which might occur in the galley. No mental effort, however, made it possible to ignore the smash of waves against the hull. Each one that hit sounded like a sledge hammer striking an empty drum—a nerve-racking experience for those on the inside. In addition, the shouts on deck and the pounding of feet overhead carried below with an urgency that was frightening, since the clamor of the elements, which made the shouting necessary, was somewhat shut out by the heavy planking.

By midnight, although Barbara still lay awake expecting each moment to be her last, we were in better shape on deck. Once we had succeeded in getting everything secure, we “jankenned” for the first watch—the “scissors, paper, stone” method of selection traditional in Japan—and began a routine of two hours on, eight hours off, which we would maintain around the clock from now on.

The sequence of watches, which was continued without alteration for the next three years, was as follows: Moto, Mickey, Nick, Ted, Skipper. There was a reason for this. Ted, the youngest, was placed between Nick and Skipper; Mickey, whose English was poorest, was sandwiched between Moto and Nick.

The first official watch having been determined, and the sequence agreed upon, those off duty went to their bunks. I had no desire to go below, however, but remained in the cockpit to study the behavior of our ship. The Phoenix climbed to meet each rushing wave, slid into the trough, and rose again to the next challenge. She never tired, never faltered. I had heard about this, and read about it in books, but now, for the first time, I was experiencing the wonder of it, a wonder I have never lost. Wet, miserable, sick, and not a little frightened by the tumult about me—even so, I was happy.

By the next morning we were out of sight of land and our dead reckoning put us far enough to the south to clear the point. We changed course to the east and the long shakedown was truly underway. Ahead of us, according to my calculations, lay about a seven-week course in How to Sail. If we were able to pass it, I was sure we would be able to go anywhere on earth; if we failed—well, there would be nothing more for us to worry about.

It was our hope that in the next few days we would sight one of the small islands, preferably Hachijo-shima, that fan out into the Pacific south from Tokyo. This would give us a good departure—and also assurance that we had left the islands safely behind us!

During the day I took my first sextant shot at sea, while Ted worked out the sights. We were dismayed briefly when we discovered that the nautical almanac inherited from Takemura was printed—naturally enough—in Japanese. Fortunately, numerals were the same as in English, and the only critical ideographs—“toward” and “away”—were easily translated for us by Nick. Though we had difficulties, both in getting a good shot and in working out the calculations, it was easier than we dared hope. We were sure that, with practice, we could handle this assignment. Once past the islands, there would be a whole oceanful of sea room and plenty of time to learn the business.

The weather continued clearing during the day and the seas moderated. All of us felt better, and everyone helped get our gear in order and stowed in more seamanlike fashion. Our losses were mostly crockery and expendable items, and nothing of any real importance had been broken, including that most essential item, morale.

Several ships passed along the horizon during the day, one of them an American aircraft carrier and another—as strange an anachronism as we ourselves—the magnificent four-masted training ship of the Japanese Merchant Marine, the Nippon Maru.

In the afternoon we had a feathered visitor, which flew on board and settled down to preen itself in the forward rigging, ignoring the raucous complaints of Mi-ke. It stayed for several hours, giving us an opportunity for close inspection, including photographs, and it is our unanimous and unshakable opinion that our friend was an American robin. Many a mate to this little creature we had seen in the yard of our home back in Yellow Springs, Ohio! How it got to the coastal waters of Japan we didn’t know. Was it a pet, escaped from the flattop we had seen earlier? Farfetched, but possible. At any rate, toward evening it flew away, while Jessica rushed below to enter full details in her Journal.

For the next two days we sailed east, with fair weather. We were beginning to get organized and to find our sea legs although Barbara, who had the least desirable job on the boat, continued to suffer from recurrent malaise every time she entered the galley. Food had assumed a tremendous importance in all our lives, and she realized that to fail even once in the preparation of a meal would only make the next defection easier. And so, queasy though she was and unappetizing as the very thought of food seemed to her, she wired the pots to the stove and doggedly turned out an amazing variety of hearty dishes.

In addition to the galley, Barbara was responsible for three other important departments: health, recreation, and education. She set regular times for Jessica’s lessons, while Ted, although carrying a full load as a working member of the crew, also carried on with his studies.

However, the elements had something to say about leisure time. On the afternoon of October 31, just as we were beginning to congratulate ourselves on our fine adaptation to life at sea, the barometer again began to fall, this time in earnest. There was no doubt we were in for trouble. That night the Pacific really lowered the boom.

My log merely says, “At midnight, high waves and strong wind. Hove to for night, under reefed mizzen and storm jib.”

How often I had read, in published logs and stories of cruising, such cryptic sentences, and how often I had tried to imagine the circumstances! That night I began to get some idea, but it is not easy to put a reader in my place.

First, it is rough, and I don’t mean rocking-chair rough—I mean rough enough to break a leg, if you are thrown across the deck, or to smash in your skull, if a swinging block hits you. Outside the cockpit, you must hold on at all times, especially when working far forward. This means that everything must be done in slow motion just at a time when all your instincts tell you to rush.

Below decks, it is necessary to chock yourself in some safe corner or to hold on continuously as you move about. “One hand for the boat” is not just a catch phrase but an essential habit that must be developed, and Barbara, who was reluctant to abandon her instinct for two-handed efficiency in preparing or serving a meal, was a mass of bruises until she learned this basic lesson.

Second, it is noisy, and this means noisy at a level which tempts one to panic. On deck, the high-pitched howling of the wind cuts through all lesser noises. In order to be heard, even if your companion is right beside you, it is necessary to shout. Below, out of the wind, it seems at first almost quiet, but the ship groans with a thousand noises, there are mysterious knocks and grinds, and at this stage of your experience every sound is ominous and sinister. Occasionally there is the sudden boom and the shock of a wave as it slams against the hull. That’s when you’re thankful for two-inch planking and four-by-six deck beams!

Finally, there is the sight of the waves, each one mountainous and impersonally lethal. You know it would take only one to finish you, and that there are plenty more where that one came from. You wonder how the ship can possibly take it. Just at this moment you don’t wonder about yourself, because you’re too busy trying to reduce your canvas and set up your storm sails. Your whole life narrows to a concentrated attention on the state of the sea, the strength of the wind, the look of the sky, and the behavior of your boat. Whether you admit it or not, fear is your shipmate, and depending upon your temperament, you work the better or the worse because of it.

You may or may not enjoy the experience of sailing a small boat in rough weather on the open sea, but I can assure you of one thing—you positively will not be bored!

After several hours of labor, we finally had the boat hove to. It was our first experience in this maneuver, and it was a wonderful feeling to see how well the Phoenix behaved. With the sails properly trimmed and the tiller lashed, she lay head to the wind, quartering out of the trough, no longer fighting the seas, but riding them like a duck, drifting slowly downwind. Below, the motion became relatively comfortable, and it was possible to cook a good meal and enjoy eating it, and to rest quietly in the bunk.

Three times, during the course of our first passage, we hove to thus, when the weather became too rough for safe sailing. However, after we had gained experience and confidence we carried on through seas which at first would have tempted us to heave to.

On the afternoon of November 1 we sighted Hachijo-shima, dead ahead, and changed our course to pass well to the north of it. The island was a comforting sight, since it gave us a definite position, against which we could check our dead reckoning and our accuracy with the sextant. Also, having passed these islands, there would be no more land to worry about between here and the Hawaiian Islands. At this stage of our experience, what we needed more than anything else was plenty of sea room.

Late that night, with Hachijo-shima astern on the starboard quarter, we saw a smaller island looming up to the north. We knew from the charts that this should be Miyake; however, it showed a light, with a 15-second interval, and Miyake had no light. A careful search of our list of Japanese coastal lights, and an inspection of our charts, showed no such light listed for this area, so I was considerably worried. Could we possibly be in the wrong position? Ted and I were convinced we were not, but Nick thought our position might be much farther south and the island we had seen earlier might not have been Hachijo-shima at all.

I checked again, widening my range, searching all the charts within a radius of several hundred miles. There were no 15-second lights, in any location, which could conceivably be ours. No sleep for me that night, as we kept the island in sight, and I checked and wondered.

At dawn, by studying the contours of the land, we were able to identify it positively, light or no light, as Miyake. We sailed on, but I still had a nagging worry in the back of my mind. If one could not depend upon the light lists and charts....

Two days later, in the evening weather forecast of November 3, the Japanese radio announced that on November 1 a 15-second light had been established on Miyake-shima. We had seen it on its first night’s operation!

I mention this little incident because it serves to bring out, as well as any other, several points which are important. First, in a cruise of this kind it is not safe to take anything for granted. I remember talking to a young chap in Fiji who, with his companion, had been approaching the Society Islands from the west. According to their calculations, they were a good 50 miles out, so they set their sails and both retired for the night. They were awakened about two in the morning by the distinctly unpleasant sound of their keel hitting a coral reef. Their boat was a total loss. They actually had been 50 miles out, but what they had taken for granted was that there was open water all the way. What they had overlooked was the existence of the small island some miles to the west of Tahiti, which they had the bad luck to run onto in the night.

Another lesson I learned from the Miyake incident was that no matter how carefully you prepare, how many precautions you may take, something unanticipated is bound to come up. When it does, it should be met in a way that will give the greatest margin of safety to the ship. If the chart indicates there is a one-knot westerly drift, assume it could be as much as two knots—one of these times it will be. If the anchorage is strange and the weather uncertain, set an anchor watch, no matter how sleepy you are. For ninety-nine nights you’ll lose your sleep and nothing will happen, but on the hundredth night you’ll save your ship.

This point of view, in a number of instances, may have caused me to err on the side of caution—I know for a fact that our Japanese crewmen tended to regard me as cautious to the point of obsession. But when they became impatient, or at times clearly disapproving, I reminded myself that, after all, the responsibility was mine. This was my dream, my family, and my boat—and I had to make the decisions.

Whether these precautions were excessive I have no way of knowing, but I treasure the observation that Nick made, almost grudgingly, after the successful completion of the trip:

“If other boys and I had been boss, we’d have gone on reef many times!”

I accepted the admission in the spirit in which it was meant, and refrained from pointing out that it might not be necessary to run on the reef “many times.” Once might be quite enough.

Finally, there is the practical matter of sleep. Unless you can snatch it at odd intervals, and when necessary get along without that precious commodity for long periods and still maintain your efficiency, you will have a real handicap on a long ocean passage. You are lucky if you are a light sleeper, for to awaken promptly when an anchor begins to drag or when the changed motion of the ship indicates a change in the weather is better than explaining that you didn’t hear a thing until you hit the rocks or until the sail blew out. In my case, I found out that a characteristic which ashore was a liability—the habit of being easily awakened—was an asset at sea.

As a matter of fact, all of us learned to grab sleep where and as we could get it. Day ran into night. On a ship there is always someone awake, and usually someone asleep. Only at mealtimes does everyone generally put in an appearance, and even then the man on watch must wait until he is relieved before he can come below and eat. On our first crossing, when getting ready to go on watch was often a case of putting on heavy weather gear, it took some nice calculation on Barbara’s part to serve each meal long enough before the change of watch so that the man about to go up would have time to eat and dress, and still report promptly for duty, and the man coming off could come below to a still-hot meal.

Now we were well on our way, and there was no turning back. Until we passed the islands, perhaps in all our minds had been the knowledge that actually we were still close to land, and might if necessary put in or send out a call on the emergency radio. But now we were heading into the empty North Pacific, well outside the shipping lanes. Soon we would be far beyond the range of our tiny sending set, and for the rest of the 4,000-mile trip, until we reached Hawaii, we would be completely on our own.

In the first several days we saw a ship or two, and on November 10 a four-engined plane passed over us. After that, nothing ... with one exception.

I had given standing orders, of course, to be notified, day or night, if anything was sighted. According to my log, this is what happened one dark night:

11/13. Poor run yesterday, high wind and higher waves. Slogged it out, but everyone sick of the jouncing. Slept fairly well, as waves gradually subsided. At 0400, Mickey, at the tiller, poked his head down the hatch. “Reynolds-sensei,” he said, without expression.

“Yes?” I asked sleepily.

“Fune desu—boat.”

“Chikai desuka?—Is it close?”

“Hai, so desu—Yes, it is,” noncommitally.

I jumped up and poked my head out. When Mickey said close he meant close. Just off our stern was a flattop, looking as big as a mountain, which seemed to be bearing right down on us. I jumped to the cabintop and waved our kerosene lantern frantically, while Mickey, as ordered, turned the flashlight on the sails.

After a long minute the carrier slowly changed its course to port and gradually faded out of sight.

“Good,” said Mickey, his first sign of interest in the matter and incidentally the first word of English I had ever heard him speak.

The following day I amended my order to add that I was to be notified as soon as anything was sighted. It cost me more sleep, but I didn’t begrudge that. I usually woke up anyway at the change of watch, every two hours, and took a look around—but I managed to average out my quota of rest, and actually felt in fine shape.

The weeks at sea could never be disentangled in our memories were it not for the help of the ship’s log, Barbara’s diary, and most vividly of all, Jessica’s Journal. Disdaining such mundane things as barometer readings and the state of the sea, she concerned herself with vital matters, such as the activities of Mi-ke or the winners in our family games. When she thought ship events were sufficiently noteworthy to merit attention, she recorded them in her own style. Here are two interpretations of the same event:

From the ship’s log: Last night, about 2300, a very large wave, quite out of proportion to even the largest of the then current seas, broke over the ship. Estimated height about six feet above deck. Half-filled cockpit, drenched my bunk through the afterhatch and Moto’s bunk through the main companionway. Swept several small loose items overboard, and thoroughly drenched man at tiller (me) with solid water. Only one such wave—only solid water on deck all night.

From Jessica’s Journal: In the night while Skipper was on watch he just happened to look to the North. He saw a great wall of water four times the size of the biggest wave come charging toward the Phoenix. It was coming from a completely different direction from the other waves, and didn’t just go gently under, heeling us a sukoshi (little).

It came over, soaked Skipper, flowed down the hatches, and swooshed around in Skip’s bunk. It was a couple of minutes before the cockpit emptied and the water stopped coming down the hatches and we came up again. Skip says the wave was the only one of its size and kind, and maybe caused by an underwater earthquake. Mum says we heeled down and down on her side until she was sure we’d tip all the way over. I bet the lifelines skimmed the water that time! We realized how strongly the boat’s built because some boats would have been smashed up by that wave.

As to the human aspect of the voyage, I note in my log after the first few days, “Relations between all most cordial and friendly—I think this biracial setup is working out nicely.” Always in my mind was the knowledge that our venture was strung upon a chain composed of hundreds of links, some of which would inevitably wear out and have to be replaced, and some of which were irreplaceable. I tried to anticipate and to prevent undue strain upon any one part—rigging, sails, spars—or men. Which of them would give way first—and at what crucial moment? I tried to keep myself constantly aware of any evidence of chafing.

The first overt incident to occur involved Nick, the oldest of the three and my former coworker at the Commission in Hiroshima. Though usually cheerful, Nick was subject on rare occasions to unexplained moody spells during which he became almost surly. During one of these periods we had hauled the mainsail down to repair a seam. Since water from the bilge had been coming up into our bunks occasionally when we heeled way over, I said we would pump out the bilge before setting sail again.

Nick abruptly contradicted me. “No. Put up sail first.”

I was at the tiller. “No, Nick,” I insisted. “Once we put the sail up, we’ll be heeling too far to get all the water out. First we’ll pump.”

“No!”

“We’ll pump first, Nick. Let’s go!”

“Do it yourself!” he suddenly burst out, in a black temper. Nothing like this had ever happened before and all of us were petrified. We had been in Japan long enough to know the strong emphasis placed on courtesy and conformance. We knew that Nick’s outburst, which might have been taken in stride by Westerners, was an unthinkable breach of Japanese etiquette.

There was a dead silence which stretched endlessly. Then, without a word, Nick stepped forward and began to pump the bilge.

After the job was done and the sail up again, Nick came back to the cockpit and apologized. He said that he knew I was right, but he had just felt tired. We discussed what we could do about the problem of getting the bilge cleared when we were heeling and decided that another pump, with extensions on both sides to the turn of the bilge, would do the trick. (This was duly installed, in Honolulu, and has proved very effective.) Then we shook hands, and that ended it. For the rest of the passage, Nick was his former stolid, dependable self.

The next problem, which set in less dramatically but threatened to be more serious, concerned Mickey. After we sailed from Hiroshima, and during our quiet cruise up the Inland Sea, Mickey had been the brightest and gayest of our group. The ditty he sang constantly, which roughly translated meant “I’m going to Honolulu where the coconuts grow,” had earned him the private family nickname of Coconut Boy.

However, after our first bad night on the open ocean, Mickey had quieted down considerably. He seemed to realize for the first time that there was a lot of water between him and his coconuts. Gradually his activity and behavior deteriorated until at last he took to his bunk, rising only to go to the head and for meals—which he seemed to eat with a fair appetite.

The first night that Mickey defected completely, Nick and Moto conspired to absorb his watch between them, without reporting his indisposition. But by the next day there was no concealing the fact that Mickey “not feel so good,” and although Nick and Moto offered to continue taking three-hour watches until he felt better, it was agreed that we would share and share alike.

From then on, Mickey was relieved of active duty until further notice and the rest of us went on a schedule of two on and six off. This of course meant that each man’s watch, instead of shifting each day, remained the same. Ted drew two dark watches (0400–0600 and 2000–2200) and found himself carrying a man’s role in earnest. In addition to his job as navigator, he already doubled as cabin boy—a thankless job that included siphoning kerosene from the deck drums, draining the dishwater from under the sink, and keeping the water jugs filled from the main tanks (we had no pump). It was not an easy life for a sixteen-year-old who had had few responsibilities for the past three years beyond picking up his own pajamas—and had often managed to avoid even that by stalling until one of the Japanese housegirls did it for him.

Yet, Ted responded wonderfully, and I found myself depending on him more and more. In these modern days fathers aren’t supposed to get to know their sons, especially their adolescent sons, but in the case of Ted and myself, never were conditions better for getting acquainted. Ted’s watch preceded mine, and I often went up a bit early, especially at night, to give him a reassuring word and stayed on to chat of this and that. His nature is quiet and reflective; his interests run to mathematics, astronomy, the sciences, and for relaxation, the classics. Our subjects ranged far afield and more often than not Ted was the mentor.

Perhaps, as Barbara has since postulated, if Mickey had not “cracked up,” one of the others would have—and I know she is thinking of herself. Be that as it may, the heavier burden placed upon us all by Mickey’s defection served to stiffen the resolution of the others. Mixed with a very real concern over our ailing member was a growing pride in my family and I felt almost ashamed of the doubts that had troubled me before we set sail.

(Only much later was I told of the reservations Barbara and the kids had secretly entertained, at the prospect of putting to sea with me—a skipper whom they knew to be quick-tempered, stubborn, and far more apt to be patient with machines or statistics than with people. My own pride in their performance under duress was apparently matched by their own surprised and pleased discovery that I, too, was making a real effort and apparently succeeding. In the course of that first hard crossing, in short, all four of us were welded into a close-knit unit based upon mutual trust.)

At the time, however, Mickey was our main cause for concern and the basis of many worried conferences. His illness seemed to have no specific character and responded to no treatment Barbara could devise. It seemed impossible to pin it down. With Nick as interpreter, we tried to outline the symptoms, but it was tough going and largely dictionary work. Sometimes it seemed to center around nausea; sometimes constipation, or, equally often, dysentery. In general, however, it seemed to be characterized only by a vague tiredness, occasional dizziness, a general depression, and a disinclination to get out of bed.

“No pains?”

“No. No pain.”

“Has he been taking the medicine?” (Barbara had tried dramamine, bonamine, aureomycin, and various other specifics.)

“Yes,” said Nick. “No good.” Mickey weakly put in a word and Nick translated. “Mickey say, maybe better if you make rice like mother used to make.”

“What? Like his mother? Well, how did she make it?”

“When Japanese is sick, his mother make special rice, very soft, very good. If you make soft rice, maybe he be better.”

“Oh, dandy,” breathed Barbara, and repaired to the galley to try cooking rice gruel for Mickey like his mother used to make. Evidently she didn’t succeed, for Mickey’s condition didn’t improve. We discussed the possibility of changing course and heading for Midway, in order to get competent medical attention, but since Mickey’s condition seemed to be chronic rather than acute, we decided to carry on.

And so, for three weeks, Mickey was a free-loader. He ate regularly but took no part in the sailing of the ship. Not until we turned south, heading directly for the Hawaiian Islands, and began to pick up balmy winds, blue skies, and fair weather, did Mickey show signs of recovery. He worked halfheartedly at the simple tasks I assigned merely to get him up on deck, and at last he announced, through Nick, that he would take an hour of his watch during the afternoon. We adjusted our schedule accordingly and gradually, over a period of two or three days, Mickey felt his way back into full participation. By the time we reached Honolulu he was again our ebullient Coconut Boy.

Moto, through all this, remained quiet, gentle, and uncomplaining, the ideal shipmate. His watch followed mine, and never did he fail to come up promptly and with a smile on his face. This, in the darkness of a cold, wet, rough night takes more than a bit of doing, and my respect and liking for him increased steadily as time went on.

My arrangements for living aboard seemed to be working out well. From the main cabin we could hear Nick, Mickey, and Moto carrying on animated conversations in their own language, and Barbara, who had soon given up her praiseworthy idea of cooking special breakfasts of sour bean soup and cold rice, often reported exotic adaptations of cucumber pickles with the oatmeal.

Of all the jobs on ship, Barbara’s in many ways was the toughest. Not a boatwoman by inclination, or the typical “athletic” type of girl, she suddenly found herself thrust into a role which demanded every ounce of her courage and stamina. That she discharged her duty with full honors is shown by a simple mathematical fact: in 47 days at sea, regardless of the weather, her physical distress, or the balkiness of a temperamental kerosene stove (which the Skipper had to keep in fighting trim), she never failed to prepare and serve a meal—a hot meal—on schedule. Only those who have cooked on a small boat at sea can know what this means.

As to her personal feelings during this time, a section from her diary may give some idea:

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about people who went to sea in small sailing ships. About Columbus, for one, who set out not just for a six or eight weeks’ trip but for an incalculable and unknown number of days in search of a perhaps nonexistent land. And more than about Columbus himself, I wonder about his men, those hardy souls whose individuality has been completely overshadowed by the glory of their leader’s accomplishment. Columbus went because he had a dream and a conviction—but why, I wonder, did they go, all those unidentified others?

And I’ve been thinking about the women on the Mayflower and on all the other tiny boats that set sail so confidently for a new world. No longer are the Pilgrims a small band of cutout figures whose storybook ships are somehow manipulated by wires across a painted backdrop of heaving billows. They’ve become very real to me, people I’d like to have known and talked to. I’d like to have asked Mistress White, mother of Peregrine, “What did you think the first time you smashed into a heavy sea, so that your ship stopped short and shuddered at the impact? Did you think you’d run onto an uncharted rock and would go down in a matter of minutes? Or was there someone who knew about the sea, someone to put his arm around you and say, ‘It was only a wave, darling’?”

Or I’d like to have asked Mistress Carver and the rest of them, “Did it help to have other women aboard—or were you too miserable and scared for woman-talk to be of any use?”

In one way, I’m sure I’m better off than they, for I have my assigned duties to keep me from spending too much time in self-pity.

In addition to her job in the galley, Barbara had the personal responsibility of taking care of Jessica. Since Jessica had no special function on the boat, such as standing watch or preparing meals, she was able to get a full night’s sleep and was the only one to whom boredom during the day might have been a problem. Fortunately, her Journal had developed from an assigned chore into a welcome challenge. She had always enjoyed writing and now, in the absence of companions of her own age, she spent more and more time experimenting with words and ideas.

In addition to her daily Journal entries, Jessica filled several notebooks with imaginative stories which she illustrated in full color and which served to keep us all entertained. One series in particular afforded us great pleasure—her “Creatures,” complete from A (the Alphabetabobbical Beast) to Z (the Znerrouch). The latter always left his feelings lying about in a tangled web where they were inevitably stepped on.

The worse the weather and the higher the waves the more fantastic (and friendly) became the mythical creatures who had become Jessica’s closest friends. She and Barbara were good companions as they shared work in the galley or bent together over the day’s lessons, but when Barbara—tired out after a sleepless night or just in need of an hour or two alone—retired behind the curtains of her bunk, Jessica was never at a loss. She kept herself busy and amused with reading, writing, and studying, and when the weather got too rough to continue normal activities, she quietly crawled into her bunk “to keep Mi-ke warm.” Sometimes, at night, I would pass through the dark cabin and flash a light in her direction to find her lying quiet, wide awake. She would smile and wave, and I would go about my duties, immeasurably cheered.

These days our lives as well as our outlook were regulated by one major influence: the weather. When the going was bad, we dug in and held on. When the barometer rose, our spirits rose with it and we expanded accordingly.

The great weather cycles, which flowed down out of the northwest, carried us along with them for a few days and then gradually left us behind, only to be replaced by the next. These cycles of alternating barometric highs and lows lasted roughly a week each, and their nature can best be described by brief excerpts from the log. One can begin anywhere in the cycle:

11/23. Last night under full lowers, when heavy squall hit at 1930. Kept on, after 1½ hours hard work changing sails, under mizzen, trysail and storm jib. Continued so all night. Frontal passage at 0749, with sharp squall, heavy rain, and wind shift from SE to NW. Jibed and continued E under same sails. Rain squalls passing at intervals. Barometer rising at 0600.

11/24. Good run last night, with a slowly rising barometer and slowly falling wind and sea—also good sleeping ... jib clew cringle broken.

11/25. A fine run last night—very slowly rising barometer, with wind decreasing very slowly. Under mizzen, mainsail and foresail.... All day, fast-moving, low wind clouds have been pouring out of NW, keeping the wind up, with now and then a scattered short squall. Now under all five lowers.

11/25 (Number Two). Another good run last night, barometer continuing its slow rise. Last night’s Thanksgiving dinner great success, socially and gastronomically. Menu: suimono, baked ham with raisin sauce, mashed pot., candied sweet pot., creamed mixed veg., corn bread, pumpkin pie, ripe olives, grape juice, port wine, mixed candies. Tonight another Thanksgiving dinner (since we crossed date line yesterday, through the excellent timing of the Skipper), but can hardly expect it to come up to last night’s splendor.

11/26. At 0700, wind shifted to NNE, all night a series of squalls have poured out of NW....

11/27. Same pattern as previous night ... low, fast-moving clouds, each with a rush of wind that keeps the helmsman busy—sometimes with rain. The seas are building ... the ship rides well. At 1000 put reef in mizzen and 2nd reef in main. Changed course to 100° compass. Barometer falling.

11/28. Bottom dropped out of barometer last night. (Barograph broken, too rough for ink to stay in well.) Down 14 points overnight. Wind and waves built up, hove to at 0800. Ship rides nicely. Had a big breakfast and all hands turned in for some rest.

11/29. Hove to all night. Everybody got good rest. First full night’s sleep I’ve had since trip began. Feel fine. Barometer fell slowly until midnight (988 millibars), then rose slowly ... night clear and stars shining brightly. Wind shifted between 2400 and 0200. Underway again 0900.

And so, with the barometer rising, the wind dropping, and the seas moderating, the cycle is completed, only to repeat itself during the next week, and the next, and the next—as long as we remain in the latitudes of the prevailing westerlies, above 30° North.

Just before the new low, there might be a day of calm:

12/2. Very quiet night—seas down and wind gentle. Today is drying and cleaning day—first chance. Everything damp—for last several days have slept on cabin floor, because of soaked bunk from Big Wave—so today is a welcome respite. Started engine today, as a check, third time since Nov. 1—started at once, no trouble. Checked food sacks. Moisture just beginning to get to them. Will open the sacks that remain—dry and grease where needed—should be okay for rest of trip.

Amazing odor—went on deck to find boys had got out their dried squid—now soaked and moldy—and strewn them all over the cabintop, to dry in the sun. Almost prefer bad weather.

Once we had crossed the date line and entered the Western Hemisphere—the family’s part of the world—we felt that we were on the downhill run. The morale of the ship’s company was high, where before we had been a bit subdued and introspective, going around, as it were, with our mental fingers crossed. Now, although we knew we still had a long way to go, we felt that we had a pretty good example of what the Pacific had to offer at this season and, although we did not much care for it, we had gained confidence in our ship and in ourselves. These days we sailed through weather that would have made us heave to earlier. This was not through bravado, but because we now knew that it was safe to do so. Thus, our average day’s run became encouragingly longer.

On December 5, at 163° West Longitude, we passed below the 30th parallel and began to drop down on the Hawaiian Islands. On the chart we had marked what we called “Position X,” a point about 60 miles north of the island of Molokai, and for this we headed. Our plan was to round up gradually on this point and then head directly south. Particularly, we would be careful not to get too far west, which would put us downwind of the islands.

Shortly after crossing the date line we had begun to pick up United States radio stations, though we listened to them mainly to get news and check our chronometer with a time signal. Now, as we neared our destination, the Honolulu stations began to come in more and more clearly. On December 8, while I was listening with earphones to the tag end of the 1800 newscast, I heard the announcer say: “The Honolulu Coast Guard says, ‘No word yet from the missing yacht Phoenix.’”

This bulletin came as a complete surprise to all of us. In fact, my shipmates seemed inclined to believe at first that I was trying to pull their collective leg. It seemed unlikely that anyone would be interested in our arrival—certainly not to the extent of broadcasting our nonarrival. We speculated endlessly. “No word yet—” What word? Why should there be any word? How could they expect us to report when we had no means of communication and had seen no ships for the past month? Most important of all, we weren’t even overdue. The 45-day estimate I had given the U.S. Navy and the Japanese Coast Guard before we left Takamatsu had not yet elapsed, so it was too early for alarm. What did it all mean?

We had to wait three more days before we found out.

We were heading almost due south now, pushed on by a steady, brisk breeze out of the northeast. As far as this passage was concerned, we went directly out of the westerlies into the northeast trades, and we had no need of the extra drum of engine fuel we had brought along to get us through the notorious variables and calms of the horse latitudes.

We could easily tell we were getting south, even without the obvious evidence of sun and compass. Gradually we peeled off the woolens, long johns, and parkas we had worn during most of the trip. The girls began to come up on deck for sun baths, everyone went about in bare feet, and Mickey, once more standing his regular watch, began to sing his Coconut Song again.

Even the sea around us seemed to come to life. On December 7 we caught a glimpse of a large marine animal, the first we had seen on the trip, although birds had been with us most of the way. The next day something—maybe this same creature—bit off our trailing taffrail log, which had been turning faithfully for weeks. Fortunately, we had three spares. That same day our first flying fish landed aboard, to be pounced upon promptly by Mi-ke. (Although on later trips we frequently trolled a line aft, on this passage we did no fishing, having quite enough to do to handle our ship.)

On December 10 we reached Position X, according to our calculations, and set our course due south. If Ted’s navigation was correct, we should raise Molokai sometime that day. None of us voiced either confidence or doubt, but we all spent a great deal of time on deck and there was nothing casual in the way we searched the horizon.

At 1445 we saw a long, low cloud ahead on the horizon. At first no one dared call attention to it, but when it did not change shape or melt away but grew, instead, larger and more distinct, someone at last found the temerity to voice the fact: “Land ho!”

There was no doubt about it now. As we drew closer we could discern the jagged white line of a waterfall marking a dark cliff, and later still a pencil-thin structure, obviously man-made, standing out against the somber background. A quick check of our light list identified it as the Molokai Lighthouse. Almost simultaneously, as the navigator let out a triumphant shout, the light began to flash in the early dusk. We jibed to the west, to run along the coast, and set a course for Makapuu Light, the gateway to Honolulu.

By midnight we had closed in on Makapuu Light, passed through the Molokai Channel, and were lying off Diamond Head in full view of the lights, the beautiful lights, of Honolulu. Throughout the day small boat warnings had been broadcast repeatedly, but to us, sailing in the lee of Oahu after seven weeks on the open Pacific, the seas seemed as gentle as a millpond. We had no desire to attempt the harbor entrance in the darkness, so for the rest of the night we tacked, just offshore, from Diamond Head to Pearl Harbor and back again.

Throughout the night Nick, Mickey, and Moto came up to take their watch whenever they were called, but neither the sight of land nor the lure of the unknown seemed to stir their Oriental calm. Smiling at us gently, each one finished his job, took a casual look around, and went below to sleep out the remainder of the night.

But for the family there was no desire to sleep. A full moon lighted a path across the water; dramatic mountain silhouettes loomed darkly behind the fairy-land lights of a thousand human habitations; and a heady, never-before noticed scent of land drifted out to us on the offshore trades.

We sat together in the cockpit, singing Christmas carols and smelling the flowers, the closest, happiest family in all the world.

4      ON TO THE SOUTH PACIFIC:
FROM HAWAII TO TAHITI

“Banzai!... Banzai!... Banzai!”

In the morning we entered Honolulu Harbor under power and were directed to Pier 7, in the heart of the city. Quite a crowd had collected and what with officials, newsmen, radio and television operators, dockworkers, yachtsmen, and curious strangers, we found the confusion intimidating after forty-seven days of isolation.

Even before the lines were made fast, reporters were shouting questions, a television crew had asked us please to go out and come in again for the benefit of their cameras (we didn’t), and our good friends the Bushnells—who had spotted us from their home on the heights and rushed down with fragrant leis—were breaking the news that Barbara’s mother had flown in from Wisconsin only a day or two before and was awaiting our arrival.

As the Phoenix nudged the dock, an imposing individual cleared a space around him and prepared to board. Our first American visitor. I remembered my manners—we were back in the States, where one doesn’t bow, but shakes hands. I extended mine. He promptly put his briefcase into it, stepped aboard, and ordered all hands below. At once. No accepting of leis. No conversation with well-wishers on the dock.

The reporters howled; the bystanders jeered; and Barbara, in the midst of eager arrangements for getting in touch with her mother, had to be dragged down the companionway. We went below.

Our first visitor did not announce his function, but we soon gathered that he was the port doctor. We rather wondered why we could not at least have spoken to the people on the pier. What obscure disease can be transmitted by voice?

As the doctor left, Immigration arrived. We were delighted to produce the hard-won passports and U.S. visas for the Japanese men. Next in line was an agricultural inspector who apologetically threw overboard a couple of tired potatoes. We didn’t want them anyway.

A truck arrived, with the ominous lettering “Animal Quarantine” on it, and Mi-ke was snatched from Jessica’s arms and whisked away to a cell. We could have her back in four months we were told—and, no—the time spent at sea could not be applied on the quarantine period! It was evident that whatever terrible germs might find their way into Honolulu they wouldn’t include rabies. As an anthropologist, my own feeling was that these precautions, while commendable, were a bit late, since a far worse disease, the white man, had long ago taken a firm grip on the islands.

At last the officials moved on and we were free to come and go—but not before the location of the Customs Office had been pointed out to me, with instructions to report there as soon as possible. We had just been introduced to a new aspect of cruising: the inevitable bout with officialdom, just when you are longing to get ashore after weeks at sea. Necessary, perhaps, but infinitely frustrating.

Taking a deep breath we went up to join our patient friends—and ran into the second land-based hazard of cruising: reporters. Frankly, I was a little surprised to find the press in Honolulu so interested in our arrival. After all, boats by the hundreds come in here and they have to sail a good long way to get to the islands, no matter which land they set out from. Then why all the excitement about us?

I answered questions from reporters with half of my mind and tried to carry on a conversation with friends with the other. All of us gathered together when told to and smiled when asked and waved upon request—and breathed a sigh of relief when at last the reporters and photographers left.

Hours later, on my way back from the Customs Office, I bought a paper whose headlines screamed: Lost Yacht Arrives! What a coincidence, I thought. Another yacht—and on the same day! Only after I looked at the accompanying picture did I realize that the “lost yacht” referred to was the Phoenix!

This news took a bit of digesting. Gradually, as our friends filled us in, we learned that for more than a week we had been the subject of a running story started, perhaps, when friends who were expecting us had called the Honolulu Coast Guard to ask for news.

“Yacht Phoenix?” The C.G. had no information. “Coming from Japan? Never heard of her, but we’ll see what we can find out.”

A query was sent to the Japanese Coast Guard who, checking back, noted that a heavy storm had lashed Japan shortly after we sailed. Further research dug up an early news story indicating our original intention to sail up the coast before heading out to sea. A belated search of coastal waters turned up no wreckage of the Phoenix, no coastal station reported having seen her after her departure from Takamatsu.—Reluctantly, Japanese officials notified the U.S.C.G., “No trace of yacht Phoenix”—and the panic was on.

Conflicting reports began to crop up and were given international publicity. One, from an “authoritative source,” said we had “undoubtedly gone down with all hands”—a nicely flavored nautical phrase. Barbara’s mother, approached for comment, expressed confidence that all was well. A “Japanese naval expert” (our old friend Takemura?) was next quoted as saying that our ship was “built for the Inland Sea and would never withstand the rough waters of the North Pacific,” while another “expert” was found to maintain that a sturdier, better-built boat had never existed. “They’re safe”—“They’re lost”—“Hope dims”—“Hope revived”—headlines argued back and forth.

One article, the most bizarre of the lot, reported that a radio communication from the Phoenix had been received in Hiroshima to the effect that we were safe and would reach Hawaii “in a few days.” Eventually we tracked this down. A message had been received—of a sort: Moto’s mother had visited a shrine, where she had received assurance from On High that all was well with the Phoenix. She had passed the word along to the anxious relatives of the other men, the word had spread, and the newspapers got hold of the story. When the overseas news service picked it up, however, they failed to recognize that a “message” could be heavenly as well as electronic. In their own version, they presupposed a radio contact without bothering to inquire whether we actually had a radio transmitter aboard.

When we protested the inaccuracy—and the cruelty to anxious friends and relatives—of such irresponsible reporting, a newspaper acquaintance shrugged off our indignation.

“It’s just formula stuff,” he assured us. “Yacht sails—yacht has trouble—yacht does (or doesn’t) arrive. Sometime during the trip there has to be a crisis—a big storm—a man overboard—or just, as in your case, no word at all. That’s always good for at least a couple of ‘overdue’ or ‘lost’ stories. If the boat is really lost, the accuracy of the press is upheld. If it turns up—so much the better, because everyone feels good and we can do follow-up stories, general rejoicing, and big headlines.”

“Like ‘Lost Yacht Arrives’?”

He shrugged. “Anyway, it sells papers.” And then he added, a bit defensively, “Our paper hasn’t any objection to reporting the truth—so long as it doesn’t interfere with our circulation.”

In our case the news value was enhanced by the interracial character of our crew and the tremendous interest in the Phoenix which was felt not only in Japan but throughout the substantial Japanese-American community of the Hawaiian Islands. The two Japanese-language newspapers gave the story a big play. The Japanese Consul General paid his respects within hours of our arrival. The Hiroshima Ken Society (composed of hundreds of first-generation immigrants from Hiroshima Prefecture) scheduled a Welcome Banquet in honor of our men. And a cable from Japan informed us that a “Yacht Phoenix Supporters’ Association” had been organized, with Governor Ohara of Hiroshima Province as President.

This unexpected interest and publicity impressed us forcefully with the fact that our voyage was no longer a private affair. Whatever we did or said would be magnified by the press, both in Japan and locally. This put the problem of Mickey in a different light. Our instinct against washing one’s dirty linen in public had kept us from saying anything to press or public about Mickey’s failure, but the problem still had to be faced among ourselves.

My own feeling was that we should send him back to Japan, and the family felt the same. We had proved we could manage without him during the worst that we were likely to encounter in the way of weather and it seemed foolish to carry as supercargo someone who might at any time become a liability.

To my surprise, when I mentioned the subject to Moto and Nick, I found them unalterably opposed. My point of view was the narrow one of the skipper of a boat trying to make a successful circumnavigation; but my men were no longer thinking merely as yachtsmen. They had been greeted as representatives of Japan and they felt the responsibility keenly. A loss of “face” was involved. If one of them were to be sent back, the failure would reflect upon them all. In fact, there was the definite implication that if one went they would all feel obliged to go.

As is usually the case, no decision could be entirely satisfactory. If I kept Mickey, I felt he would be a constant threat to our success—not just from the standpoint of a weak stomach but because of his personality. Nick and Moto, however, were emphatically positive that he would turn out all right. We talked it over at tedious length and finally decided to keep Mickey—on sufferance—at least for a while.

After several days at the commercial dock, we were given permission to move to the Ala Wai Yacht Harbor, near Waikiki. Here we quickly made the acquaintance of fellow yachtsmen and, for the first time, had the real joy of visiting other yachts, of inviting friends aboard for coffee and yarns, and of hearing at first hand the experiences and opinions of men—and women—who had sailed all over the Pacific. We learned that the trip from California to Honolulu, or from Honolulu down to Tahiti, is considered the “milk run” by local seagoing yachtsmen. They had a certain respect for our Japan to Honolulu crossing, however, and we were human enough to be gratified.

Our Phoenix, with her rugged build, heavy masts, and massive tiller, looked a bit crude among the chrome and varnish of her sleek neighbors but, as Moto said in a series of articles he was writing for a Japanese-language paper, “Our boat is the roughest looking boat in the yacht harbor, but one of the most respected.”

All seven of us were made honorary members of the Hawaii Yacht Club, which Barbara and I later joined officially. Earlier, while still in Japan, I had joined the American Yachtsmen’s Association, which gave us outstanding help throughout our entire voyage. Soon we added still another burgee—that of the Seven Seas Cruising Association, composed of cruising yachtsmen who live aboard their craft and keep in touch with one another by means of a monthly bulletin to which all the S.S.C.A. “Commodores” contribute.

Every day brought visitors to the Phoenix. Some of them, naturally, were friends of ours, or friends of friends, but so many were people of Japanese ancestry who bowed and chatted in their native tongue with Nick, Mickey, and Moto that I sometimes wondered whether we weren’t still tied up to the dock in Hiroshima.

“I thought you said you didn’t know anyone in Honolulu,” I remarked to Moto, after several days had passed with no slackening in the steady stream of callers.

“Yes!” Moto agreed happily. “We don’t! But Hawaii people very kind, very friend.”

Indeed they were “very friend.” Day after day shiny black limousines drew up at the docks and discharged Japanese-speaking callers bringing gifts: clothes, cartons of cigarettes, baskets of fruit, flowers, cakes, Japanese delicacies of all kinds—and invitations without number.

Thus began a period during which we were treated to a hospitality such as few tourists, I am sure, have ever experienced. Our own list of haole (white) friends grew rapidly and we had no lack of invitations, which we could accept without qualms, knowing that our Japanese companions also were having a fine time. Only three or four times did our paths cross: once when we were all invited to a most enjoyable family dinner with the Japanese Consul General, Mr. Hatoyama, his charming wife, and three of their ten children; once when I was speaker at a Hawaii Yacht Club dinner; and once for a never-to-be-forgotten “Welcome Party” given by the Hiroshima Ken Society. All the guests were male (except Barbara and Jessica), and the food, utensils, and speeches were entirely Japanese. Mickey had apparently been elected spokesman for the Phoenix crew and he made a stirring speech, complete with gestures and bravado. For the first time we experienced the rafter-raising Japanese cheer, a chorus shouted at top voice from over two hundred enthusiastic throats: “Banzai!... Banzai!... Banzai!” and we were proud that our Japanese companions should be so honored.

In spite of an active social life and my own commitment for a series of three articles about our trip, we managed to make time for a great deal of work on the boat. In addition to drydocking and doing a routine overhaul, we put in a number of improvements based on our hard-earned knowledge of what was needed most. With the proceeds from my articles, I was able to install a 12-volt electrical system, which only those who have returned, however briefly, to the onerous, overheated, and smelly age of kerosene can appreciate. Not only did this remove the necessity for reaching for one’s flashlight before trying to move about at night, but it made it possible for each of us to enjoy the infinite luxury of reading in our bunks. It was an improvement, too, from the standpoint of safety, for it became a simple matter to flick on masthead light or sidelights at the first sign of an approaching ship. I also installed a Navy surplus radiotelephone which, although we had no intention of using it routinely, was a comforting thing to have around.

Changes were made in the galley, too. Previously, Barbara had had to wire her pots to the stove—a tricky and sometimes dangerous maneuver in rough weather. Now we set up the stove in gimbals so it would always remain level—a sometimes fantastic sight at sea when it often appears as if the pots on the stove are the only things tilting and that liquid must remain in them by some kind of magic. We put in sink pumps for both fresh and salt water—the latter, as Moto described it, connecting us to “the biggest water tank in the world.” And we put in two more bilge pumps, one off the engine and one which went out to the turn of the bilge and also served to empty the sink. These changes, naturally, had the enthusiastic endorsement of the cook as well as of Ted, whose galley boy work was thereby considerably lightened.

Shortly after our arrival a Mr. Yotsuda from the northern island of Kauai, had flown over to welcome us. He was a brother of the Yotsuda-san in Japan who had built the Phoenix and he had extracted a promise from us that we would visit a little “The Garden Isle” before we sailed for the South Seas.

By March Art Nelson, the local sailmaker, had completed the genoa jib I had ordered for the fair-weather trade-wind sailing we hopefully anticipated and, with all the rest of the work done, we felt we were in fair shape for sea. It seemed high time to keep our promise to Mr. Yotsuda and give the Phoenix (and crew) a chance to try her wings again.

Early in March we set sail for Kauai, a hundred miles to the northwest. The trip, which we had hoped would be short, routine, and enjoyable, turned out to be otherwise. The channel was rough, the wind was fickle, we were soft—and it took three days. On the last evening a stiff breeze sprang up that threatened to pile us onto the unknown lee shores of Kauai. Ted and I had an uneasy time of it until we sighted land, but it was too late to go in, so, once again, we tacked back and forth all night. What with keeping an eye on the lights and rousing the men every couple of hours to come about, we got little sleep as we waited for daylight to arrive so that we could round the breakwater and enter the beautifully protected bay of Nawiliwili. Happily exhausted, we dropped the hook a few hundred feet from shore and crawled into our bunks.

Within five minutes we had visitors—the East Kauai Hiroshima Ken Association, led by Mr. Yotsuda, who had a full program lined up for us. Under his direction we turned on the engine and motored into the dock where a place of honor had been reserved. On shore, a caravan of cars was waiting and in no time we were on our way.

That day we saw all the points of natural beauty or historic interest on the east side of the island—and they are many. A full day ended with a formal banquet and many speeches.

It was after midnight before we were returned to the boat. At seven the next morning we were aroused by more visitors—this time, the West Kauai Hiroshima Ken Association who did the honors for the other side of the island, including the banquet—and the speeches! If, that night, we were all a little sleepy, there was general agreement that it had been well worth it!

We also received an invitation from the Kauai Yacht Club, but because of club policy it was extended only to the haole members of our group. This gave rise to a situation we had discussed at some length: the probability that in the course of our world cruise we would run into discrimination. It was distressing, however, that it had arisen first in the friendly Hawaiian Islands—and particularly that it should be a yacht club which excluded certain yachtsmen on the basis of race.

The family’s first inclination was to decline but Nick, Mickey, and Moto were more realistic. As they pointed out, they had already received more invitations than they could accept, many of which did not include us. The most sensible course, they seemed to feel, was for all of us to take things as they came and enjoy whatever hospitality appealed to us. We accepted the invitation, therefore, and tried, by our attitude and conversation, to sow what seeds of tolerance we could.

While we were in Kauai, Mr. Yotsuda continued to consider himself our official host. “Did brother build you a good boat?” he asked, one day. “Is there anything you would like to change?”

I assured him that we were well satisfied with his brother’s work, but we would like to extend the stern sprit someday, in order to set up a permanent backstay for the mizzen. The next day Mr. Yotsuda appeared at dockside with his own tools and stayed until the job was done. Boatbuilding, it appears, runs in the family, and the Phoenix had become a family affair.

After two pleasant weeks we headed back to Oahu and Honolulu. As it happened, the return trip was rougher, if possible, and took a day longer than the passage up. Our initiation into trade-wind island hopping had been unfortunate, and I could see signs of disillusionment and rebellion among the women—particularly when we had to spend two days within sight of Honolulu, beating our way in. It was a hard lesson in the vicissitudes of sailing upwind and I discovered that Barbara and Jessica had a tendency—regrettable in those who must depend on the wind—to chafe a bit when land was in sight.

We spent only a few days on Oahu, during which time we loaded aboard canned goods in case lots for an estimated six months. Then, bidding farewell to the many friends we had made, and with promises to return “in a few years,” we moved on to Maui. With us we took, as guest “hitchsailor,” Alan Pooley, the son of Wisconsin friends, who provided welcome companionship to Ted.

In Maui the Japanese community again took us to its heart but this time they had to compete with the hospitality of Al and Verity Collins, known throughout the cruising world as hosts to visiting yachtsmen. Did we want some laundry done? Bring it on up to the house and dump it in the machine. Hot baths? Come on over—any time! Shopping to do? Here’s Al, at the dockside with his car, ready to take you anywhere you want to go.

The climax of our stay on Maui was the two-day trip into Haleakala, the world’s largest extinct volcano crater. With us went our young guest, Alan, enjoying his last adventure before returning to the mainland, despite the minor inconvenience of a broken arm, obtained by falling down our forward hatch. (This was the first accident aboard and we sincerely hoped it would be the last.)

Our last memory of Lahaina is of the farewell party and hula show put on for us at dockside just before our departure. As we cast off the lines to the strains of “Little Brown Gal,” we suddenly noticed that Jessica was still sitting on the edge of the dock, her back to the Phoenix, so engrossed in the performance that she was quite unaware of our departure. Hastily I put the engine in reverse, Moto tossed a line to shore, and willing hands boosted her up over the stern sprit—together with three more cakes and another stalk of bananas in case we should get hungry on the overnight trip to the Big Island (Hawaii).

Sailing on down the Kona (leeward) coast of Big Island, we spent several days in Kealakekua Bay, where Captain Cook was killed. The bronze plaque which supposedly marks the place of his death was under a couple of feet of water, a short distance offshore. We could never have found it without the help of “Cap’n” Glass, a salty-looking old landlubber-turned-yachtsman. Even Cap’n Glass, however, could not tell us how the marker had managed to end up in such an unusual spot. Water risen? Land sunk? We’d still like to know the details.

At Napoopoo we decided to make a further test of our new equipment by beating around South Point and up to Hilo, against both wind and current. I had good reason to believe that the trip would be rugged and some instinct made me suggest that the women go across the island by bus, a trip of only a few hours, to wait for the rest of us in Hilo. Barbara acquiesced with mixed emotions. In her diary she noted: “Deserted the Phoenix. It was a queer, rootless feeling to watch her moving out of the harbor far below us while we were driven along the upper road on our way to the station wagon-cum-bus.”

Four days later in Hilo, she noted in her diary: “Our Phoenix was sighted this evening.... How wonderfully the Japanese grapevine works! Three members of the Hiroshima Ken Society were waiting at the dock when Earle and Ted rowed in to shore for the first time. Already we’re dated up for the Welcome Dinner plus a day of sightseeing around Hilo and another day touring the Volcano Area.”

We were exceptionally fortunate in visiting the Big Island during the 1955 volcanic eruptions, so that we had far more than the usual tourist excursion through Hawaii National Park. New cinder cones were being pushed up daily within easy driving distance of Hilo. In startling contrast to other countries, where volcanoes claim innumerable lives and force a mass exodus, Hawaii’s volcanic goddess, Pele, has a reputation for benevolence. One of the favorite expeditions, day or night, was to the scene of current activity. Tourists and locals alike, serenely confident, flock to watch and photograph her pyrotechnic displays or to scoop up—on a very long stick—souvenirs of molten lava.

I was absorbed, however, with preparations for our long hop to Tahiti, 2,200 miles to the south. The constant work and pressure took up so much time and energy that I almost resented the interruptions of volcanoes, hospitality, and the ubiquitous visitor with his often ludicrous questions. A couple of sailors from a naval ship wanted to know where we kept our gyrocompass—and they weren’t kidding. A Hawaiian housewife, too broad even to attempt getting down the main hatch, expressed incredulity and distress when she learned that Barbara had to get along without a washing machine. And a gang of modern teen-agers, far from envying Ted’s adventure, seemed rather to feel sorry for him because we didn’t have TV!

I was so preoccupied, in fact, that I was completely unaware of Barbara’s feelings or of the struggle she was having with herself as the date of our departure drew near. And not until several years later, after our trip had been successfully completed, did she allow me to read notations she had made in her diary at that time:

This whole period has been an emotionally confused one. Intellectually, I know that no trip to come will be as bad as the hop from Japan, but like the rat who’s been shocked too many times, I have a deep-rooted dread of starting off again. A thousand times I’ve wanted to cry out, “I can’t go on with it—I just can’t!” Yet I know I must. I can’t be the one to let Earle down—and after the trip around from Kona, when the men batched it, and have taken every occasion to tell me how important I am to their well-being and how morale suffered when I was not along.

It’s supposed to be good to be wanted, but I feel only resentment. The few wonderful, relaxing days at the Y.W.C.A. were not enough and when we moved back to the Phoenix it was with reluctance and a sense of being cheated. And yet, I wouldn’t have wanted her any more delayed, for the last day or two before they arrived was no pleasure because of my anxiety over the lack of communication.

If that trip showed the men that they needed my contribution, it also served to show me that as long as the Phoenix continues on her voyage with Earle aboard, I have no choice but to string along. Watching and wondering is much the hardest part!

On May 26, 1955, with a high barometer but amid showers and overcast sky, the Phoenix set out from Hilo on the long trip south. We felt much better equipped, both shipwise and personally, than we had been when we left Takamatsu exactly six months earlier, but I can personally vouch for it that Barbara was not the only one who had some private trepidation. One thing we were certain of, however: we could at least expect better conditions than on the North Pacific trip.

It was our plan to make as much easting as possible in the early stages of the trip, so that at the southern end, when we reached the area of the southeast trades, we could make the port of Papeete, Tahiti, without undue effort.

For the first four days the weather, as well as myself, was uncertain. The pattern is shown in the log:

During night about a dozen mild squalls passed over, with or without clouds and rain. My sleep was governed by these visitors, as we had left the four lowers up, and I half expected something to carry away. Each time a squall passed, with no sound of smashing blocks or flapping canvas, and no call for help from the man at the tiller, I sank again into an uneasy sleep. But all held, and my lost sleep was wasted, for the night passed without incident and we made good time.

Our taffrail log was misbehaving, and I broke out the spare (which I had bought from a fellow yachtsman in Honolulu). For a while, we trailed them both—to port and starboard. The Big Log doggedly and steadily recorded that we were going 3 knots while the Little Log insisted that we were making 9. Making use of a Dutchman’s log, I determined that we were making about 5 knots, and Ted and I tried to work out the mathematics that would reconcile the two.

Also, we now had two sextants, as I had picked up an extra in a secondhand shop in the islands. It seemed to work fine—at least Ted and I, each shooting the sun at the same time with a different instrument, were able to get within five miles of each other, and this was quite good enough for us.

The weather, after its bad beginning, steadily improved until by the eighth day out it was perfect. Now, however, at about 10° North Latitude, we began to run out of wind. Each day it got a little lighter. My log asks one word, “Doldrums?”

The following day we ran the engine, on a course due south, for seven hours, to help us get into the southeast trades, and by the tenth day we picked up light but steady airs from the new direction. Slowly they increased, as we worked our way south.

Our radio listening was confined to five minutes a day—from a station in Los Angeles—at which time we caught a short roundup of the news and a time signal, to check our chronometer. That was all we wanted or needed. If anything of world-shattering importance happened, we knew it would be covered in that brief newscast. The rest could wait. My log says:

So far, this trip, compared with the N. Pacific crossing, has been a quiet afternoon’s sail on the Bay, complete with sunbathing, naps, reading, games, and drinks—not, unfortunately, cold. It’s full moon now and we stayed on deck late last night in a scene of fantastic beauty.

We had moved to better locations the last-minute miscellaneous items that had crammed the life raft on departure, and now we found the raft a perfect family playpen and a fine spot for astronomy lessons from Ted. We had time, too, for family games, such as Twenty Questions or Teapot, and for conversation, that forgotten art. Unconsciously we bridged the gap of years as we shared our reading and our thoughts and kicked ideas around. There was a new sense of relaxation. Hatches and portholes were left open day after day, and meals were often served on deck. Gradually we dared to believe that perhaps deep-sea cruising didn’t have to be under conditions such as we had experienced on the Long Shakedown—given the proper latitudes and the right season of the year.

Mickey continued in good health and spirits and I began to hope that that problem, too, was a thing of the past. Occasionally, when it was the watch of one of the men, the others would join him to hold long conversations. Once the discussion became so vehement that I almost feared they would come to blows. Overcome with curiosity, I joined them in the cockpit and listened silently although I could catch nothing of the quick and colloquial man’s idiom.

They were discussing Japan, Nick explained then—whether their country’s future was a “dead end,” as one of them apparently maintained, or whether there was cause for optimism. Also, I gathered there was some divergence of opinion about the United States—or as much of it as they had seen so far. One was apparently outspoken in his enthusiasm, while the others remained noncommittal. These points of view were not identified and I could only hazard a guess on the basis of incomplete knowledge. In Japan, the inseparable comrades had been Nick and Moto, both inclined to be reserved and thoughtful. As Nick had once told me, “We are like brothers. I am sorry for Mickey. He is outside.” It seemed likely to me that the ebullient, quicksilver Mickey would have been the one to take immediately to the ease and glitter of American living, while Nick and Moto, more conservative, would tend to reserve judgment.

On the other hand, during our stay in Hawaii I had noted an increasing tendency for Mickey to replace Nick, as Moto’s friend and companion. Often the two younger men had gone off sightseeing together, while Nick remained on board alone to read, to write letters, or to listen to music. At the time we attached little importance to this and certainly, once we put to sea again, there seemed to be no real schism among the three who ate and chatted animatedly together in the cockpit or around the table in the main cabin.

Only a few incidents served to mark the passage of time. Trouble developed with the head of the topmast and one afternoon we struck it—in one hour and twenty minutes, which I thought not too bad for a first attempt at sea although, of course, we were working under favorable conditions. The iron cap at the head was completely off—faulty design on my part—and we started fixing it in a leisurely sort of way.

Another day we had our first experience of sea life on a large scale: a school of hundreds of dolphinlike creatures, which sent Jessica scurrying below for her Journal and reference books. We saw them first off the starboard beam, where they passed well forward of us and seemed to be passing on their way. Suddenly they turned en masse and headed directly for our boat. For two hours we were completely surrounded. How many there were we couldn’t determine, but they extended as far as the eye could see and we had a matchless opportunity for taking pictures and enjoying their graceful performance.

Through illustrations in Jessica’s Book of Knowledge, we identified them as blackfish, a small variety of whale. They ranged in length from 12 to 15 feet, had short snouts and round foreheads with a blowhole on top. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, expelling air with audible snorts as they surfaced, or slapping their heads on the water with a thwack before they went under again. Sometimes a platoon of three or four would curve out of the water in graceful precision, or dive in formation beneath the boat. Others seemed to make a game out of swimming back and forth just in front of the bobstay chain as it cut the water.

After more than two hours they slowly thinned out and moved on, but several times during the night the man at the tiller could recognize the distinctive whumph of a straggler, surfacing and blowing just beside the boat.

Two days later, on June 10, at 150° 20′ West Longitude, we crossed the equator at about 2100 and were, for the first time in our lives, in the Southern Hemisphere.

Had our Equator Crossing Celebration. Menu included roast chicken, cranberry sauce, brown rice, spinach, olives, pumpernickel, chicken broth, hot tea, peaches, fresh-baked “Equator” cakes. Also, there were individual place cards, paper hats, and candy favors, courtesy of Jessica. A gala time indeed, which began with a splash when hot broth spilled in Nick’s lap. But no harm done, since we had plenty of broth.

As far as the operation of the boat was concerned, we were proceeding smoothly. We had finally settled our two immediate problems, the log—we now used the Small Log with a correction factor—and the topmast, which we had repaired and restepped. Now, for the first time, we carried our full canvas: main, mizzen, foresail, genoa jib, mizzen staysail, topsail, and top jib. I wished there were some way we could take a picture, as we had never seen ourselves fully decked out.

On this trip we trailed a fishing line but only occasionally did we catch an addition to the menu. Near the equator, however, the man on midnight watch pulled in a long, thin, toothed fish, which looked like nothing we had ever seen before. It definitely did not look edible. In the morning I hunted in vain through my book on Deep Sea Fishes. Suddenly Barbara had an inspiration.

“I’m sure I’ve seen a picture of that fish somewhere!” she insisted. She ran her eye along the titles of the books in our shelves and pulled out Kon-Tiki.

“There it is!” she announced. She pointed triumphantly to a photograph of the gempylus, or snake mackerel, which had found its way aboard the raft at about the same latitude. Our visitor was its twin brother—snakelike body, vicious needle-sharp teeth in an undershot jaw, saucer eyes, and all. Kon-tiki’s gempylus, we read, had been the first specimen ever found alive, so we recognized our catch as something a bit out of the ordinary. Sacrificing all the spare alcohol on board (methylated spirits, rubbing alcohol from the medicine chest, and just a splash or two of gin), we popped our trophy into a spare five-gallon can and covered him with spirits. I didn’t know exactly what we were going to do with him, but he seemed too unusual to discard.

About this time we made a discovery which was to have far-reaching consequences. Crawling around on the deck we found a number of glossy, hard-shelled, beetle-like insects. The first one or two I captured and placed in a glass jar, thinking them isolated specimens of an insect found hundreds of miles from the nearest land. As more turned up, however, I reconsidered. Had they actually boarded us on the high seas or were they stowaways? And, if the latter, where had they hidden, and what damage might they be expected to do? Eventually we were to find out, with distressing consequences.

On June 18 in anticipation of our arrival in Tahiti—and in honor of Father’s Day—Barbara and Jessica presented me with a French flag they had made. Like our international signal flags, it was concocted from flag material I had bought in a job lot from my old standby back in Kure, Japan: the BCOF salvage depot. This lot—one of my “sight unseen” bargains—consisted of a couple of bushels of assorted ensigns, in conditions ranging from brand-new to moth-eaten. Among them were flags for Russia and Red China, each about the size of a badminton court, and all of them made in Sydney, Australia—a circumstance which we found mildly curious.

We were now about 12° South and had to be careful to give Matahiva, to the east, a wide berth. We passed it in the night, and set a course to clear Tetiaroa, north of Tahiti. Now that we were approaching our landfall, the problem of communications again became crucial. Although Mickey and Moto were improving rapidly in their ability to understand English, occasional incidents served to remind me that much of our speech was restricted to highly selective bands, like a radiotelephone.

For example, if I wanted the figures from the log, it was necessary to tune in to the proper wave length: “What is the log?” If I forgot and, poking my head up through the hatch, inquired breezily “What are we making?” I would be greeted by a polite but blank stare. The same applied to any of the other dozens of circumlocutions which I might use with Ted: “How’re we doing?” or “Has our speed picked up (or dropped)?” or even “What’s the log say?”

All of our ship work operated through such narrow, but clear channels. We communicated in a kind of basic English. Instead of saying, “Hand me the painter,” I would say, “Give me the small boat rope.” We didn’t strike sails, we took them down; we didn’t make fast, we tied.

Sometimes situations arose for which no channel of communication existed, and at such times problems arose. Take the following incident from the log:

We are approaching Tahiti now. Therefore, some time ago I made a little speech to the crew, emphasizing that I wanted particular care to be taken in making good the compass course assigned, in reading and reporting the data from the log, etc. The purpose, of course, I explained, was so that we would have a reliable dead-reckoning position, if the weather closed in on us, and it became impossible to take sights as we approached land.

It seemed to me that this was well understood by the men. On the morning of the 17th, as we worked on our dead-reckoning position, Ted and I noted that our speed had dropped off sharply between midnight, when I went off watch, and 0600, when I next checked the log—dropped, in fact, from the steady 6–7 knots we had been making to a little over 4.

I asked Nick, “Everything all right last night?” “Sure, okay!” (That international word!) “Was the wind the same, all night?” Nick consulted with Moto and Mickey. “Yes.” “Same as now?” “Yes.”

I went back to our figures, but they still didn’t jibe; I tried again. “Are you sure you gave me correct log figures?” Another conference. “Yes, okay.” Then either the log was defective or we must have lost speed during the night, because now we were again running between 6 and 7 knots.

There was a long conference this time. Finally Nick said, “Mickey says log no good his watch.” “Why not?” “Fish line tangle with log line—long time to fix—Mickey thinks log no good then?” “I think—maybe not,” I said, and retired to my cabin to cool down.

We passed Tetiaroa in the darkness on the night of June 19 and estimated that we should see Venus Point light before daylight. At 0500 we picked up the flashes dead ahead and set our clocks—and our spirits—on Tahiti time.

As dawn broadened into day we could see the peaks of the magnificent island take form, their green serrated ridges touched with yellow in the early morning sun. As we approached Papeete, a rainbow arched over the town, giving us an auspicious welcome. We worked our way through the pass and a pilot boat, whose assistance is obligatory in these islands, came out to meet us and guide us to our berth. The pilot—quite naturally—spoke French, putting the burden of reply on Barbara, who, groping wildly for the appropriate foreign language, came up with only Japanese! Her confusion was only temporary, however, and soon we were able to inform the pilot that our top speed was a possible three knots. This was too slow to suit our escort (too slow, here in the South Seas?), so we were put on a tow and hustled into the harbor.

There, at 1000 on June 20, twenty-seven days and 2,500 miles out of Hilo, we dropped anchor in the harbor of Papeete—the first port of our trip that was truly foreign to us all.

5      TAHITI AND THE
ISLANDS UNDER THE WIND

“Money? What I do with money?”

In Papeete, yachts are not just visitors—they are integral parts of the community. The Phoenix was moored stern first to the sea wall on the harbor side of the main street, between the luxury cruising schooner Te Vega and the 30-foot ketch Tahiti. Like them, we laid out a gangplank to the shore and, since the rise and fall of the tide is negligible, it needed no adjustment during the month of our stay.

Thus established as semipermanent residents, we settled down to enjoy our central location. From the cockpit or while working on deck (always there was work to be done) we could watch the world of French Oceania as it went by, ceaselessly, from before dawn on one day until the wee small hours of the next. Here comes a woman, pushing her bicycle with a small and squealing pig dangling from the handle bars by its trussed trotters; there go a group of laughing Polynesians, loaded with bundles and crowned with circlets of leaves and brilliant hibiscus blossoms, on their way to board an interisland schooner bound for the Tuamotus. Sometimes a squad of tidily uniformed children passes by, shepherded by a nun in a white habit; or a bearded priest in a round-crowned hat cycles past, his cassock flying.

The center of town, however—and one of the most fascinating aspects of Papeete—is the open-air market. From 4:30 A.M. on, buses full of humanity, with roofs piled high with stalks of bananas, bunches of coconuts, strings of fish, trussed fowl and indignant pigs, pour in from the outlying districts. On the waterfront similar cargoes are being unloaded. Stalls in the market fill rapidly and the whole town pours in with baskets to shop for the day’s supplies.

Most visitors make an effort to get up early—or stay up late enough—to pay at least one visit to the Papeete market, but for Barbara the 5:30 trip to market was not only fun but essential. By seven o’clock most of the fresh vegetables are gone and the fish are beginning to wilt in the heat. By eight nothing is left but the picked-over discards. The buses, loaded once again with produce which looks the same but which has, presumably, changed hands, pull noisily out of the market square and head back to the villages. By 8:30 the market is deserted and, had we overslept, it would have been impossible to buy fresh food for that day.

Usually I went with Barbara for companionship and to help bring home the booty, but mostly to marvel at the display. The Papeete market is the only place I know where a magnificent branch of bleached coral, a fresh pig’s head, and a flagon of Chanel No. 5 may be found sharing counter space in a single stall. Surprises were never-ending and, after we had made our purchases for the day—red-fleshed tuna chunks threaded on a string, a small mound of tomatoes at an exorbitant price, or a woven palm-leaf basket of fresh limes for practically nothing, basket included—we usually wandered through the crowded aisles admiring the color and variety of the wares.

On the way home, in broad daylight, we would stop at a little café to enjoy a prebreakfast café au lait, served in a cup the size of a soup bowl.

Back at the Phoenix, the rest of the gang would still be asleep, awakening only reluctantly at the insistent clanging of the breakfast bell. Although they shared an inclination to lie abed, we were actually very proud of our crew and received frequent compliments on their industry. Old-timers, who had seen many a yacht come to grief in Tahiti on the rocks of crew trouble, were greatly impressed with Nick, Mickey, and Moto. Far from spending their time in the bars, they worked for a part of every day on the endless small jobs of upkeep without which a boat—and a cruise—begins to come apart at the seams. This was a routine we had established in Hawaii, even in the midst of a whirlwind round of hospitality: half a day for the boat, half a day for fun. Nights didn’t count!

My own tasks, though less obvious than painting in the hot sun or greasing stays, included the ever-onerous and time-consuming jobs of locating and purchasing needed supplies, current or for the future, and the cutting of red tape in preparation for further voyaging. For instance, while in Papeete I obtained permission from the Governor to visit “Les Iles Sous Les Vents”—The Islands Under the Wind—in the French Oceania Group; I cabled the New Zealand authorities for permission to visit Rarotonga, in the Cook Islands; and I wrote the American Consul in New Caledonia about the possibility of visiting Samoa. Since there were Japanese nationals as well as Americans in our group, we didn’t dare be too casual about our island hopping.

Most of my local negotiations, of course, had to be carried on in French, of which I knew even less than Japanese. Just to convey our thanks to the proprietors of the Cercle Polynesienne for their offer of shower facilities, or to order a drink, became a frustrating or a challenging adventure, depending on the situation and one’s temperament. We began to see the sense in having an international language which would be a second tongue to all and could be dusted off and used anywhere in the world.

Tahiti has always been a Mecca for yachtsmen. During our stay, we met several—some of them transients like ourselves; others who had succumbed to the charms of Tahiti and settled themselves more or less permanently. Outstanding among the latter was William Robinson, who circled the globe many years ago in his famous Svaap. Robinson seemed to be very shy and reserved, but when he came aboard he soon lost his shyness, when the talk shifted from social nonessentials to a discussion of the best rig to use in trade-wind cruising.

Another yachtsman of former days deserves special mention: Robert Argod, who sailed out from France with his wife and children and several others on Fleur d’Océan and has remained as captain of an interisland schooner. He is the uncontested senior host to all visiting yachts and has a fascinating logbook with pictures and accounts of all the yachtsmen they have met, a treasury of cruising yachts. We began to understand more clearly the close bond that grows up between those who sail, the gradual accumulation of anecdotes and experiences which one hears and passes on so that, although we may never meet many of the yachts mentioned in the Argod logbook, we feel that we are old friends.

As June passed into July, preparations for the Bastille Day fete began to get under way in earnest. Because of our location—practically a part of the Midway—we had ringside seats for everything and could stroll out a dozen times a day to see how the work was getting along. The concessions themselves were not unlike those of any honky-tonk state fair, but there was a charm and novelty to the French and Tahitian songs that poured out of every sidewalk café, a gaiety to the brilliant pareu, or wrap-around skirt, with which the dark-haired women clothed themselves, and a bit of humor in the fact that the frequent parking areas, labeled “Garage,” were to accommodate bicycles instead of cars. Cold pop vied in popularity with drinking nuts—the natives drinking the pop and the tourists the coconut milk!

Most fascinating of all was the transformation of the large park in front of the Governor’s Palace, which was to be the scene of the Bastille Day ball and the subsequent dance contests. A huge wooden dance floor was fitted together and laid down on the grass. Around it were set coconut palms, clumps of plants, and flowering ginger—all transplanted for the occasion. Strings of colored lights were festooned across the area and dozens of little tables were set up around the edges of the floor, changing the open lawn into a fairy-tale ballroom. On the night of July 14 hundreds of couples completed the picture, a picture as evanescent as Cinderella’s own finery, for the very next day the palms and the torch ginger were discarded, the dance floor was carted off, and a new phase of the construction got under way with the erection of grandstands and bleachers around the smooth expanse of grass where the dance contests would next be held.

The fete itself opened officially with a bang—with twenty-one bangs, in fact—as the government fulfilled the promises made on all the posters: Vingt et un coups de canon!!! That afternoon (while Mi-ke was on the boat giving birth to a long-awaited brood of kittens), the various dance teams, in costume, paid ceremonial calls on the Mayor and the Governor and presented gifts of bananas, breadfruit, and coconuts, as well as bundles of live chickens, ducks, and even suckling pigs. (After the formal presentations had been complete, the gifts were quietly returned to the donors.)

As soon as the opening ceremonies had been disposed of, the booths along the Midway went into full swing. Soon the dancers themselves became a colorful part of the scene, their grass skirts discarded and slung over their shoulders as they wandered along the street in more conventional garb, licking ice-cream cones.

Throughout the week of the fete, events came thick and fast. The most widely publicized feature, of course, is the series of dance contests in which teams from most of the neighboring islands as well as of the many districts on Tahiti itself take part. The Tahitian hula, justly famous, has to be seen to be believed. The girls vibrate with such frenetic yet effortless activity, to the insistent rhythms of native drums, and their hips perform such incredible gyrations that the dance leader not only has to call the figures but must constantly circulate among the dancers to retie a skirt or adjust a bra that a performer has danced herself right out of!

In addition to the nightly dance contests there was an overflowing program of events: sailing canoe races, spear-throwing contests, soccer games, swimming and diving competitions, horse racing, greased-pole climbing, and to climax all, the hotly contested outrigger canoe races, both single- and double-hull canoes which are propelled at incredible speed by teams of men or women rowers.

The fete was officially over, but the Midway was still going strong when we left Papeete on the 20th of July. The palm-bedecked booths were turning yellow in the heat, the flowers had long since wilted, but the performers, loath to return to their outer island homes, still wandered the streets doing brief dances for a few francs here and there or selling their dance costumes outright if a buyer could be found. We thought it time to sail on.

The island of Mooréa is eight miles and one universe away from Tahiti. After living for twenty-four hours a day in the midst of a never-sleeping carnival atmosphere, it was a blessed relief to drop anchor in Papetoai Bay, which many have called the most beautiful in the whole world. Certainly it is one of the most spectacular. The mountain peaks are a vivid emerald green and quite unreal in shape, rising almost vertically to end in a surrealist play. In fact the whole scene, the changing blues of the sky, the glowing greens of the land, the clear, translucent blue and green and turquoise shades of the water seemed like something dreamed up by a Technicolor consultant gone berserk.

From our anchorage just off the palm-lined shore we could see a couple of native houses with woven walls of split bamboo and roofs of pandanus thatch. Beyond the houses, but visible only from the top of the mast, ran the narrow crushed coral road which is the main highway around the island—a distance of some 36 miles. The nearest village, a cluster of a dozen or so houses, an octagonal church with a red spire, and two rather dispirited Chinese stores, was two miles to the east. We walked there, to present our credentials and to buy some supplies. Neither of the stores offered anything in the way of fresh fish, meat, or vegetables, and no one seemed at all interested in our papers, so we settled for four bottles of warm “lemonade”—a sweetish soft drink—a large bag of unroasted peanuts, and a handful of vanilla beans. Then we returned to the boat to open cans for the first time since our Tahiti landfall.

Outside of Tahiti, life was dreamy and time lost its sharp insistence. There was no radio, no newspaper—and not even the possibility of receiving mail. It was a relief not to have one’s anxieties and ulcers churned into unrest each day, as they had been during our stay in Hawaii, where every newscast, each fresh edition of the daily papers, had kept us aware of the manufacture of each new ice cube in the Cold War.

We stayed five days in Mooréa, and would have postponed our departure much longer had it not been for the lure of such names as Huahiné, Raïatéa, Tahaa, and Bora Bora.

From Mooréa, we sailed to Huahiné, about a hundred miles downwind. It was an overnight trip and gave us another lesson in How Not to Navigate, as recorded in the log:

Last night, just after Nick came on watch (2400), I could feel a definite change in the motion of the boat and heard the staysail flapping and the foresail boom swinging. Went up and found Nick working hard to keep the set course but unable to do so.... Noticed the stars weren’t in the proper position and checked the compass. (It is a grid-type airplane compass, on which the course is preset.) Saw at once that course was set for 252°—not proper 292°—and trouble was caused from this and not from a sudden change in the wind direction.

What must have happened: After setting proper compass direction, I presumably forgot to lock the rotating portion and one of the men, at change of watch, brushed against it, changing the course by 40°.... Learned new lessons: (1) Check the compass at each watch. (2) Keep it locked.

To this I added one more rule, just to be on the safe side: No one adjusts the compass but the Skipper.

We spotted Huahiné just at dawn and were able to get a bearing and set a course to round the north end before the island was lost in a series of rain squalls. Working our way through the reef, we dropped anchor off the town, and chalked up another South Seas landfall.

Fare, the port of Huahiné, is a village of perhaps a score of small Chinese-owned stores along the waterfront, including cafés, bars, and a hotel. We were quickly introduced to one of its most charming features. A couple of times every day, one or another of the storekeepers would roll a large ice-cream freezer—hand-cranked—out onto his porch and chalk up a sign on the blackboard in front: Glace en vent!! This was the signal for customers to gather, with Jessica and Ted well in the front rank. First comers—solid ice cream; stragglers—soup!

One afternoon we took a hike around the north end of the island, looking for the ruins of a two-storied temple site, known locally as a marae—which was rumored to be in that area. The road along the shore narrowed to a trail and in an hour or so we were walking single file along faint paths. At the end of the trip, we found a small settlement with the ever-present Chinese store, but no marae—and no one who could tell anything.

Disappointed, we started back. A good-looking young Tahitian, his guitar slung over his shoulder, flashed us a smile and stepped off the path to shake hands with each of us as we passed, according to the hospitable custom of the islands, and to wish us “Iorana!—Good Day!” When we asked him, in halting French, if he knew anything about the lost marae, he answered in quite understandable English and volunteered to take us there!

The marae, it seemed, was across the lagoon on a wide stretch where the fringing reef had risen above the sea and was covered with undergrowth and trees. Getting there was no problem at all. Our guide simply commandeered a pirogue, complete with boatman, and arranged for us all to be ferried across, three in each load. Reassembled on the other side, we set off across the hundred yards or so of trackless vegetation, accompanied by a host of interested Friends and Acquaintances of our new-found guide and/or the boatman. Each had equipped himself with a musical instrument of sorts, and our South Seas safari was accompanied by an impromptu orchestra composed of guitar, dry sticks, flat stones, hollow coconuts, and an empty kerosene tin.

In this irreverent fashion we reached the ruins, a rather extensive edifice of volcanic rocks in a fair state of preservation though, of course, quite overgrown with plants and even trees. Our guide led us to the top and, with a sureness born of knowledge, lifted aside a slab of stone. From a cavity beneath he lifted out two gleaming skulls, handling them with a lack of awe that showed scant regard for the last two chiefs of olden times, whose remains he claimed them to be.

I examined the relics with interest, the anthropological side of my nature uppermost, and decided that if these were indeed the skulls of Tahitian chiefs, then chiefdom in those latter days must have followed the female line. None of the natives seemed to know or to have any interest in the history or legends surrounding the people who had built the structure long ago.

The next day, with Ted at the masthead to con us through, we worked our way down inside the reef to the south end of the island, where the charming little village of Haapu nestles in isolated quiet. No roads connect it with the outer world and only an occasional visit from a motor launch, with mail and supplies, keeps the people in touch with the world outside.

Here we tied up to the dock and took our first stroll down the main street between rows of woven and brightly decorated native huts, many of them raised on stilts. Everywhere we were given a warm welcome. Haapu struck us at once as the kind of South Seas community we had read about and dreamed of and we gladly accepted the urging of the villagers to make ourselves at home and stay awhile.

Our location once again was central, right next to the community laundry—fresh-water tap on the shore beside the dock. Here the housewives gathered every morning for washing clothes and gossip and Barbara, who had not done any laundry since Mooréa, took her sack of dirty clothes ashore and joined them. Soon she was the center of an ever-increasing throng and I strolled over to see what the excitement was about.

Now, it should be explained that the women of the Societies do their washing by first soaping the clothes thoroughly on a large flat board or stone laid on the ground and then they pound the soap in—and the dirt out (or such, I suppose, is the theory)—with a rounded wooden stick. No wonder they were impressed by our American know-how and the laborsaving devices enjoyed by American women! With envy and admiration they were watching Barbara scrub our dirty boat clothes with efficiency and ease on a corrugated washboard before rinsing them in a galvanized iron tub!

In Haapu we had our first taste of real entertaining. It was simple to issue invitations: we just sent Jessica up on deck with the portable phonograph and told her to start playing records. Within minutes villagers had begun to gather and soon the party was in full swing. Breaking it up was not so easy, for in spite of frequent showers and the coming and going of the dinner hour no one deserted.

The dancing—both Tahitian and modified European—took place beside the boat, on the dock. After each dance the men boarded the boat to squat around and talk, while the girls retreated down the dock to the shadows of the road. With the beginning of a new tune the men would seek out their partners and lead them back into the lighted area around our pressure lantern. During the frequent showers, everyone crowded aboard and took giggling refuge below so that, at times, we had over a hundred people packed into the cabins, the bunks, and the aisles, examining our possessions as they waited for the rain to stop and making excited comments about our accommodations.

Nothing, I hasten to add, was missing when the last guest had finally gone, but the next day our ship’s inventory was increased alarmingly by gifts of bananas, breadfruit, necklaces of shells, carvings of wood and coconut, and hats of woven pandanus.

Nick’s birthday fell on the day before we were to leave Haapu, so we gladly accepted an invitation to eat Tahitian style with a local family. We provided the pig—bought from one of the villagers—and our friends agreed to cook it for us, Tahitian style, in their family oven. Early in the afternoon we gathered to watch them disjoint the pig and place the large chunks of meat in a huge, saucer-shaped cooking pot which was then placed directly on a bed of hot coals in the hollowed-out dirt floor of the “cookhouse” behind the main dwelling. Around the chunks of meat were laid quartered breadfruit and dozens of peeled bananas. These were roofed over with long branches, and upon the frame were piled layer upon layer of green banana leaves followed by numerous mats of pressed dried leaves and bark which had been stored in stacks around the cookhouse walls. Finally, heavy burlap sacks were spread over everything and the oven was complete.

While our Polynesian dinner was baking, Barbara decided she would whip up a birthday cake—not because she was afraid the dinner would be inadequate but because she thought our hosts might be interested in our birthday customs. Birthday candles and fancy holders she had stored aboard in quantity, but for a time the lack of an egg threatened to spoil her plans.

It is impossible to walk anywhere in Haapu—or in any other Polynesian village, for that matter—without flushing a chicken a minute, not to mention ducks and pigs. Getting hold of an egg, however, was something else again. When we inquired at the store, the Chinese proprietor seemed to be quite taken aback at the very thought of anyone wanting to buy an egg.

“Perhaps,” he suggested finally, in barely intelligible French, “madam might ask chez le médecin?”

As she didn’t have a headache—yet—it seemed unlikely that the doctor could help, but Barbara went there and tried again. The doctor and his wife seemed completely nonplused, but the daughter of the family, who had been to school in Tahiti and could speak French, not only grasped the situation but was able to make it intelligible to her parents. Immediately they went into action.

Taking Barbara in tow, they set off on a house-to-house canvass of the village. Every passer-by was stopped and, after the usual exchange of greetings and handshakes, our problem was presented. People waved from their porches as the growing crowd moved on and when they were informed of the dilemma they, too, came over to join in the discussion—and the search. Children were excitedly recruited and sent off in all directions—mostly into the bushes. Haapu was aroused into a fever of activity and concern.

Eventually results were achieved. A child came proudly out of the jungle with—an egg! It was rather small and very dirty, but it was an egg. Barbara accepted it with private reservations and paid the little girl the astronomical sum of a five-franc piece—the smallest change she had. This staggering reward of industry (almost eight cents) caused a near panic and other eggs began to be pressed upon her. One, which a small boy delivered at a run, was fortunately broken when its owner tripped and fell in his eagerness to hand it over. (It had obviously been almost ready to hatch.) Two others were safely delivered, however, and of the three, one proved to be edible and the birthday cake was duly made and proved to be a tremendous success.

After the dinner, and to top off Nick’s birthday celebration, we went to the weekly movie—for the products of Hollywood have penetrated even this remote outpost. The theater itself was no bigger, nor did it look any different, than any of the other woven houses along the meandering main street, but inside the single room was lined with rows of backless benches—very hard and very crowded. The whole village seemed to be there, young and old, babies and octogenarians—even pets. We were given seats of honor, right in the middle, but since our area was slightly less crowded than the rest of the house, we were each given a youngster to hold.

The show began with newsreels, all of which had long since been withdrawn from regular circulation. Scenes of the fighting in Korea were succeeded by a documentary of ancient vintage about the armistice negotiations—a development which obviously pleased the audience immensely. The sound track, which was in French, alternately bellowed or broke down altogether but it hardly mattered as no one was listening. Action was what these people liked and when there was no action, they called back and forth, made comments at top voice, or bounced the babies. Every horse that failed to clear a barrier, every bomb that blasted a house into splinters, every soldier who fell in battle was greeted with much clapping and with screams of delight and appreciation.

The feature itself had enough action to please even the most critical, but the dialogue was unintelligible, having been dubbed in in French. This was of no consequence, however, as the sound track was considerately turned down to a murmur so that a running translation and commentary on the development could be shouted out in Tahitian by the manager as the movie progressed.

At the end of the feature it was announced that it would be run again immediately, at no extra charge. This was our cue and, bowing politely, we turned our seats—and the babies—over to the women and made our way outside.

Here we discovered that not all the village had been inside after all. In the dooryard of packed earth a number of vendors had set up tables and were selling food and drink. A circle of men played cards around a lantern in one corner while a group of women in another part of the yard gossiped, nursed their babies, or gave casual comfort or an absentminded slap to various little ones who romped about them in the dirt. Every once in a while a young couple would come out of the theater, hand in hand, and stroll off into the shadows, or someone would leave the movie long enough to shove a fussy baby into the arms of someone outside. Although it was after eleven when we walked back to the boat, no one else in Haapu seemed in the least prepared to call it a night.

The next morning we left Haapu, stopping at Fare only long enough to pick up a few loaves of bread and say hello to Buz and June Champion, fellow yachtsmen who had just arrived on Little Bear. Then we took our departure for Raïatéa, the next island to the west, which beckoned to us across some 20 miles of intervening ocean.

It was an easy half-day trip and by early afternoon we were tied up at the main dock of Uturoa, capital of the “Islands Under the Wind.” It didn’t take long for word of our arrival to get around and, as he has done for yachts before us and, no doubt, since, Charles Brotherson turned up promptly to take us in tow and make our brief stay in Raïatéa a pleasant one. His cordial friendliness lengthened our one-day stopover into four, climaxed by an evening of mutual cordiality during which we gave a showing of our slides and a large and appreciative crowd in Uturoa reciprocated with a program of dances and ended by presenting us with a slit drum belonging to the official Uturoa band, as evidenced by the initial “U” carved on it. Another souvenir that money couldn’t buy!

We did not take the Phoenix to Tahaa, the other island enclosed with Raïatéa in a single fringing reef, but we did spend an entire day going around Tahaa on the weekly “mail” boat, an eye-opening experience. In addition to a few letters, the launch carried meat (which dangled in bloody chunks from the overhead beams during transit), sacks of kapok, inner-spring mattresses, cases of canned goods, people—and for a good part of the trip—two horses. The horses were got aboard after much difficulty and tethered in the cabin with the passengers. When their port of debarkation was reached they were off-loaded by being goaded over the side and left to swim ashore, where they were promptly lassoed.

The last island on our passage through the Societies was Bora Bora, another half-day’s sail from Raïatéa. Throughout the islands we had heard much of Bora Bora—and little of it good. The natives, we were told, had been spoiled by the Americans during the war. They were greedy and insolent, out for all they could get. Moreover, many warned us that we would not even be able to get bread on Bora Bora—or fresh water!

We were already learning that it is not wise or fair to form judgments in advance so, in spite of Charles Brotherson’s dire predictions—and his tempting offers of expeditions to fabulous marae on the far side of Raïatéa if we would only remain a few more days—we decided we must push on.

With Jessica very proudly manning the tiller, we edged cautiously out Paipai Pass through the Tahaa reef. Bora Bora, its distinctive rocky pinnacles rising through the early-morning mists, could be seen to the west, its distinctive profile like a giant molar making a sharp break in the horizon. As we sailed nearer we began to understand why many have called this island the loveliest in the South Pacific. Green, precipitous, cloud-capped, it beckons the seafarer from afar and its beauty only increases as one draws closer to where the tumbling line of crashing surf on the reef divides the deep-sea indigo from the clear turquoise of the shallower lagoon. Along the shore, eternal symbol of the tropic isle, we could see a fringe of coconut palms.

One of our first visitors was the local schoolmaster, Francis Sanford, beloved of yachtsmen. He took us to his house to meet his vivacious French-Tahitian wife, Lysa, and half of his brood of children—the other five being away at school in Papeete. We also met Coco, the 300-pound pig, who insisted upon settling himself in the midst of any gathering and who, once settled, was unbudgeable. He had been, Lysa explained apologetically, only a very leetle pig when one of the children brought him home as a pet, but he had grown!

The abandoned dock where we tied up during our stay in Bora Bora was a relic of the war. Here, during the late unpleasantness, several thousand American troops had directed round-the-clock activity, a state of affairs that remains a highlight in the memory of many on this island. As one of them expressed it, “Maybe everybody have another war pretty quick, yeah? Maitai!—Good! Then maybe more soldiers come—we work like hell all day, all night—see plenty movies—eat plenty ice cream—get plenty American babies!”

The Bora Bora attitude toward the mixed-blood children left on the island was a strange contrast to the attitude toward war babies in Japan. Every family on Bora Bora who has an “American” child is very proud, and the children themselves are eager to brag, in hesitant English, “I—am—Américain!” even if they look the very model of a perfect Polynesian. When an article about the war babies of Bora Bora was published in an American magazine a few years ago, a number of people from America sent letters offering to adopt a child and take him back to the States where he would have “all the advantages.” Not one family could be found, however, who could be persuaded to give up so valuable a treasure!

Because of their association with the U.S. military during the war, the Bora Borans found it difficult at first to understand the anomaly of an American family traveling in company with feared and hated Japanese.

“They good boys?” everyone demanded doubtfully. “They want to fight?”

We assured them that our companions had no desire to fight, but the community reserved judgment for a day or two and kept an eagle eye on the behavior of Nick, Mickey, and Moto. It didn’t take long to convince them, though, and soon the Three M’s were in greater demand than any of us. Day after day they squatted tirelessly on the dockside in the midst of a crowd of admirers, and displayed postcards, magazine pictures of Japan, and various souvenirs of their distant home.

It soon became evident that, if the French administration and the people of the other islands had no affection for the people of Bora Bora, they, in turn, had no affection for the French. “Bunch of thieves!” was the way one of the Bora Boran natives described them, and he explained to us how French officials had helped themselves to all the plumbing, the quonset huts, and the fluorescent lighting which the Americans had left behind “for the people of Bora Bora” and had carried them away to install in Raïatéa, making Uturoa perhaps the best-lighted town of its size in the entire South Seas.

I remember the day a French official, resplendent in gleaming whites, came aboard for a social call. Big Joe, our nearest neighbor and the one who spoke the best “American,” watched the proceedings anxiously from the dock and as soon as Barbara had ushered our visitor below he drew me aside.

“You want me throw him overboard, boss?” he whispered loudly.

“No—why?”

“He French—no good. Bunch of thieves. You want me punch him good?”

“It’s okay, Joe. He’ll be here only a short time.”

“I stay,” said Big Joe grimly. He settled himself on the gunwales and remained there until our visitor had returned to his jeep (the only one on the island) and driven out of sight.

Actually, Bora Bora was personified for us by Big Joe. He lived nearby with his wife and an “American” daughter of about Jessica’s age, in a compact house of woven side walls and a thatched roof, set high on stilts. Working together, he and his wife made a living by making the dance costumes of bleached fibers, elaborately decorated with hundreds of yellow and brown cowrie shells, which sell for $25 to $30 American in the tourist shops of Papeete. What Big Joe and his family made on the deal we never did find out, although we suspected that the Chinese storekeeper to whom they turned over their entire output managed to do very well on the transaction.

In our own case, I am able to quote the price exactly, for I ordered two of the outfits for Barbara and Jessica, complete with “grass” skirt, a brassière of fine bark cloth trimmed with shells, and the handsome crownlike headdress. When Joe brought over the completed costumes—and Jessica’s, at least, had been made to order, for it fitted her small size exactly—Big Joe waved away any mention of cost.

“But, Joe, you’ve got to tell me how much! We’re sailing tomorrow. If you don’t tell me how much to pay you for these, I can’t take them!”

“Aw—never mind money. What I do with money?”

“But there must be something you need?”

Joe thought that one over. At last he asked, hesitantly, “You maybe got an old pair pants? I could use pants. Or maybe old blanket?”

We had plenty of blankets on board—all bought at the Australian salvage depot for a couple of shillings apiece. I gave Joe a couple, plus a pair of pants that were hardly large enough for his vast size, and weighted the whole down with a carton of cigarettes.

Joe looked at the items soberly, then said, “Wait a minute.” He went over to his house and returned with two massive necklaces and two bracelets made of large and beautifully matched cowries, one to adorn each costume.

“Now okay,” he said, with a grin. He had no intention of letting me get the best of him by adding something more than the exchange he’d suggested.

So many memories come crowding back that even in writing it is almost as hard to leave Bora Bora as it was in August, 1955, when we reluctantly said good-bye to the Societies. How is it possible to pass on without mentioning the dockside parties that foregathered nightly beside the Phoenix, parties which sometimes started by a song or two in Japanese by one of the Three M’s, or a cowboy or hillbilly record on our portable victrola, but which always ended with the soft plucking of a guitar, the strumming of homemade coconut ukuleles, and a completely spontaneous exhibition of Tahitian dancing to the compelling rhythm of slit drum, kerosene tin, or just the slapping of hands on a bare thigh. Everybody sang—everybody joined in the dances—and the natural, unself-conscious grace of even the little ones made it obvious why, year after year, the dance teams of Bora Bora continue to walk off with all the prizes at the Papeete fete.

And how can we fail to recall the simple services that were held three times every Sunday at the small village church, services we will never forget, not because we were inspired by the sermons, which were in Tahitian and may or may not have varied from one service to another, but because of the singing—the most beautiful and inspiring we have ever heard. Everyone sang, some singing the words while others chanted or hummed the melody or a kind of antiphonal accompaniment which filled the room with such tremendous rolling resonance that we could hardly believe there was not an organ somewhere, concealed behind the woven screen of the altar or, perhaps, beneath the floor!

But nothing can be recaptured completely and there were other landfalls ahead, other memories to gather.

“Please let us hear from you!” Lysa Sanford begged, adding a bit wistfully, “Sometimes we don’t know if the yachtsmen we’ve entertained even got to their next port!”

And, “Don’t forget—you promise to send us picture!” Big Joe reminded us, referring to the many snapshots we had taken of him and his family. “Plenty people take picture—but we never see!”

We remembered the Sanford’s yacht register, containing many blank spaces for pictures that had been promised and never sent. We reminded ourselves of the tiny Kodacolor print, now faded almost to invisibility, which occupied an honored spot in the middle of Big Joe’s living room wall—the only picture of himself that had ever been sent to him of all that had been taken by passing yachts.

Then and there we resolved that the friends we made during our various stops would not be forgotten; that the promises we made would be kept. The hospitality, the favors, the gifts of fruit and vegetables and souvenirs that were pressed on us everywhere were gifts we could never repay in kind, but at least we would send, at the first opportunity, the snapshots we had taken and a postcard to say we had not forgotten. The chance to share vicariously in our experience, to travel with us by means of whatever reports we could send, would perhaps be thanks enough for the wonderful hospitality we had received.

And so we sailed from Bora Bora on August 16, knowing that no matter what enchantments might lie ahead we would never see its like again.

6      WESTWARD
THROUGH THE SOUTH
SEAS: RAROTONGA, SAMOA, FIJI

“A broad reach, a quiet sea, a full moon....”

We set out for Rarotonga, capital of the Cook Islands. Although we had official permission to visit these islands, we had no idea what our reception would be—especially for the Japanese. The Cooks are possessions of New Zealand, and of course that country and Australia have Oriental exclusion policies. Moreover, we knew that World War II was still well remembered in this part of the world.

For five days we had good trade-wind sailing, then a day of calm followed by a sudden sharpening of the breeze. It looked like an easy passage. Crew relations were good, although there still remained a gulf to be bridged—either of communication or of differences between Western and Eastern psychology.

One morning, after the wind had dropped off during the night, I was awakened by the sound of the foresail boom slatting around. I went up to the cockpit where Nick, at the tiller, was staring ahead as if in a trance.

“Good morning,” I began. “Looks as if the wind’s dropped.”

Nick did not answer.

After a pause I said, “I wonder, if we rigged the foresail more forward, would it work better?” There was no answer.

“What do you think, Nick?” I pressed.

“I don’t know,” he replied, in a completely indifferent tone. (Didn’t know whether it would work? Didn’t know what I was talking about? Or didn’t want to be bothered?)

“I’ll go take a look,” I said, and did so. While I was forward, adjusting the sail, Nick called Ted to the next watch and went below. I fought down my rising irritation and tried to understand, to put myself in Nick’s place. The incident was trivial, and yet it was one of those things that could be significant. True, there had been no emergency and one man could easily do the job. Nick was tired and looking forward to going off watch. On the other hand, why the silence which seemed rude or sullen at the very least? What was the answer? I didn’t know.

The only conclusion to be drawn was that, at this stage, subtleties, suggestions, and hints were out of place. If I wanted a job done I must give a simple direct order even if it made me a Captain with a capital C, rather than a yachting companion. So far as the work of the boat was concerned, nothing must be left unclear. On the other hand, I couldn’t look to Nick or the others for the kind of companionable discussion of pros and cons of procedure that I was sharing more and more with Ted. The Japanese seemed to prefer clear-cut orders and to look upon preliminary discussions as an indication of inefficiency on the part of their skipper. This placed an additional burden on me!

On the sixth day, just after noon, we sighted land off the port bow. Simultaneously, with a noise like an explosion, the main after chain plate on the port side parted. Immediately I put the boat about to take the strain off the port shrouds. Everything else held.

When we inspected the damage, it was easy enough to see what had happened. It was a matter of poor design—my design—in having made the neck too narrow. This was a serious matter and meant that all the chain plates would have to be replaced at the first opportunity. In the meantime, we jury-rigged the shroud, reduced sail enough to ease the strain, and worked our way gradually toward Rarotonga. By the middle of the next afternoon we were off the entrance to Avarua, port of entry for the Cook Islands.

The channel was easy enough to spot. It lay between the wrecks of two ships that had missed the entrance and ended their trips, one on each horn of the encroaching reef. The pass was narrow and the harbor beyond obviously too small to maneuver in. Feeling less than happy about the situation, we dropped the sails, and I started the engine, prepared to go in cautiously under power.

At this moment a small tug came out and offered to take us in for 30 shillings (about $4). Never was a deal closed more swiftly. The captain gave us a shouted rundown of the procedure: “Get lines ready at each quarter—pass them to the native divers as soon as you get in.... As soon as you’re inside, drop your anchor at once and put the tiller hard over ...” etc. I, in turn, repeated the orders to my crew in slow and careful English, and assigned each man his position and function. Only then, and under tow, did we tackle the entrance. It was a narrow squeeze, but after much shouting and more sweating, we were finally fixed in place like a fly in a spiderweb, with two anchors forward, two lines aft to the dock, four set out to rings in the underwater coral, and a final line secured to an interisland trawler, Inspire, which lay to the tiny dock and threatened to overturn from the sheer weight of the crowd that had rushed aboard her for a grandstand view of the proceedings.

We were not left long in doubt about the hospitality of the Cook Islands. Ten minutes after we were secure, a note was handed to me:

Dr. Earle Reynolds and Mrs. Reynolds:

Welcome to Rarotonga and the Cook Group. I hope you will call at the Administration Building sometime at your convenience and please let me know if there is anything we can do for you.

Yours sincerely,

G. Nevill, Commissioner.

While we cleaned up the boat and ourselves and donned our shore clothes, we savored to the full the satisfaction of having arrived safe and of being warmly welcomed. All of us were looking forward to the amenities of shore living. As far as Nick, Mickey, and Moto were concerned, hot baths were at the head of the list—the hotter the better. Personally, I also wanted a cold beer, a good steak, and a crisp salad.

Just to make sure, I asked the bearer of the note whether it would be possible for us to dine out in Rarotonga. He told me that the only public dining room was at the Government Hotel, just off the docks, and he offered to go there directly to make arrangements for hot baths and dinner reservations for our entire group.

Barbara and I went ashore first, to pay our respects, and arranged to meet the rest at the hotel. The Commissioner was quite as cordial as his note. He invited us to tea at the Residency the following afternoon and promised to put a car and driver at our disposal so we could all make a trip around the island at our convenience.

When we reached the hotel, glowing with good cheer, we found our group were not so happy. They had had the promised baths, but had been told that dinner “for so many” was out of the question.

To the Japanese, sensitive to polite circumlocutions, this meant discrimination and they were all for withdrawing forthwith. I could not believe, judging from our reception, that any slight had been intended and I approached the manager directly.

I found him full of welcome and apology. “It’s just that you came in so late, sir—the government freezer closes at three, and each day we draw our rations from there. We might have squeezed in one or two, but trying to do for seven on such short notice would be hopeless. I trust you do understand?”

“Then how about tomorrow night?” I wanted something definite to take back to my companions.

“Oh, that would be excellent, sir! I think we can do you very well indeed.”

And very well indeed they did do us, well enough to make up completely for the letdown of having to open cans again on our first night in port.

There were few times during the rest of our stay when we had occasion to eat on board, for the hospitality of Rarotonga was overwhelming. As a family, we had little contact with the native Cook Islanders (whom the government is careful to refer to as “Maori”), but Nick, Mickey, and Moto saw a great deal of them. This disparity was quite against our own inclinations. We simply had no invitations to native dances or gatherings and were quite envious of the reports brought back by the Three M’s, who had their choice of both worlds—and frequently chose the more colorful!

From Rarotonga we again headed north, bound for American Samoa. We set our course to sight Aitutaki, then headed northwest. It was good sailing—a broad reach, a quiet sea, a full moon, and a seven-knot breeze. Two days out I noted in the log: “Just informed today is Labor Day. Well, not working too hard, anyway.”

At dusk on the seventh day out, we sighted the mass of Tau Island, looming out of the mist, and jibed to the west for the night, turning northwest again at dawn. At 0735 we picked up Tutuila, dead ahead, and worked our way into the entrance of Pago Pago harbor, one of the best protected in all the South Pacific.

By midafternoon we had been met and escorted to the docks and all was secure. The weekly mail, we were informed, was due to leave within the hour, so our first official act was to scribble hasty notes of reassurance to family and friends. Our next—and one that gave us great pleasure—was to accept the invitation of Phil Mosher, the representative of Governor Lowe, to go with him to his house for hot baths and cold drinks—an unbeatable combination for those who have just come in from the sea.

We expected to spend about a week in Pago Pago; we stayed over a month and hated to leave. A great many factors combined to extend our visit, including the possibility that we might be able to haul out at a government dock if we could stay two or three weeks until they could fit us into the schedule. Also, we were offered a two-bedroom house (at the cost of $1 a day), which gave Barbara that chance to move ashore which she still seemed to crave. Jessica went off each day to the dependent school, and both she and Ted were given placement tests to see if they had lost ground in the course of their rather haphazard program of home study. (They hadn’t. In fact, Ted was issued a certificate equivalent to a high school diploma on the basis of the tests developed by the Army.)

Almost before she had been given a chance to adjust to the rather frightening mob of thirty students—three of whom were in her own seventh-grade class—Jessica was asked to give a talk to the entire school about our travels. The prospect was so terrifying that she was unable to eat breakfast, but when she returned at the end of the day she was both relaxed and triumphant.

“Now I know how to do it,” she explained, when we asked about her speech. “It’s easy.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Anything they wanted to know. I just showed them a map of the world and pointed out where we’d been. Then I said, ‘Any questions?’”

Our stay in Pago Pago was a round of constant activity, but this time, in addition to many enjoyable evenings with local officialdom, we were able to see something of Samoan life as well. Our entree was through the school system.

Barbara mentioned to Mr. Fort, the director of education, that she was interested in visiting some of the Samoan schools. The next time he made a trip to one of the outer villages for a meeting with the local school board, Mr. Fort took her with him. She visited a number of classrooms, waxed indignant over the folly of trying to teach reading to Samoan pupils from stateside-oriented textbooks—“Mother and Betsy are going to choose wallpaper for Betsy’s room”! Why, these kids have never even seen a room with walls, much less wallpaper!—and sat in on a “Board of Education” meeting in a little village called Lauli’i.

Afterward, when Mr. Fort introduced her to the various chiefs and “talking chiefs” who make up any Samoan village council, there was so much interest shown in the Phoenix and her cruise that Barbara felt called upon to offer hospitality. Remembering an incautious speech in Rarotonga, when she had spoken at a school and invited “everybody interested” to visit the Phoenix—and everybody, by the hundreds, had come—she confined her invitation this time to “any representative of your village who might like to see the way we live on the boat and report back to his people.”

The very next day the pulenu’u (or mayor) of Lauli’i turned up. We entertained him as best we could with cigarettes and warm beer and gave him an exhaustive tour of the boat. His English, though far from fluent, was adequate for communication.

“Many boats come this island,” he explained. “But my people—we never see inside. When I go back Lauli’i, I tell my people many things your family. How you live. What you show. How you are kind.”

He asked many questions about the United States which, he pointed out, was his country also. (Samoans, as wards of the government, are a kind of third-class citizen with certain fringe benefits but a great deal of pride and loyalty.) Remembering the pleasure the people of the Societies had in looking at pictures of Japan, we brought out a three-dimensional viewer and a series of stereo pictures of National Parks. It was a great success.

“I never before see like this,” at last said the pulenu’u, laying the gadget aside reluctantly. “It is like I go there.”

“Take it back to your village,” Barbara urged. “Show it to your people and then bring it back next time you come to town.”

The pulenu’u didn’t have to be urged. Stammering his thanks and forgetting to finish his beer, he hurried off, clutching the viewer and all the stereoscopic reels.

“But, mummy!” Jessica protested. “Don’t you remember what that man in Honolulu said about the Samoans? You can’t trust them—they’ll steal you blind! And you gave him my viewer!”

“Let’s give him a chance, hon. Remember the French officials in Tahiti, who were supposed to ask for bribes before they’d give a boat clearance—and who didn’t? And the Bora Borans, remember—who were supposed to be greedy and spoiled. Were they?”

“But that yachtsman in Hilo, who’d just come back from here, said—”

“Let’s not take hearsay evidence. Let’s just keep on expecting people to be honest and decent until we’re proved wrong. Okay?”

Jessica remained dubious. After all, it was her viewer and although we promised to replace it if anything happened to hers, it might be many months before we could. She didn’t have long to wait, though. Only a few days later the pulenu’u came again, returning the viewer and all the reels. He told us that his people had spent several evenings looking at the pictures and discussing them and now, he continued, they wanted to meet us! In fact, they wanted our entire group to come to Lauli’i and make it our home for as long as we could stay. His own fale, he added, would be put at our disposal. We accepted with alacrity although Barbara, who had been there before, felt there might be some problems connected with living for any length of time in a completely open pavilion with only thin lauhala mats to sleep on.

We arranged for a government jeep to drive us out to the village and piled it high with presents for our hosts: cases of corned beef, canned vegetables and pineapple, and a five-pound can of hard candies for the kids.

It was my first trip outside the port town and I soon began to see what Barbara meant. The Samoan fale is nothing if not open. A thatched roof, a floor of coral, and between the two, posts at regular intervals marking off a circle or an oval. When it rains, shutters of woven pandanus matting can be dropped on the windward side, but at all other times the houses are as a cage at the zoo.

We had worried, however, without realizing the extent of Samoan hospitality. The large oval pavilion in which the chief had gathered for the school board meeting on Barbara’s first visit had been transformed for our benefit. Every family in the village must have contributed for our comfort: a long wooden table, straight-backed chairs, a massive wardrobe with a cloudy mirror on the door—all had been installed to make us feel at home. Army cots had been set up for the men and, for Barbara and Jessica, one end of the open pavilion had been curtained off with beautiful tapa cloth to form an inner room. Within were two thick mattresses, made up with clean sheets and elaborately embroidered pillow cases, and draped about with folds of mosquito netting suspended from the roof.

Our meals, too, deferred to Western taste. While the families of the village gathered in the compound behind the fales to share their food in Samoan style, we sat on the hard chairs that had been provided for our comfort and ate from a conglomeration of Navy issue crockery with monogrammed utensils (USN). Only the pulenu’u ate with us, while his wife and a couple of the younger men waited on table. Our first meal, indeed, was served up to us from our very own cans: corned beef, canned peas, and pineapple. In spite of our insistence that these were for the people of the village, the pulenu’u was sure we would not care for Samoan food.

One evening a group of children from the pulenu’u’s family put on a performance of native songs and dances for our benefit, and then we played our portable victrola for them while Jessica demonstrated dances of other islands. After the entertainment, the older people vanished silently into the night, but the children lingered. Then the pulenu’u unlocked the door of the large wardrobe, where he kept our gifts, and brought out the big tin of hard candies.

Placing it on a table, he drew up a chair, and as the children passed by in a single file, he carefully counted three pieces into each outstretched hand. This was a nightly ritual, and we decided that the candy, at that rate, would last quite a while.

On our last afternoon in Lauli’i all the village chiefs gathered once more in the guest fale and an ava ceremony was held. It was a bit unusual for a woman to be included in what is normally an all-male affair, but we were told that “a brave woman is the equal of a man” and Barbara, by sailing across the Pacific, evidently qualified.

The chiefs, clad only in lava-lavas (a kind of wrap-around skirt which reaches the ground) and garlands of green leaves, settled themselves around the room each in his preordained position, according to rank.

Ava, a slightly narcotic drink, is made from the fibrous roots of a local plant, which is mixed with water according to a very precise ritual. The resulting liquid is then passed to each in turn and drunk in accordance with a ceremonial formula. We had studied up on the ceremony in advance, had removed our watches and all jewelry as demanded by etiquette, and were very careful not to offend by stretching our legs out in front of us, or by standing up inside the house.

As guests of honor, we were served first, from the polished half-coconut shell. Each of us carefully spilled a few drops on the matting in front of us and uttered the proper incantation (Manuia—Good luck!) before draining the cup. We could only hope we had not disgraced ourselves or our country.

Back in Pago Pago we again took up our bustling activities. Thanks to our rented house we were able to spread out a bit and, while Barbara worked on her book, the boys and I set ourselves to painting and redecorating the cabins. The haul-out we had planned proved impossible, as we were too heavy for the cradle, but we got far enough out of the water to have a good look at the bottom and found it in pretty fair shape.

Since we had lingered so long, we were forced to shift our plans and skip British Samoa. More and more we were realizing that a trip such as ours must be a constant series of compromises. If we go to this place we must miss that one; if we stay longer here we must skimp our visit there. Weather conditions and the length of the seasons places limits on the amount of time we can spend in any one area, while hundreds of islands must be bypassed because one simply can’t go everywhere. Had we allowed ten years for the trip instead of four, it still wouldn’t have been enough but, even so, we were infinitely better off than those who travel by plane or cruise ship with only a day or two in each port and no way to meet people.

And so, knowing we would have no time at all in Fiji if we didn’t get going, we sailed from Pago Pago on October 9, bound for Suva.

Throughout our nine-day passage we all scanned the sea with more than usual attention, for a ship not much larger than the Phoenix had disappeared mysteriously only a few days before and all shipping in the area had been alerted. Joyita, a charter boat operating out of Apia, had departed for the Tokelaus, less than 250 miles away, but had never arrived. The government boat from Pago Pago had joined with British ships and planes from Apia to comb the area, but without success.

We did not sight any wreckage of Joyita, but on the fifth day we came across what was, on the face of it, another mystery. Sighting the island of Niuafoo to the northwest, we decided to make a detour to investigate. This island is referred to in the Pilot Book as “Tin Can Island,” due to the local custom of floating mail out to passing ships in a watertight container. No one, however, attempted to float anything out to us and, even with the aid of binoculars, we could see no sign of any inhabitants save for a couple of horses up in the hills. Intrigued, we sailed all the way around the island, rather close in. On the northeast tip we saw a village with a number of houses still under construction, but no sign of a living soul. It was as if everyone had simply walked away a few minutes before.

This was indeed a weird situation and we speculated endlessly. Even if everyone had gone on an excursion into the interior for some reason, surely there would have been old people staying behind, there would have been dogs around—and pigs—and chickens. And, no matter where they were, the sight of our boat—an unusual visitor—should certainly bring out at least one curious inhabitant!

Puzzled, we sailed on. Not until we reached Suva did we learn that the entire population of Niuafoo, under the control of Queen Salote of the Tongas, had only recently been evacuated because of a volcanic eruption and the threat of further disturbances.

Eight days out we saw the loom of Wailangi Lala Island light and another of those incidents occurred which demonstrate how narrow is the borderline between success and disaster. Knowing it would be several hours before we came up on the light, I went below to rest, leaving what I thought were clear instructions with Mickey, on watch, that I was to be called before we reached it, so that we could make a necessary change of course at the light. I slept fitfully and came up on deck without having been called—to see the light already abeam and the boat on a course that would very shortly have piled us on the rocks. I changed the course and asked Mickey why he hadn’t called me according to orders. His only reason was that he couldn’t remember what I had told him, and thus had done nothing!

It is necessary to navigate very carefully in the Koro Sea. All day we cruised among countless inviting-looking islands, wanting to stop, but required to push on to Suva, the official port of entry for the Fiji Islands. We knew that, on this trip at least, we would not have the time to backtrack, for the hurricane season was approaching and by the first of November, at the latest, we would have to be on our way south to New Zealand, out of the area of tropical storms.

That night, as we worked our way through a tricky series of lights at the western exit of the Koro Sea, I stayed on deck. I had no desire to push my luck and knew there would be plenty of time to catch up on lost sleep when we had dropped the hook in the harbor of Suva.

By afternoon on October 18 we were rounding Viti Levu with a good breeze and at 1600 we dropped anchor off the Royal Suva Yacht Club. A very nice birthday present for the Skipper!

As usual, the first hour or two was hectic. The port doctor cleared us without difficulty, but the customs official sealed not only our guns and liquor, but a case of root beer as well. (Beer, he insisted, is beer!) The immigration officer was a bit bothered by the presence of three Japanese tourists without visas, although I explained that I had checked in advance and been assured that no visas would be necessary for a short visit of a yacht to a crown colony. At last he solved the dilemma by deciding officially to ignore their presence so long as they did nothing to call attention to themselves. In other words, so long as there was no trouble they had the freedom of the port.

After we had been cleared there came, as usual, the press, followed by the Commodore of the Royal Suva Yacht Club, who presented the family with honorary membership cards. When we introduced Nick, Mickey, and Moto, emphasizing that they, too, were yachtsmen, there was an awkward pause.

“Er—well—yes!” I almost expected him to add, “Rawther!” Instead, he drew me aside as soon as convenient and confided that the club was forced to adopt a “Whites Only” policy—because of the Indians, you know—and although he, personally, had nothing against the Japanese—and he was sure that most of the others would feel the same—well, there it was, you know, and all that.

As a family, we discussed the situation long and seriously and decided, at last, that we could do more good by accepting the proffered membership than by huffily refusing. As Jessica expressed it, “We’ll make friends and sow destruction!” This we tried to do, taking every opportunity of bringing our companions into the conversation: “They’ll be the first Japanese yachtsmen ever to have sailed around the world” and “Those chaps of ours are pretty good small-boat sailors. They made a fine record in the All-Japan Intercollegiates—they sail Class boats much like those you have here,” etc., etc. When we admired the clubhouse, we expressed regrets that all of us couldn’t see what a fine place they had and described how wonderfully we had been treated by yacht clubs in Japan. “Wonderful what a common interest in sports can do to bridge international barriers, isn’t it?”

Our campaign didn’t seem to have much effect at first, but after a few days we noticed that those who came aboard made a special effort to be cordial to the Japanese, albeit somewhat ponderously.

We did not change the policies of the Royal Suva Yacht Club; Nick, Mickey, and Moto never saw the inside of the clubhouse, and yet we felt we had gained something when one of the senior members remarked, in tones of obvious astonishment: “Those lads of yours are fine chaps—very intelligent!” And he added thoughtfully, “It is rather a pity they can’t go into the clubhouse—walk around a bit, what? Some of the trophies make a good show—and then, there are the photographs.... Yes, it is a pity.”

We could not hope, during our brief visit, to sort out the rights and wrongs of the complex issues here, but we found the racial tension in Suva a disquieting contrast to that other crossroads of the Pacific: Honolulu. Jessica, for instance, found that although a Girl Scout may be “a sister to every other Girl Scout,” in Fiji her sisterhood does not cross color lines. There are Fijian Guides, Indian Guides, and European Guides—and never the troops shall meet, not even for an occasional jamboree.

Barbara and Jessica, however, visited them all and were warmly received. The Fijian Guides, wearing costumes of beautifully designed tapa, put on a program of native dances and entertained the visiting Scout from America with lemon tea (made by boiling lemon leaves in a tin can “billy”). They even invited her into a native bure, the Fijian name for the shaggy grass huts that are as completely closed and airtight as the Samoan fale is open. But this was about all the Fijian life they saw. True, the city of Suva itself is colorful, with its tall and picturesque Fijian policemen, hair trained to a bushy headdress, wearing red and white sulus with scalloped hems; its tiny, fine-featured Indian women in gauzy saris, with jeweled pins in their nostrils; its blatant Chinese shops; its bustling open-air market, like something out of the Arabian Nights; its colorful flower vendors. These sights are all worth seeing and remembering.

But over it all hangs a sense of tension. There are sharp contrasts in Suva between the principal ethnic groups: the dominant British, the cheerful Melanesians, the quiescent Chinese, and the restive Indians. The last-named are rapidly increasing their economic and political influence in the islands, and there is clearly a conflict brewing. There is no contact between Fijian and Indian, nor between these groups and the British. The British in turn have a patronizing affection for the Fijians, but a dislike and distrust of the Indians, which is reciprocated. The Chinese sit in the background and make money.

When we left Fiji we felt we knew even less of the people here than we had in other Pacific islands, and we regretted it.

7      DOWN UNDER:
NEW ZEALAND AND AUSTRALIA

“Ah-h-h, yes-s-s!...”

On the trip from Suva to Auckland, New Zealand, we had a marine hitchhiker along, a lanky, cheerful Australian, Bill Sherwood. Bill was on his way home to take part in the World Championship 18-footer races and, as we all liked him at once, he had little difficulty in persuading us to give him a lift for the first 1,100 miles.

The first few days were quiet. Once we had cleared the several islands of the Fiji group, south of Viti Levu, the course presented no particular navigational hazards and we settled quickly into our sea routines. With an extra man, I evolved a new system of watches to give everyone, including the cook, a bit of change and occasional relief. We continued our schedule of two-hours-on-eight-off, but each day one of the men was relieved from tiller duty and put himself at the cook’s disposal for such chores as peeling vegetables, washing the rice, or washing up the pots and pans. Mickey wasn’t too happy about this, evidently considering galley duty as beneath the dignity of a Japanese gentleman, but since the Skipper took his own turn whenever it came around, there was little Mickey could do but conform.

The missing ship Joyita was still on our minds and, in the early-morning darkness of the seventh day we had an encounter that gave me some moments of uneasiness. A ship passed us fairly close to port, only her riding lights showing. Changing course, she pulled ahead and stopped as we sailed by. I recalled that other boats besides Joyita had disappeared without a trace in this region and the thought of pirates flashed across my mind. As we approached, I began signaling with the flashlight: “Yacht Phoenix. American Yacht Phoenix. We are okay! We are okay!”

I sent this several times, but there was no response of any kind from the silent ship ahead. After we had passed, the vessel got underway again and moved on out of sight.

We were working our way south now, out of the area of steady trades and into the horse latitudes. Gradually the wind dropped and at last for several days we were becalmed outright or made bare steerageway in very light airs.

Far from being bored, we found these quiet and indolent days full of interest. We lolled on deck, read aloud, fished (without success), shot at cans for target practice, and slept. A great deal of time was spent just staring at the gently heaving sea.

In some strange fashion, a sea that is utterly calm seems to me more alive than a sea in a gale. An angry sea is a mechanical monster, all sound, power, and threat of immediate destruction. But a calm sea, its surface breathing slowly and gently like a sleeping giant, seems animate and, in spite of its seeming gentleness, somehow more menacing.

At various levels below the surface we could see hundreds of life forms: jellyfish of many shapes and colors and innumerable other floating shapes ranging from tiny, confetti-like blobs to fairly large and elaborate, flower-shaped creatures. We caught a man-of-war, floating on the surface of the water like a child’s plastic bath toy, and Jessica, who spent hours hanging over the gunwales, discovered a school of half a dozen little banded fish, about eight inches long, who were escorting us faithfully, in the shadow of the hull.

Our most memorable day at sea was the one we christened the Day of the Albatrosses. In the glassy calm these birds, who had been following us for hundreds of miles, one by one left the air and skidded in for a landing on the quiet sea, braking with feet flat ahead as they hit the water. We threw out bits of pilot cracker and soon they had been lured up to the boat where they squabbled noisily over the scraps.

Our next move was obvious! Rigging a loop on the end of a bamboo pole, we began to try our hand at lassoing them. To my amazement, when I finally succeeded in dropping a noose over the head of my chosen victim, he struggled hardly at all—nor did his neighbors show the least alarm at his predicament. I pulled the ungainly creature alongside, Nick and I lifted him by his outspread wings and held him while Barbara got a picture, and then we released him. He withdrew only a few feet, grumbled a bit, and smoothed his ruffled feathers. In no time at all, he had forgotten the indignity and rejoined his fellows to battle under the stern sprit—and another threatening noose—for the delectable bits of sea biscuit.

During the next couple of hours each member of the family had a try and all of us, including Bill Sherwood, earned our membership in P.A.L.S.—the Phoenix Albatross Lassoing Society. Since there weren’t enough birds to go around, it is obvious that some of them must have been captured more than once! (Sidelight on the mysterious East: Nick, who was mildly interested in our capture of the first albatross, soon went below without attempting to try his luck: Mickey, reading in his bunk, never did appear throughout the excitement; neither of the two bothered to wake Moto, who was taking a nap.)

At last a light breeze, out of the northeast, rippled the surface of the sea in a tentative manner. After a few false starts, it settled down, and we were again on our way. With the breeze came a large school of porpoises and a solitary whale, who surfaced nearby as if to round out the entertainment.

On the sixteenth day Ted calculated that we should be able to see the lights of the north end of New Zealand soon after dark. At this information Bill, suddenly infected with land fever, glued himself to the upper shrouds and began to strain his eyes to the south. Every half hour or so he descended, wondered volubly where the light could be, and climbed to the crow’s nest again. Watching his antics, we realized how really seasoned we had become. Naturally we would be glad to make our landfall, but none of us was impatient. We knew we’d see the light sooner or later. Poor Bill, however, was in a fever of eagerness and doubt. Not until 2200 did a loud and happy shout come from aloft and Bill climbed stiffly down to announce triumphantly that he had found the lights, right where Ted had said they ought to be. Shortly afterward we were able to see them from deck level.

By morning we could catch glimpses of land through the haze and set our course for the entrance to the Bay of Islands. Once we were in the straits, the wind came up strongly and sent us bowling in so that, by midafternoon, we were riding to anchor off the little port of Russell and ready to be granted pratique.

Russell, New Zealand, is a charming village of some two thousand souls, a world-renowned center for big-game fishing. The clustered red roofs and the green hills beyond were very inviting and we all looked forward to our traditional celebration dinner ashore—and the nice, cold drinks that would precede and accompany it. But now we were to have our first taste of New Zealand casualness. We met with no difficulty in clearing customs and immigration, the officials seeming far more interested in the details of our passage than in trotting out regulations. But quarantine? “Ah-h-h, yes-s-s ...” in a delightful New Zealand drawl. That was a bit of a problem, that! The only doctor, you see, was out fishing and there was no telling where he was or when he might be expected back. It was a pity he had chosen this day to go fishing, but there it was. We would just have to wait.

When we asked about the prospects of getting dinner ashore, we were assured there would be no trouble, no trouble whatsoever. The Duke of Marlborough could serve any number and no advance notice need be given. The only thing, of course, was that we must get there before seven o’clock, when the dining room closed.

Rather enchanted than otherwise with this evidence of the small-townishness of Russell, we settled down to wait for the doctor’s return. In the meantime we tuned in the news and learned that Joyita had been found at last, a battered and empty hulk, drifting among the islands of the Fiji group. Passengers and crew were missing and there was no clue to their fate. No one of us said anything, but I was sure that in all our minds was the knowledge that it could have been us.

The afternoon passed and the shadows lengthened. Finally the sun set and Bill, who had been regaling us with descriptions of the huge steak he intended to order, with two—no, three!—fried eggs sitting on top, began to consult his watch more and more frequently. Every time a fishing boat came in he dashed hopefully on deck, only to rejoin us below with obviously sagging spirits. At last, and with only a few minutes to spare, the doctor arrived—apologizing charmingly for the inconvenience. He glanced around, gave us a clean bill of health, signed the guest book with a flourish, and then took us ashore in his own boat and rushed us to the hotel, where the entire gang was treated to a seven-course dinner as guests of the management!

We spent a week in Russell and then, eager to reach Auckland, where mail had been piling up (we hoped) for several months, we started cruising down the coast. This was a type of sailing we’d had little experience with. We found it fascinating to be always within sight of land, sailing by visible landmarks rather than by celestial navigation. The countryside was fertile and lovely, with brilliant green uplands dotted with the woolly blobs of grazing sheep, while along the shore stretches of sandy beach piled into yellow dunes or reared up in sheer sandstone bluffs.

We made only one stopover, at Kawau Island, where we spent a most enjoyable weekend tied up to the private dock of Roy and Irene Lidgard, New Zealand’s number one entry in the Be Kind to Visiting Yachtsmen sweepstakes. There we fished, went crabbing, helped crew the small-boat races at the Kawau Yacht Club, and took long walks into the hills hunting for elusive wallabies. The climax was a spontaneous potluck picnic that eddied back and forth between the Phoenix, Jim Lawler’s Ngaroma out of Auckland, and the Lidgards’ front lawn.

Auckland, when we finally arrived, proved equal to its reputation as one of the most yacht-conscious cities in the world. It supports more than three dozen yacht clubs and its beautiful and extensive bay provides opportunity for every type of yachting activity. Certainly the welcome extended to overseas yachtsmen would be hard to beat and, for those who are interested in racing events, the Annual One-Day Regatta, with its hundreds of entries, is undoubtedly the largest and most varied of its kind.

Our concern about our Japanese companions was quickly dispelled, for although we did hear one or two uncomplimentary asides, most of our visitors were happy to accept us all as yachtsmen rather than racial types. In addition, a number of “Kiwis” who had spent some time in Japan under the occupation came down to show the boys around as a gesture of appreciation for courtesies shown them in Japan.

During our three months in Auckland we learned much about the strange mixture that is New Zealand—a country where personal relationships are warm and hospitable, but where business contacts can be irritating in the extreme. The casual absence of the doctor on the day we arrived turned out to be quite typical of the “couldn’t care less” attitude of the average New Zealander. The socialized state provides free medical care, free dental care, old-age pensions, mothers’ pensions (with bonuses to Maori mothers for increased production!), and many other benefits so that worry scarcely enters the consciousness of most individuals. No one works any more than he can help and business and industry have to beg for laborers and make all sorts of concessions to keep them happy. We had hardly settled down after arrival when I overheard the following conversation on the dock:

“How would you blokes like a job while you’re here? We’d pay you right!”

“But we have only tourist visa. Cannot work.” This from Nick, who had been strongly warned against trying to earn any money while staying in Hawaii.

“Oh, you can work here right enough! Anybody can. When will you start?”

“I don’t think ...” Nick was obviously bewildered, afraid of getting into trouble, not sure he had understood correctly, or perhaps reluctant to desert the boat. I knew how low all the boys were in personal funds and hurried up to reassure him that they were quite free to take any job they might wish. Before I could get there, however, the would-be employer had pressed ahead so eagerly to close the deal that he had twice raised the going rate—although even the base pay was far more than any of the men had ever received in Japan—and had even agreed, without being asked, to have a taxi call for and deliver them every day.

And, as Moto said in bewilderment after the visitor had extracted their willing promises and gone, “We don’t even know what kind work! Maybe we cannot do!”

Actually, the job turned out to be the breaking up old American planes for scrap metal, a task that all three could do very well and took a particular delight in getting paid for.

Christmas in Auckland, 8,000 miles from home, found us locked up behind the high board fence of a deserted shipyard. December being midsummer in New Zealand and the height of the yachting season, we had found only one shipyard that could accommodate us for the bottom job we had promised the Phoenix—and that only if we would do our own work over the holidays. On the morning of Friday the 23rd the workmen had made a feeble gesture of assisting us to haul out—then silently stole away to start their vacations. Before we knew it, the last of them had gone, locking the gate behind him, and there we were—trapped.

Of course, we could always rescue ourselves by rowing the dinghy along the shore until we found an escape hatch, but we wanted easier access to our ship. Moreover, we were smarting with the indignity of it. How dare they just walk off and lock us in? (We had yet to learn that the New Zealand workman will dare anything.)

The family and I explored the yard, whose fences extended down to the waterfront on either side, in a vain search for a man-sized mousehole. Nick, Mickey, and Moto stayed on board and settled themselves for a philosophical nap. Situations like this, they seemed to feel, were pre-eminently the problem of the Skipper.

Dusk was falling as we climbed onto a pile of lumber near the main gate and peered over into the silent, empty streets.

Suddenly Jessica shouted, “Man ho!”

Sure enough, far down the street a speck resolved itself into a pedestrian. We waited until he came abeam.

“Hey!” I hailed him.

He looked up. “My word,” he observed genially, “Americans!”

“Too right!” I responded in flawless New Zealandese. “Can you tell us how to get out of here?”

“I’m frightfully afraid I can’t,” he admitted. “I should think everyone’s gone home by now. The holidays, you know.”

He started on, but then he had a thought. “By the way,” he added, coming back and speaking directly to Jessica, “if you should want a Christmas tree, you’ll find bags of them at my stand just down the road. No one seems to be buying this year, I’ll take a frightful loss. Just trot on down and help yourself!”

“But there’s still time. You’ll sell lots tomorrow,” Jessica pointed out.

The man sounded positively shocked. “On Saturday! Now, what would the wife and kiddies say if I was to tell them I was going back to the stand on a Saturday just to sell a few more trees? No, I stayed a good half hour over as it is and now I’m for me holiday! And a happy Christmas to you!”

He disappeared around the next corner, but we were not alone for long. A car drew up to the curb and four very large bobbies stepped out. They deployed in approved Scotland Yard fashion, one remaining near the car and two covering the fence, while the fourth strode toward us purposefully. His face was officially stern. He opened his mouth—but not fast enough, for Barbara, always the strategist, spoke first.

“Can you tell us how to get out of here?”

The policeman seemed taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

“Out!” I pressed our advantage. “We want to get out!”

“We were informed,” he told me reproachfully, “that some person or persons were attempting to break into this yard.”

“Quite the contrary!” We explained the circumstances and suggested that they summon the manager.

“The manager? Of the shipyard? Impossible. It’s the holidays, you know.”

I explained, as gently as my nature permitted, that we well knew it was “the holidays.” In fact, that even increased our desire to be free to come and go. We, too, would like to celebrate Christmas. So would he please get the manager? Or could he get a key to the gate? Or perhaps it would be simpler if I just broke the lock?

That did it. My last suggestion was vetoed in horrified tones, we were told to wait, and sometime later a defensively apologetic manager came down and unlocked the gate. He permitted us to put our own combination padlock on it for the duration, and even gave us the key to the W.C. and shower for which we had quite forgotten to make arrangements.

Our original plan, to sail on down to the South Island after the first of the year, was rudely changed in the course of this overhaul, for a routine inspection revealed the presence in the head of our mainmast of a nasty variety of boring insect, the first of which we had discovered in the course of our trip to Tahiti. After digging into the mast and finding that it had been badly infested, I decided that, like a bad tooth, the whole thing would have to go. The situation was discouraging, however, for—unlike an infected molar—it would have to be replaced immediately.

There was no doubt what wood we wanted for the new mast—kauri pine, historically famous for its use as spars on sailing ships. However, there is a modern-day hitch in that kauri has become so scarce that it is now protected by law.

Where there’s a law there’s a loophole, however, and it was the helpful manager of the shipyard who helped us find a way. Suppose someone wished to build a new house—or construct a road—and a kauri “ricker” just happened to be growing in the way? In such a case, permission might be obtained to cut the tree and no questions would be asked as to its subsequent disposition.

After scouting around for days we were finally directed to the right combination of tree and circumstance. Permission was granted, the tree was cut, and the trunk, bark and all, was hauled to the shipyard and dumped. I had announced that our own gang would do all the work, but when we looked the log over it seemed a truly formidable undertaking. I could feel my feet getting cold.

“Are you quite certain you know how to go about making the mast?” the yard foreman asked.

“Quite certain,” I said firmly.

“Is there anything you need?”

“Nothing but adzes, axes, spokeshaves, planes, sandpaper—and a few weeks.”

He lent us the tools and told us to take as long as we needed. The boys looked at me.

“What do we do first?” asked Ted.

“First,” I said, “we take off the bark.”

About a month later we had our mast, gleaming smoothly in the summer sun. Frankly, I was proud of our job. Kauri is beautiful wood, both to look at and to work, and it has the added advantage of needing no seasoning period. With the help of the workers at the boatyard, we rolled the mast into the water, borrowed a motorboat, and towed it across the harbor to where the Auckland Harbor bridge was under construction.

I approached the operator of an enormous steam crane.

“I have a boat,” I explained, “and that mast over there. I’m trying to figure out how to get them together. Any ideas?”

He grinned. “Bring them on over.”

We did so, the crane lifted our new mast like a twig, poised it dramatically for a moment over the gaping hole amidships, and then lowered away. By nightfall we had our “homemade” mast completely wedged and shrouded, with a bright “thruppenny” bit—a gift from Jessica, which we were assured would bring luck—nestled beneath the base.

It was time to move on and I began to inquire about the possibility of sailing down the east coast as far as Wellington, through Cook Strait, and thus across the Tasman to Sydney.

“Wellington?” everyone demanded scornfully. “Why do you want to go to Wellington? There’s nothing there, really. And as for the trip down the coast—you’re likely to have very bad weather, you know—shocking! Wellington harbor’s not too good, either—exposed and windy. My word! Terrible! As for Cook Strait—worst stretch of water in the world—absolutely notorious. No yachts go that way to Sydney. You must go north first, then west and around the cape. It’s the only way.”

Still I hesitated. We’d come from Russell and it seemed a shame to go up that way again when there was so much farther south that we hadn’t seen. Surely there must be another side to the story.

At last I found it. One day I met a charming chap on the dock. He had just come in from his mooring. In the course of our chat I mentioned the possibility of our sailing to Wellington. He was delighted.

“Ah-h-h, yes-s-s! Wellington! Splendid place. You’ll like it. Very active yacht clubs there—real sailors, you know—nothing they won’t do for you. The trip down the coast? First-rate fun—easy course. Fine sailing. Wellington harbor? Couldn’t be better. Bit of a wind there, true—but it’s well protected. Wellington to Sydney? Through Cook Strait? Well, why not—why not? I remember distinctly another yacht made it that way—no trouble at all. Back in the thirties, I think it was. Not as sturdy a craft as yours, either.”

Here was the optimistic note I’d been seeking. I turned away, encouraged, but had a sudden thought. “By the way, where are you from?”

He smiled cheerfully. “Ah—Wellington, actually!”

At any rate, on February 6 we sailed south, en route to Wellington. We left Auckland with a bit of a flourish, in a force 6 southwesterly, amid showers. For two days we bowled along, covering a record 280 miles in 48 hours, but then the winds fell off. In the next few days we experienced the wide variety of weather that can be expected in these latitudes, with winds ranging from calms to gales in rapid succession, and neglecting no point of the compass. First-rate fun, indeed!

Early on the morning of the eighth day we rounded the last headland and tackled notorious Cook Strait. It did not disappoint us—although we were more than willing to be disappointed. A northerly gale funneled down on us and after a few rough and profitless hours of beating through high seas we eased off and continued on across the southern approaches to the strait and ran for the lee of South Island. The Phoenix, which takes a bit of a breeze to get underway, was making an easy seven knots under storm jib and reefed mizzen alone and her motion evoked unwelcome memories of our North Pacific crossing.

By evening we were well down the coast and had about decided to pay a visit to Christchurch, as long as we were in the neighborhood, when the evening weather forecast announced a strong southerly in Cook Strait. That was what we had been waiting for, so we put about. The breeze swung to the south, at first tentatively polite and then rudely boisterous, and we tore back up the coast, staying well offshore.

When taking our sun shots the next morning we suddenly realized that our latitude was now outside the range of the H.O. 214 navigation tables we had on board. Ted, in no way disturbed by this discovery, extrapolated the data necessary to work out our position. That afternoon the entrance to beautiful Wellington harbor rose out of the mists, dead ahead. At 1800 we were met by the pilot boat and escorted to a comfortable, if somewhat public, berth at Queen’s Wharf, five minutes from the center of downtown Wellington.

Our first visitor was Bill McQueen, an enthusiastic young chap from the Royal Port Nicholson Yacht Club, who had spotted us through glasses as we entered the harbor. Anything he could do for us? Any shopping? Perhaps we’d like him to run up and bring us a few pies, since it’s well past teatime? (A pie, in New Zealandese, is a delicious and filling meat-and-vegetable concoction, a meal in itself.) We accepted the offer gratefully.

While he was away, our next visitors arrived: Commodore Tomkies and Vice-Commodore Catley, also of the yacht club. They, too, offered hot pies, and were a bit chagrined to learn that one of the youngsters had beaten them to it. However—would any of us care to come up to the house later for hot baths and supper? We would? First rate! Someone would be down to pick up the lot of us at eight o’clock.

The hot pies arrived, two apiece, fragrant and delicious. Handing over honorary guest cards to all of us, our new friends of the yacht club took their leave and we retired below to enjoy our pies. It was nice to be alone for a few moments, to sort out our impressions. Suddenly Jessica, curled up on the seat box by her desk, glanced out the starboard porthole and gave a gasp.

“There are hundreds of people up there on the dock—watching every bite I take!”

“It is rather public,” Ted agreed, “but you can always close your eyes.”

Our central location was both an advantage, for shopping, and a disadvantage. Each day, during the noon hour, some two or three hundred workers were decanted from nearby offices and all of them wandered down to look us over and comment on our activities while they stood about drinking beer and eating fish and chips. Frequently, I’m sure, they had no idea how their voices carried.

“Do they have to crawl around on their hands and knees?” we heard one citizen demand, eying the two feet of cabin that is raised above deck level.

“They came all the way from Hiroshima,” a man explained to his companion. Obviously he had read the newspaper.

The girl beside him let out a little cry as she spotted our bobtailed Mi-ke sleeping in the furled mainsail. “Oh, look at the poor little pussycat!” she crooned. “It must have lost its tail in the atom bomb!”

In Wellington we said good-bye at last to a quiet, but not particularly attractive, deck passenger—the gempylus, or snake mackerel, that we had caught and preserved on our passage from Hilo to Papeete. We had had some correspondence with Dr. Falla, of the Wellington Museum, and now we turned our specimen over to him with accompanying newspaper fanfare. “Snake Mackerel Arrives!” proclaimed headlines on the front page and we were reminded again of how little it takes to titillate the reading interest of so remote a country as New Zealand. Accompanying the article was a picture of our unprepossessing-looking creature, curled into a tight U-shape, just as it had solidified in the can. It was obvious that it would need considerable expert attention to restore color and natural form before it would be ready for display.

Meanwhile, we were making preparations for our crossing of the Tasman, mostly a matter of laying in provisions, as we had given the ship a thorough overhaul in Auckland. Another boathiker was signed on for this passage: Peter Callander, a sensitive and intelligent young Britisher who was looking for deep-sea cruising experience and promised to be an enjoyable companion for Ted and a help to Barbara.

We sailed on March 5, with the promise of a southerly to push us through the strait, a promise that was not kept. Cook Strait had fought us coming in and it fought us going out. Unable to make progress against a fresh northerly and heavy seas, we crossed the strait and I checked the charts for a likely anchorage along the coast of South Island. There was a choice of two, but one was suspiciously empty of soundings, so I elected to backtrack ten miles downwind to a better-marked anchorage, Weary Bay. Once again my fellow crew members made it obvious from their attitudes that they felt I was being overcautious, and when I insisted on setting an anchor watch there was even more audible dissent.

I think we were all a little jittery about the passage, particularly as we had only recently been told, in graphic detail, about two yachts that had been lost, with all their crews, in the course of a race across the strait only the year before. We lay uneasily at anchor and even though I had set an anchor watch, my rest was disturbed. I was more than annoyed, therefore, when I found Mickey sound asleep in his bunk during the period of his watch. He apologized profusely, and promised it would never happen again.

Once again the ever-recurring dilemma presented itself. The only sensible thing to do with a delinquent or mutinous crew member would be to fire him, for the safety of the ship. But how could I fire Mickey when I hadn’t hired him in the first place? To sever our relationship now would mean putting back to Wellington and waiting for an indefinite period until passage could be arranged for him to Japan. On the other hand, to make it clear that I intended to terminate the association as soon as we reached Sydney would certainly do nothing to make for smooth crew relationships on the potentially difficult crossing of the Tasman. Again I compromised with my better judgment, accepted Mickey’s apology, and hoped that all would work out for the best. This solution was not an easy one for me, personally, as I am not a patient man by nature nor do I take kindly to mutiny. However, I was learning patience, a lesson I sorely needed.

The south wind finally arrived in the early morning and we began to work our way through the strait. By nightfall we had recovered our lost ground and made good progress, but we found the going very tricky at the northern end, where the currents were strong and unpredictable. It was another day before we had made a safe offing, and I had a deeper appreciation of the passages in Cook’s Journal in which he describes his own difficulties in this area, which came near to wrecking his ship.

Once again, after a wistful looking backward to friends left behind and things undone, we settled into the timeless routines of life afloat, with Peter to continue the galley boy arrangement that meant so much to our cook. It was good to have leisure to relax, to get acquainted with one another again, and to sort out our impressions of the country we had just left before plunging into the whirl of the one that lay ahead.

We were six days out before we had our first taste of “Tasman weather.” A front passed, with its sudden squall, and ripped out our foresail sheet. We had a busy half hour before we got all secure and then I made one of my rather rare radiotelephone contacts, reporting to the Wellington weather station the passage of the front. I had a very good contact.

Two days later, in the predawn darkness, Peter called me sharply. In an instant I was on deck.

“Someone just shot a flare—off the port quarter. A green flare.”

Together we watched for some time, but the signal was not repeated. As Peter described it, he had seen a greenish glow light up the white of the mizzenmast and had turned in time to see the tail end of the rocket’s flight and the star shower. I took a bearing, which was directly upwind of us, and attempted to report to Wellington by radio. This time, however, I was unable to raise them.

Whether it was an actual flare, a natural phenomenon, or perhaps a flying saucer—we had no way of knowing, but we tacked our way back, under power and sail. We cruised the area all day, with a man at the masthead, but found nothing. At nightfall we added the incident to our backlog of mysteries of the sea and set the course again for Sydney.

The next day we spoke the Waitaki, Union Steamship freighter bound for New Zealand, and reported the sighting and the approximate position. We have never heard any more about it.

On the thirteenth day the Tasman gave us another sample of its dirtier side. The barometer had been dropping slowly for two days and, at 0730, with a quick shift of wind to the south and a torrential rain, the seas and wind began to rise. By evening, with wind force 7–8, we took a reef in the main, and thereafter rode easily. According to radio reports, we were caught in the tail end of a cyclone centering over Lord Howe Island, north of us.

The next day was squally, with overcast skies, but with occasional fleeting glimpses of a wan sun. I kept a sextant to hand all morning, and near noon Ted and I were lucky enough to get two quick shots of the sun, so that we could be reasonably satisfied of our position. Late that afternoon we saw a line on the horizon that gradually hardened into land, and by dark we were able to identify Barranjoey Light, twenty miles up the coast from Sydney Heads.

The wind was now dead against us, so we tacked down the coast all night. The breeze and seas were dropping rapidly, and by 0600, with North Head in sight, we were becalmed between short bursts of mild rain squalls. Taking advantage of each flurry, we gradually closed the heads and went in under both sail and power.

It was good to drop anchor in the first likely-looking spot, Watson Bay, and there, with our Q-flag flying, we waited for the officials to arrive. The port doctor quickly gave us pratique, the immigration officer glanced at our visas and stamped our passports—and H.M. Customs took over. He was courteous and affable, but his duty was to guide us through the largest and most formidable assortment of documents and manifests that we had ever seen. By the time we had completed everything we were quite exhausted and ready for the more enjoyable aspects of arrival to begin.

After the officials had left, we sat on deck, ate a leisurely if belated lunch, enjoyed the splendid view—and felt a little bit deflated. We had been cleared—yes, but we had no idea of where to go next or what to do. Sydney’s harbor is so vast, her anchorages so numerous, her geography so unknown that we felt intimidated. We longed for someone to come and take us by the hand.

The afternoon wore on and still we were unmolested. No one on the shore seemed so much as to glance in our direction. A few yachts and launches passed at a distance, but we might have been a part of the permanent view for all the attention we got. We commented on how nice and peaceful it all was, how attractive the red roofs, how big and clean the city. But Jessica summed up our unspoken feelings when she demanded, at last, “Where is everybody?”

“This is a big city, honey,” Barbara explained carefully, “the biggest we’ve visited. It’s a seaport, with hundreds of ships coming and going all the time. We can’t expect them to pay much attention to us.”

Suddenly I realized that she was right. We’re spoiled, I told myself, that’s our trouble. Okay, so we’ve just crossed the Tasman Sea of terrible repute, and we did it the hard way, direct from Wellington. So what do we expect—a medal? Nobody asked us to do it, nobody invited us to come. We complain about the fuss and furor of greetings, the invasion of our privacy by the press, the curiosity of dockside crowds, but when we are paid no attention at all we pout.

I went below and started checking the harbor chart for a likely anchorage, while Ted and Barbara hunted through the accounts of other yachtsmen to see what they had done about Sydney.

You’re on your own, I reminded myself sternly. Nobody is going to meet us, nobody is going to greet us. Sydney is just a great, big, impersonal city and, as they say down under, the inhabitants couldn’t care less.

A motorboat pulled alongside. “Ahoy, Phoenix!” sang out a cheery voice. “Welcome to Sydney! We’ve been watching for you!”

“You have?” unbelievingly.

“Too right! We’re from the Cruising Club of Australia. Throw us a line!”

“A line?”

“Too right! We’ll tow you over to your moorings.”

“Okay!” It was wonderful to turn over decisions to someone else, someone who knew his way around.

“We’ve been saving a spot for you, right off the clubhouse in Rushcutter’s Bay. We only just heard you’d arrived—sorry if you’ve been kept waiting. And, by the way—we have a couple of gentlemen from the press who asked to come along. All right if they come aboard?”

“Sure—come ahead! Boys, throw them a line!” And the fun began.

8      —AND BACK UP:
THE GREAT BARRIER REEF

“Better men than we had come to grief....”

Sydney, like most cities, is big, bustling, and impersonal, but it has its own atmosphere and flair. The hills, covered with typically red-roofed houses; the extensive harbor, with its multitude of bays and sheltered coves, dominated by the magnificent arching bridge that is Sydney’s pride; the breezy friendliness of the people—all these give Sydney a unique character.

Our own location, in quiet Rushcutter’s Bay, less than fifteen minutes by bus from the heart of the city, was as lovely a spot as one could hope to find in or near a metropolis. Through the kindness of Mr. Packer, editor of the Sydney Telegraph, whom we had met first in Honolulu, a company car was put at our disposal during our entire stay but, due to the trauma of driving on the left—and a vague fear of getting involved in some accident that could wipe out our entire savings—we depended mostly for transportation upon the scarlet double-decker buses that moved majestically through the streets.

One of the disappointing realities of travel is the impossibility of ever seeing as much of any country as one had hoped to do, and Australia was no exception. We had come armed with addresses: friends who had worked with me at the Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission in Japan; the Japanese wives of Australian servicemen whom Barbara had taught in Kure. All of them had said, cheerfully, when we parted: “See you when you get to Australia!” But now we discovered how widely scattered these friends were and how impossible to see them all. A few of the Japanese brides lived in or near Sydney, and through them Barbara was able to get news of many more, but the two friends Jessica had most looked forward to seeing lived near Melbourne and we had no time to sail farther south.

At last it was decided that Barbara and Jessica would travel overland to Melbourne for a short holiday from boatkeeping. Barbara stayed only a few days, long enough to fall completely under the spell of the city, which was in a fever of preparation for the Olympic Games, but Jessica was so delighted to be with Carol Exton, whom she had known when we first went out to Japan, and Clare Davis, the pen pal whose father we had first met in Tahiti, that we didn’t have the heart to tear her away while both families were urging extended hospitality. As a result, Jessica stayed on for the better part of two weeks in the army town of Puckapunyal and went with Carol to the dependent school, where she learned to figure in pounds, shillings, and pence. Then she switched families for a visit with Clare in Melbourne. By the time she rejoined us she was talking like a “proper Aussie,” throwing around such expressions as “beaut,” “terribly posh,” “it’s a dill” (meaning no good or stupid), or “let’s have a gig”—in Yankee talk, “let me see.” In addition, she had persuaded the Davises to let Clare sail with us up to the Great Barrier Reef—and now all she had to do was convince the Skipper that we needed a subdeb hitchhiker for a change. Since Clare’s parents were quite willing to pay for her to return by air from one of the northern Queensland ports before we set off for Indonesia, I was more than willing. One of the inevitable drawbacks to such a trip as ours is the lack of companionship for those who are under age. Ted and Jessica got along far better than most brothers and sisters with a five-year gap in their ages—but the gap was there. And although Barbara had found an amazing number of interests, confidences, and giggles that she and Jessica could share, we knew that even the best mother-daughter relationship is no substitute for an intimate of one’s own age.

At every port there are dozens of things on the list of Things to Do and Things to Buy. Sydney was no exception. Again we hauled out and gave the Phoenix her biannual face lifting, using the Cruising Club’s slip. I arranged, at last, to replace the faulty chain plates that had been much on my mind for a reason which is obvious: there are two things that must not fail on a seagoing yacht—the masts and the rudder. The chain plates hold the shrouds that support the mast. Period.

I laid in a supply of essential navigation aids for the next stage of our trip—pilot books, light lists, tide tables, and nearly a hundred charts, enough to get us to Durban, South Africa. As was always the case, many of the charts were for places we did not expect to visit, but plans have a way of changing—or of being changed—as one goes along, due to weather conditions, local advice, or dire necessity. Not too long before us, a yacht bound for Australia had been blown off course in a storm and had tried to put in to Lord Howe Island—without a chart. It had ended up on a reef, with the vessel a total loss.

There were the usual visas to arrange for, too. South African officials raised no objections, in spite of their well-known color bar, and even assured me that Japanese citizens were considered “European.”

The very young fellow at the Indonesian Consulate, however, was hesitant.

“Just why do you wish to visit my country, sir?” he asked politely.

I had a sudden hunch that the usual reasons would not be enough. It is one thing to fly to Jakarta, like any self-respecting tourist, there to follow the beaten track on conducted tours before flying home again—having “seen” Java. It is quite another to request permission to sail in, to poke around in ports where there are no other foreigners and no liking for them, possibly to get oneself in a jam and even create an international incident. (Only recently, exactly that did happen, the yacht ended up a wreck and the yachtsman landed in jail.)

I reminded myself that, once again, we were going against all local advice in going to Indonesia at all. “Give the whole bloody place a miss!” was the way one recently returned Aussie phrased it. “They’re insolent puppies, the whole bloody lot of them. Threw me passport right on the floor, they did, and made me pick it up myself!” But we had heard similar unfavorable comments about almost every port on our itinerary—and since our informant had struck me as rather an “insolent puppy” himself, we reserved judgment.

The young Indonesian was waiting, not at all insolently, for my reply.

“The main reason we want to go is because Indonesia is a young republic. You won your independence as we did, by revolution, but you’re still having a lot of problems to face and the going is hard. Back in the United States, we’re not young and eager any more—we’ve forgotten our beginnings. We’d like to see how it’s going with you—and how you’re meeting your problems. And we’d like to be in Indonesia on August seventeenth to help celebrate your eleventh birthday.”

There was a long pause. Then the young man said, “Could you come back in two weeks?”

I could and did, to be handed a visa for every member of our Phoenix party, without qualifications. Across the visas was written, boldly, “Guests of Indonesia.” There was no charge.

While in Sydney, I bought an additional dinghy, a flat little skiff that was promptly christened Flattypus. I also added a “gadget,” a small, kerosene-burning refrigerator. It seemed to work beautifully—in port, at least—and Barbara was ecstatic. Knowing who would have to service it for the rest of its natural life, I withheld my enthusiasm, but I had to admit that it cooled the beer nicely and hoped that happy condition would continue.

By late April (corresponding to October in the Northern Hemisphere) the weather was getting nippy and we accelerated our preparations for departure. Once again, Barbara drew up her commissioning list, making adjustments according to whatever “tinned goods” and staples were available. By now, she was quite an expert in estimating our needs for weeks or even months at a time, and the provisions she laid in now would be required to carry us all the way to Durban—an eight to nine months’ supply. Even in English-speaking countries, however, it is not always easy to find what one needs. Baked beans and spaghetti, for instance, were sold in tiny cans like potted meats and were used in much the same way—for sandwiches. And canned food for cats was practically unheard of.

“Cat food—in tins?” one wholesaler repeated incredulously. “Now, why don’t you just nip down to the butchery and ask for a tuppenny-’orth of scraps?”

When we sailed from Sydney it was our plan to make no stops until within the Great Barrier Reef, almost a thousand miles to the north. We all looked forward to a restful period at sea to recover from the gradually accelerating pace of life ashore which inevitably becomes frenetic as departure nears. Especially after a prolonged stay in port, the last few days are a rat race, complete with “little lists” and a constant, gnawing worry lest something vital may be overlooked—either socially or from a subsistence point of view. Have all thank-you’s been said—or written? All engagements remembered and kept? All necessary supplies purchased—and delivered? Human nature being what it is, there are always a number of items we tentatively check off because someone or other has said, helpfully, “Oh, I can get that for you wholesale—just leave it to me!” or “I’ve dozens of those lying around, I’ll bring you all you can use.” But, as sailing day approaches, where are they? If it is an important, but expensive, item, you find yourself torn between laying out money for it unnecessarily or running the risk of sailing without it.

As departure draws near, the visitors increase, as do the number of invitations, until at last every waking minute of every day is filled and only the nights are left for worrying over things-to-be-done and things-to-be-bought. In the end there is a real sense of relief when we shove off and know there will be no more chance callers, no more absolutely necessary places to go or things to see, and no temptation to rush downtown for one last vital item.

Naturally, there is never any way of knowing whether a given trip will be pleasant or not. We usually have some control over the first day or two, in that we can wait for a favorable weather forecast or a fair wind, but after that it’s anybody’s guess.

On our run up the east of Australia we had generally good luck and racked up an auspicious record of 600 miles in the first five days, which was not bad against the current and in variable winds. Young Clare, who had never been away from home before or on a ship, was both homesick and seasick for the first few days, but she was a game sport. Gradually she perked up, and before long she and Jessica fell into an easy routine of schoolwork and play in a most congenial vein.

We all joined in studying the geography and history of the areas and towns we passed, for most of the time we were in sight of land and able to get a good idea of the vastness and, in the northern reaches, the desolation of the continent. Even Clare was properly impressed that it took the better part of four days to leave New South Wales behind—one of the smallest of Australia’s seven states. As Jessica observed, “Texas would certainly have its nose put out of joint down under!”

By day we passed mile after mile of white sand beaches, backed by rolling hills and occasional sharp, mountainous profiles. By night we could spot our position at any given time with the help of well-marked coastal lighthouses and beacons that made coastal cruising a pleasure.

On May 8 we entered the wide southern mouth of the Great Barrier Reef. Here the seas were calm, as quiet as any we have ever experienced, yet we were twenty miles offshore and well out of sight of land. The wind died away and for the next two days, by going absolutely nowhere, we managed to get back to our usual long-term average of four knots. Actually, we were drifting slowly northward, for here the current goes up the coast rather than down as it had to the south.

By May 10 we could see the five high islands of the Percy group, with grassy, wooded slopes, brilliant white beaches, and inviting bays. Jessica and Clare, who had laboriously made a pirate flag, complete with skull and crossbones, wanted to land and take over an uninhabited island. Barbara, too, had land fever and the islands looked so tempting that we yielded to their lure. Picking one from the charts at random, we cast anchor in a lovely bay off the west side of Middle Island.

A mile away, Pine Islet has a lighthouse and, through the binoculars, we could see a number of houses grouped about it. On Middle Percy, however, the only sign of civilization was an apparently deserted shack set well back from the beach with a big sign: TELEPHONE. This, we assumed, was connected in some way with the lighthouse settlement.

The surf was too high to carry four in Flattypus, so I rowed Barbara ashore first, promising to return for the excited girls. First, however, I decided to take a look at the shack. Inside was the telephone, looking as tempting as Alice’s cake marked: “Eat me!” How could I resist following the directions: “Wind crank and lift handset.”

At once I found myself talking to the sole family on the island, a Canadian sister and two brothers who lived high in the interior. They knew all about the Phoenix, as soon as I mentioned my name, having read my series of articles in the Saturday Evening Post.

At their invitation, and under the guidance of Claude and Percy White, who came down to the shore to meet us, we all trooped up to the White home, a good stiff hike. There we were able to send off a message of reassurance to Clare’s parents by the interesting expedient of flashing a message in Morse to the lighthouse of Pine Islet, from whence it was relayed by radio to Mackay on the mainland and thence overland to Melbourne!

This taken care of, we settled down to enjoy three days of wonderful hospitality, climaxed by a wild-goat hunt—or I might say a wild wild-goat hunt—which ended successfully with a barbecue on the beach.

Now began a new and delightful stage in our travels, island hopping, with a different anchorage every night. Our first call after the Percy Islands was at Lindeman, a resort island where Clare’s father “shouted us” by means of a cable to the management instructing them to entertain the entire crew of the Phoenix in style. They did, and Clare took great pleasure in her role as hostess at a sumptuous dinner in the hotel.

From Lindeman we made our way gradually north, with occasional stops to explore scattered and mostly uninhabited islands. Barbara, especially, took great pleasure in “fossicking” on the reefs at low tide and invariably returned to the Phoenix with pailfuls of live shells which we had no convenient way of cleaning while underway, since the approved method is to bury them for a week or two and allow ants and nature to do the job. As a result, we sailed always with a more or less pervasive odor of decaying animal life and, try as she would to keep her trophies downwind of our living quarters, she insists that many of them were given the deep-six by unnamed members of the crew.

Our next major stop was Townsville, on the mainland, where we spent four days, catching up on baths, laundry, fresh vegetables, and the news of mutual friends.

A day or two beyond Townsville we made one of our most interesting stops in the Barrier Reef, at Great Palm Island, the largest aboriginal settlement in Queensland. Great Palm is strictly not for the tourist. There are no accommodations for overnight guests and no public services. Only those who, like ourselves, come in by boat and are self-sufficient—and who are able to obtain the permission of the superintendent—are allowed to remain after dark.

During our stay at Great Palm, we gave an evening of slides and movies in the outdoor theater, a program which was an outstanding success. For the first time, we ran the movies we had taken of the Bastille Day fete in Tahiti and the response of the Australian aborigines to the Tahitian belles and their vibrant hula was such that we had to run that particular reel three times! I made a special trip out to the Phoenix at anchor to bring back the slit drum from Uturoa and the cowrie-trimmed grass skirts from Bora Bora, and these exhibits were passed around and tried out by every man, woman, and child in the settlement, to the accompaniment of much giggling and many gibes.

By the way of return, the native population put on a “corraboree” for our benefit. A great deal of care and elaborate preparation had gone into the costuming and make-up of the aborigines, whose black faces, ribs, arms, and pipestem legs were outlined in strange patterns of white paint. At the last minute, however, and when all was in readiness for the dance, it seemed that a native drum and drummer were not to be found. A plea for one, repeated several times over the loud speaker, finally turned up a volunteer who used, as his drum, that universal instrument—an empty kerosene tin!

From Great Palm Island to Cairns, the next mainland port on our itinerary, was only a day’s sail. My log notes that the seas were short and choppy after we had left the shelter of the island and we rolled considerably with the resultant sound of numerous crashes from below, “particularly,” as I remark smugly, “in the ladies’ cabin.” A couple of weeks of quiet sailing, plus sheltered anchorages, had made us all a bit careless in stowing.

We reached the outer lights of Cairns channel at 2:30 in the morning, but I refused to transit the narrow passage, five miles long, until daylight, especially with a balky engine. Again, my possibly overcautious decision to anchor and wait out the night was at odds with the ideas of my Japanese companions, who were all for going right on in. They grumbled a bit about waiting, and even more over my insistence on the ever-unpopular anchor watch, but I remained adamant. The Phoenix, with 30 tons displacement and a 25-horsepower engine (18 when using kerosene), is sluggish under power and coming in to a strange anchorage is always tense under the best of conditions. Channel markers, docks, and shore lines may be well marked on the charts, but neither chart nor pilot book can give advice about such imponderables as weather, poor visibility, the movements of shipping, or the vagaries of our own engine.

Since I was engineer as well as skipper, and since the engine is under the floor of the after cabin with no remote controls, coming in to a dock or mooring demanded a high degree of cooperation between the lookout forward, the man at the tiller, and myself.

The next morning, with the wind dead ahead, and the engine still acting up, we limped down the long corridor to town, stopping once to make a quick spark plug change. I think that even Nick was grateful for good visibility as he helped pick out and guide us past the intricate system of buoys that marked the channel.

As we entered the harbor we had another of those experiences which can only sound routine in the telling but was nerve-racking in the extreme. In Cairns there was a solid line of docks and warehouses along the shore to starboard, but nothing to indicate where we should go. Barely crawling, we moved down the channel, scanning the land. At last we saw a man in uniform emerge from one of the buildings. Waving a paper in one hand, he signaled to us to come in. I dived down the afterhatch, put the engine in reverse, ordered the helmsman to put the tiller over, and we began to maneuver our way alongside the dock. The current was strong, but we finally succeeded in bringing our boat up neatly, almost abeam of the uniformed official.

Moto made ready to throw a line.

“Phoenix?” The official demanded. At my affirmative, he leaned over and handed me a letter. For Jessica. No greeting. No word of explanation. Just a letter.

I shoved it into my pocket while I prepared to cut the engine and make fast to the dock.

“You can’t tie up here!” the official told us, shocked. “This is the main dock!”

“Where then?” I asked.

He looked amazed and nonplused. At last he suggested that we had “best move right on down.” He gestured down the harbor into infinity.

I put the engine in gear once more and we headed away from the dock and on up the channel. At last, almost at the end of the harbor, we found an old jetty that seemed to be sufficiently out of anyone’s way. A couple of bystanders helped us come alongside, but we had barely made the lines fast and put the engine to bed when our friend the official arrived, panting.

“You’ll have to move on back,” he told us. “You can tie up where you first came in, for a few hours. Then you’ll have to move along, because there’s a big ship coming in.”

He also said we would be charged “regular docking rates” while there. I was a little annoyed by then and retorted that, if this were the case, I would have to charge admission to come aboard the Phoenix. (I had a wonderful precedent for that action: old Joshua Slocum himself did it, when officials tried to gouge him.)

After we had moved back to our original spot, I visited the dockmaster, who decided that if other ports in Australia had not charged the Phoenix a docking fee, neither would Cairns. I then graciously invited him to come aboard at any time—no charge. He hardly seemed to know what to do with a yacht, and was concerned because we might interfere with the berthing of two big ships that were due in at the same time. I assured him that if they came close enough to interfere with us, they would be too dangerously close to each other. He finally agreed to permit us to remain where we were, which would put us right between them. And so it worked out very nicely—our forward lines shared the same bollard with the after lines of Manunda, while our after lines kept company with the bowlines of Taiping.

We spent ten days at Cairns, which was Clare’s last port of call before flying home to her family. Just before leaving us, she confessed that she had been “a little bit scared” when she started off with an unknown family—the first Americans she had ever known.

“I’d heard a lot about Yankees,” she admitted, “and I just didn’t know what you’d be like.”

“What do you think about Yankees now?” Ted asked her teasingly.

Clare almost stammered in her eagerness to reassure us. “Oh!” she cried. “I’d like you now even if you were French or Turquoise!”

We made several trips into the magnificent Atherton tablelands of the interior, where dense jungle, crater lakes, rolling grassland, giant anthills and, everywhere, the typical dusty gray-green of the ever-present eucalyptus trees gave us a different feeling for the Australian scene. It was frustrating to be unable to get even farther from the seacoast, to experience the peculiar isolation and beauty of the “outback” and the renowned hospitality of those who live there.

During this stopover we had another flare-up of crew trouble, or rather, a lot of suppressed minor grievances had accumulated and become critical. This was something we were beginning to recognize as a pattern in our East-West relations, inevitable because of our very different backgrounds and philosophies. The American way (or, at least, my way) is to speak freely and openly, to discuss problems as they arise, and to leave little doubt in anyone’s mind about my reactions to events. Our companions, on the other hand, had been reared in a tradition of reticence, submission, and fatalism. They kept their feelings to themselves and looked upon my occasional outbursts as signs of weakness. Moreover, the idea of a free and open discussion of differences of opinion was completely alien to them. They did not overlook or forget, however, with the result that every once in a while the pressure of accumulated misunderstandings or dissatisfactions would mount until some ridiculously small incident would bring our relations to a head.

Such an occasion arose in Cairns. I had called the gang topside one morning to help get a drum of fuel on board. Mickey, as usual, was slow to respond, and I called him rather sharply a second time. Almost at once, he emerged from his forward hatch, clad only in a pair of gaudily striped underpants.

“Go below and get dressed!” I commanded sharply, thinking he was being deliberately insolent.

“You never mind!” Mickey flared, unable to express himself in English.

“You can’t come up here in your underwear!” I spoke hotly, furious at what I considered an insult to the ship and family.

Immediately Nick, as hot-tempered as I, flung himself into the fray. “Not your business what Mickey wears!” he challenged.

My own problems with Nick had been many—open insurrection, like the one in the North Pacific, or simply sullen withdrawal, when he disapproved one of my decisions. Since he was, technically, first mate, and at most times a good and responsible shipmate, I felt the need of his cooperation. I decided that now was as good a time as any to have it out, so I called a conference of all the men in the hope that, somehow, we could achieve a meeting of minds.

We began with the immediate source of irritation, Mickey’s underpants. As was so often the case, the whole incident turned out to be the result of a misunderstanding. Mickey, who had had little experience in Western dress, had been given the briefs in Hawaii, along with various other articles of clothing: socks, shirts, bathing trunks, and neckties. Mistakenly assuming them to be sportswear, he had donned them for the first time that morning as being more presentable than the patched khaki shorts he’d been wearing at sea.

This was finally settled and, with the ice broken, a great many other grievances came out. Primarily, they stemmed from two sources: the Japanese interpretation of quite innocent actions as slights (as when we had once or twice omitted introductions all around when some quite casual visitor came aboard); and their continued feeling, in spite of everything we did to combat it, that we did not treat them as “equals,” as fellow yachtsmen. Nick showed us a local newspaper report which referred to the “Reynolds family with crew of three Japanese,” and seemed to feel it was my fault because I had not properly briefed the newsman responsible. In this instance, as in many, it was Ted who quietly stepped into the breach, pointing out that the reporter in question had come aboard when only the three Japanese were there and that any information he had or had deduced must have come through them. Ted, I might add, was a very important member of our conferences if only for his rare ability to remain objective, aware of all points of view and partisan to none. More than once, after a more than usually acrimonious debate, he would manage to sum up the entire controversy in a simple and direct restatement of viewpoints which often had the effect of soothing and pointing the way to agreement at the same time.

So it was in Cairns. Gradually our various points of disagreement were dredged up and disposed of, the air was cleared, and good relations were re-established—or so we liked to believe. Now we could hope for smooth sailing, for a time at least, until the next accumulation of resentments boiled over.

Two days after leaving Cairns we reached Cooktown, a veritable ghost town, whose glory, like its gold, has long since played out. From the days when it was the third largest city in Australia, with some 30,000 population, Cooktown has dropped to 400 individuals, who live quietly amid the ruins of the past.

We tied up at a dilapidated dock and walked to town along wide streets lined with deserted mansions and tumbledown hotels with rotting floors and elaborate wrought-iron balconies. The few existing shops close during the heat of the day, so we wandered the streets until four o’clock, inspecting the inevitable monument to Captain Cook (he had been everywhere before us, from Hawaii on through the South Seas) and musing over the memorial drinking fountain (dry) which commemorated the heroism of a woman who had died of thirst in 1883.

When the shops reopened, we located an enterprising baker who regretted his almost-empty shelves—“Hardly ever get strangers here, and Cooktown people know what they want!”—but who agreed to bake whatever we cared to order. It was our last chance to get fresh supplies until we reached Thursday Island, beyond the still-extensive reef, so we ordered a dozen loaves. The baker also suggested a couple of pies and I, thinking to surprise Barbara at her birthday dinner that evening, slipped back to close the deal in secret.

“What kind do you have?” I asked, my mouth watering at the possible choice between apple, cherry, and lemon meringue.

The baker greeted my question with stupefaction. “Meat,” he answered, implying, Natch—what else?

For Barbara’s birthday dinner we had a pie apiece—meat.

With our departure from Cooktown began the serious part of our trip through the reef. Above this point, the coral closes in, the channel narrows day by day, the trade winds sharpen, the tides and current strengthen. We would have to thread our way with great care during the next 400 miles for, unlike the larger ships that ply up and down, we could not follow a radar course from one beacon to the next.

Ted and I consulted the charts and laid out anchorages in advance for each night: Lizard, Bewick, Hannah, and Night islands; all uninhabited, of course. The last 200 miles we planned to do in a final stretch from morning of one day until afternoon or evening of the next.

Back of our planning was the knowledge that better men than we had come to grief in this treacherous region, including Captain Cook himself. Even the old master, Slocum, had nicked a coral reef with the Spray, “while going full speed.” He was a lucky man, in that a six-inch difference in the tide would have put a sudden end to his voyage.

There was no settlement along this stretch, no emergency telephone or first-aid station, nor any outside help. To me, it seemed somehow more isolated than mid-ocean and many times more dangerous. The area offers fabulous beauty, endless variety, wonderful sailing, and just below the surface—treacherous, lurking danger. Even cloud shadows playing across the surface of the blue-green waters could be nerve-racking, suggesting the presence of underwater coral heads.

Our fears were not without justification. On the evening of June 15 we approached Hannah Island, whose automatic light had already begun to flash its signal through the dusk. Under mizzen and foresail, we came in slowly from the south, staying well west of the light and taking soundings. Suddenly events kaleidoscoped.

“Eight o!” called Moto, swinging the lead up forward. Almost immediately, on the next cast, his report changed urgently. “No! Cannot! Yon dake!—Four!”

“Hard to port!” I shouted. Ted, at the helm, pushed it hard over but before we could even begin to swing around there was a shock of impact. With an ominous crunch we ground to a stop.

“We’ve hit!”

No further words were needed. Barbara and Jessica huddled on the deck box, keeping out of the way while the men sprang to drop the sails. I went below and started the engine, but already the moment was past. Pushed by the current, the bow of the Phoenix swung gradually and she drifted free astern. Unbelievably, we felt again the gentle rise and fall of the deck beneath our feet.

Hardly daring to credit our luck, I kept the engine going as we drifted and sounded until we had reached eight fathoms. Then we dropped the hook. We checked immediately and pumped out, but so far as we could tell only the keel had hit and we were taking no water.

In the morning—after a restless night in which treacherous coral heads intruded into my dreams—we checked our position and tried to estimate where we had been the previous night. As far as we could determine, we had been nowhere near the reef as indicated on the chart. It seemed likely that we had happened on an isolated coral head, as yet unmarked, and we made careful notes so that the maritime agency could check further.

In any event, the sound of our keel crunching on coral in that desolate section of the Great Barrier Reef is a sound none of us ever wishes to hear again!

More than ever I became convinced that in every successful round-the-world cruise a certain amount of luck—or, at least, the absence of bad luck at a critical moment—must play a part. Pidgeon, who twice sailed around the world singlehanded, went ashore while asleep, just after sailing from Cape Town. He landed on a small, sandy beach, the only such on a rocky coast that extended for scores of miles. Moreover, he had miraculously gone over a rocky ledge, passable only at high tide, in order to have landed there! Slocum himself, in addition to his brush with Moody Reef, went ashore on the coast of South America, but was fortunate enough to escape without damage to the Spray. Every voyager, I am sure, can recall some incident which could have meant the end of his trip had not good fortune—or Providence—intervened.

So intrigued did I become with these speculations that, during a stay in Cape Town, I gave a talk on the subject, calling it “The Fifth Ingredient”—the other four being a well-found ship; a good crew; adequate preparation and maintenance; and seamanship. Regardless of the other four essentials, it is my contention that a generous portion of this fifth ingredient is essential if success is to be achieved.

During the afternoon of June 17 we knew we were truly in the neck of the funnel. From deck level we could see the discolored water of the fringing reef closing in, mile by mile, as we sailed northward. Occasional blackish coral heads of the white mounds of sand shoals humped above the surface at low tide, only to disappear treacherously as the tide rose. Low-lying reef islands broke the surface of the waters ahead as the channel grew progressively narrower. We knew there was a passage, but it was easy to understand how early voyagers, with square-rigged ships that were unable to beat back against the wind, must have trembled when they reached this spot!

The final approach to Thursday Island was a harrowing finale to a sleepless night, during which we had to pick our way from beacon to beacon. Our entry into Ellis Channel was complicated by brisk winds, a heavy tide, and a sharp rain squall which hit just as we started through and forced us to turn and head out again until it had passed. No one was in sight when we finally entered the harbor and drifted down on the Thursday Island dock, so we continued past and dropped anchor in three fathoms just beyond the wharf in the midst of a fleet of pearling luggers, sailing ships like ourselves.

Only then, as Jessica filled another red line on the map of our trip, did I dare to relax and draw a deep breath of relief. Another phase of our apprenticeship had been successfully completed: the passage of the treacherous and awe-inspiring Great Barrier Reef.

9      INTO INDONESIA:
THURSDAY ISLAND TO BALI

“Our life at sea was teaching us....”

The importance of T.I., as it is called, is out of all proportion to its size and population, for it is the focal point for the thinly settled Cape York peninsula and for the many islands of Torres Strait. Its principal products are pearl shell, crocodile skin, and tall talk. Among other tale spinners we met a team of two young men who had made a tidy stake out in the bush, shooting crocs. They had started their venture with only a gun and a flashlight apiece, their method being to stand in a stream, with water up to their armpits, and shine their lights until they attracted a customer. The technique seemed to be to shoot the croc between the eyes before it got close enough to grab one of them, but not so soon that the valuable carcass would be swept away by the swift current before they could get to it.

After they had spent a season in this way and collected enough skins the enterprising hunters took their trophies to town and invested the proceeds in a boat. As one said, the hunting was drier that way.

Our location at anchor was well out from shore and had its drawbacks. Rowing in presented no difficulties, as tide and current set strongly toward the shore, but getting back was a different matter. The first night, when we went ashore for our celebration dinner, we met a genial old codger who was just full of anecdotes.

“Terrible current out there,” he told us proudly. “Hardly a month passes but what it puts some ship on the reef—or takes them off to sea. Wretched holding ground—slick—nothing for an anchor to grab. And as for getting out to your ship—why, just a couple of weeks ago two men were rowing out to their lugger—got caught by the current and swept off to the westward somewhere....” He gestured broadly. “They sent out a powerboat, but never caught up with them.... Yes, it’s a terrible current!”

I resolved to make arrangements as soon as possible to bring the Phoenix up to the dock. Meantime I spoke to the proprietress of the Royal Hotel, where we were dining, and reserved a room for my womenfolk for that night. They deserved a night ashore—and I had no desire to risk getting them back to the ship after dark.

Barbara’s diary account of their accommodations was well worth the pound I paid for their one night’s lodging-with-breakfast:

First you try to find the entrance to the overnight accommodations. (The façade of any Australian hotel is all Pub and every visible entrance leads to one bar or another.) Finally we were rescued by “Miss Marie”—pronounced Mahry—the manageress, and escorted up a creaking stairway which led from the lower side veranda to a wide upper one, off which opened all of the bedrooms. Every door was wide open for ventilation and most of the guests seemed to be sprawled on their beds in full view, in various states of deshabille.

Our own room was at the extreme end of the front porch, next to a room marked “Ladies’ Bath.” How very convenient, I thought, looking forward to an extra dividend in the form of a Hot Bath.

Jessica and I waited on the porch until we saw the masthead light wink on out in the harbor. Then, knowing the men had made it safely to the boat, we prepared ourselves for bed: a simple job, since we had brought no nightclothes and not even a toothbrush.

The Ladies’ Bath turned out to be nothing but bath—and with cold water, at that. No soap, either. And there were no other facilities visible, so I had to go downstairs and seek out Miss Marie again to ask about the W.C. Greatly embarrassed, she led me back up the stairs, along the two sides of the upper porch to our own room and there—presto!—she crawled under my bed and produced a porcelain chamber pot, child’s size!

My night ashore, to which I had looked forward for many weeks at sea, turned out to be anything but a restful one. The bed was considerably harder than my bunk on the Phoenix, and the snowy mosquito netting which we were driven to drape around us shut off most of the air. Since the “Ladies’ Bath” was the only room beyond ours, I left the door open at first, but after two or three very raucous males had wandered past and spent varying lengths of time in the Ladies’ Bath, I pulled the half-curtains across the opening, even at the risk of losing what feeble breeze there was.

The night was hot and stifling, although we had been assured that this season is pleasant compared to the summer months (November to March), when the wind blows from the other direction and puts this side of the island in the lee. Every time someone walked across the porch—or even when Jessica turned over in her sleep—the floor shook as though an elephant were doing a fandango. I couldn’t help thinking how ironic it would be if we had sailed thousands of miles and survived the North Pacific and the Great Barrier Reef, only to die in the shambles of the Royal Hotel in T.I., on the night the upstairs sleeping porch collapsed into the Pub below.

In the morning, we were awakened with cups of tea at an ungodly hour. Some forty-five minutes later, a little girl of about seven—who was entranced with our American accents—came up to lead us down the stairs and through a rabbit warren of interconnected parlors, dining rooms, halls, and porches to a small breakfast room where we and the nine other guests of the hotel had breakfast en famille. All along the way we kept stumbling over cats which our guide told us belonged to the establishment, but the five fat dogs who sat about the breakfast table and waited for scraps were, she insisted, “only strays.” Better fed strays I never hope to see.

Our anchorage continued uneasy. The trades funneled through, the oceans held a daily tidal tug of war, and the holding ground was slick. Twice in the first three days we dragged and had to sweat mightily to keep off the shore. Finally, room was found for us at the dock. There was some confusion as we approached about how they wanted us to lie and, while we were still maneuvering in the channel, we were caught by the change of the tide and swept against the pilings and were pinned there for over an hour. Finally we were able to work free and tie alongside Cora, a small coastal vessel trading between T.I. and the Gulf of Carpentaria.

Safely berthed at last, we checked the damage: four bent lifeline stanchions, a big dent in the deck water tank, paint worn off the stern sprit, and a very ruffled skipper. At that we were lucky, for a broken section of the pier was pointed out as testimony that, only a few weeks earlier, a much larger boat had been caught by the tide and current and pushed straight through the dock, carrying all before it.

Provisioning with fresh supplies in T.I. was a bit of a problem. Vegetables and fruits were brought in once a month, on the supply boat from Brisbane. The cost was high and the selection limited. Any number of people bemoaned the fact that they “used to have” plenty of fresh vegetables, grown locally, before the war but that nothing seemed to grow any more. They seemed to think that the climate or the soil must have changed as a result of the hostilities and no one drew any conclusion from the fact that the Japanese, who had made up a part of the T.I. population, had been repatriated after the war.

On the night before our departure we were invited to a church supper where the pièce de résistance was turtle, served up in its own enormous shell. It was a gay party, but midway in the proceedings I grew so restless that I excused myself and returned alone to the boat. The next day’s departure was very much on my mind and I wanted to go over the charts once more. Before entering or leaving ports Ted and I made it a practice to familiarize ourselves with the layout in advance, for when an emergency arises it’s too late to run below and start reviewing.

In addition, I needed leisure to go over my list of Things to Do Before Sailing, a written check list of more than thirty items which experience had taught me was the only way to avoid overlooking some perhaps vital detail. It ranged all the way from checking such items as radiotelephone and engine to making sure that everyone, including the cats, was aboard at take-off.

The next day, June 27, I signed the last of several hundred forms which had been shoved at me during our stay in Australia, we took on our final supplies and the farewell gifts of pearl shell, magazines, and cake (always welcome!) that were put into our hands by friends of whose very existence we had been unaware two weeks before. Then, with the beginning of the west-going tide, we made an easy exit. By midafternoon we had passed the Carpentaria Light Boat and were well underway in the Arafura Sea.

Throughout most of our trip the breezes were light and the seas moderate. By night we were treated to a breath-taking spectacle of that phosphorescence for which the Arafura Sea is famous: sheets of gleaming silver covered vast areas of the ocean, while in others the dark surface was broken with eerie patches of light that danced on the slow swells like reflected moonbeams, though there was no moon. Sometimes the bow pushed aside only black water, but again we would enter a stretch where the entire ocean would be broken into shimmering patterns of cold radiance and the bow wave would become a sparkling, foaming crest of light.

Mi-ke and her all-black daughter, Manuia, also were fascinated by the phosphorescence and spent hours sitting near the bulwarks and staring into the depths. On July 2 my log gives brief mention of an event which we all felt deeply:

0700. Mi-ke is missing. Jessica saw her last, yesterday afternoon, sitting on an oil drum on deck. No sign since. Did not report for supper last night. Did not show up for breakfast.

1200. No sign.

This was the obituary of a companion who had signed on with us the day the Phoenix was launched. How she came to go over the side we’ll never know. Perhaps the block of the genoa sheet, alternately slacking off and jerking upward in the light airs had snapped up and caught her unawares, stunning her and flipping her over the side.

Jessica, consoling herself with Manuia, said little, but it was obvious that this break in our security had affected her. In fact, the event served to bring home to us all most forcefully how vulnerable we were. We had begun to regard the Phoenix as a safe little world in the midst of the vast ocean, a kind of magic circle within which we were safe, where nothing could touch us. Yet now one of our group had slipped out of that world and was gone—quietly, irrevocably, and without even the man on watch being aware of her leaving.

As we moved slowly westward, it was both fascinating and frustrating to study the charts and to realize that to each side of us lay great areas that begged for exploration, areas we would never see, since we knew we were not likely to pass that way again. To the south lay the Northern Territory of Australia, of which very little is known even today, with Melville and Bathurst islands still the home of Stone Age man. To our north, past the wilds of New Guinea, stretched islands we knew only from their bewitching names: Aru, Tanimbar, Sermata, Damar, Watubela, Ceram, Misol.... It made us wish that time were never-ending. We could only mutter, with no real conviction, “We’ll see ’em next time around.”

Finally, on July 6, the island of Timor rose out of the haze off the starboard bow—a birthday present for Mickey, this time, but not one he could pack away under his bunk with his other trophies.

All the next day we cruised westward, with the land growing more distinct. By late afternoon we were sailing just off the southern shore, but it was obvious that we could not reach Kupang that night. The coasts of islands in the Indonesian archipelago are not marked with coastal beacons as was the case along even the most deserted stretches of the Australian shores and I had no desire to feel my way along a dark and unknown coast by night and then grope through an unlighted channel on the way to Kupang. Telok Bay, Sakala, seemed to offer a protected anchorage, so we dropped the hook there in eight fathoms, half a mile offshore. It was a restless night, with considerable swell, so I insisted on keeping anchor watch once more.

This time Barbara, who had been sharing the extra daytime hour at the tiller with Jessica whenever we set the clocks back, volunteered to take an hour of night duty. Later, she confessed that the experience had given her a new respect for the job of the man on watch!

Every time we pitched, the anchor chain jerked, making the most frightful noise—as if it were going to break or rip out of its fastenings at any moment. I kept studying the points of land on each side of the bay, trying to decide whether or not we’d shifted position, which would mean the anchor was dragging and I ought to call Skipper. What a burden of responsibility! There’s nothing like darkness—and being on duty all alone—to magnify one’s fear!

At 0500 the next morning, we got underway and continued along the coast. This was supposed to be the “dry season,” but the visibility was consistently poor and at times rain blotted out the land. Several times we passed sails—Indonesian praus—the first signs of humanity we had seen since leaving Carpentaria Light Boat behind.

We flew our colors and the Indonesian flag, which Jessica had made during the trip, straightened up the deck, readied the anchor, and put on clean shirts. After we had dropped anchor in the harbor of Kupang, I even celebrated by going below for a quick—and necessary—shave.

Two immigration officers in neatly pressed tans were the first to board us. Both were very young and slight in build, looking like neat, precocious, and well-scrubbed schoolboys. Once again, the dire predictions of “informed sources” failed to materialize, for no one threw our passports on the floor. Instead, they examined them carefully and then handed them back with a smile. One of them, indeed, wished us “Well come!” in two understandable English words.

We spent an enjoyable hour while Barbara served coffee and opened a tin of Australian “sweet biscuits” and I filled out the necessary forms—which were printed in both Indonesian and English.

That, the officials then indicated, was all. There were no further requirements. We were quite free to go ashore.

Thank you very much, we said. And where could we get our American money changed?

Communications took a bit of time, because our pronunciation of English words was obviously unintelligible, but we were all patient and determined—and we were able to invoke the additional assistance of Teach Yourself Dutch and Teach Yourself Malay which I had prudently bought back in Sydney.

American—money—changed? The officials looked at each other. They consulted. They examined a proffered $10 bill with great interest.

“May be Jakarta!” they suggested helpfully. (Jakarta, the capital of the far-flung republic was a thousand miles to the west.)

“No—before Jakarta. We want to buy food—here!”

“No. Here impossible,” they insisted, although with regret. They climbed into their launch—an open dory with American outboard—and chugged off.

Armed with our language books, we set off for shore in Flatty—Barbara, Ted, Jessica, and I. We had anchored out farther than we had realized and found it a long haul to the beach past dozens of large sailing praus and a few motorized fishing boats. People seemed to be living on all of them. We could see them gathered around open fires on the raised poop decks, cooking, eating, hanging out clothes. They watched us curiously and when we waved they shouted back a friendly greeting.

It was already dusk, but the beach was a ferment of activity. A Dutch freighter had arrived, lighters were plying back and forth, and hundreds of Timorese were wading out beyond the shallow water to unload the boats and carry boxes, barrels, and bales up to the customs shed. Drums of oil were simply dumped overboard and floated to shore, where they were rolled up the sloping beach by a number of wiry men. The scene was one of frenetic bustling, a startling contrast to the deserted quiet of the evening waterfront in New Zealand or Australia, where the eight-hour day is King.

As we neared the shore, a crowd surrounded us and willing hands helped to pull us in. No sooner had we stepped out of the dinghy than a dozen men seized it and rushed it up far beyond the high-water mark. No one spoke a word of English, so we could only assume that Flatty was in the hands of friends and would be well cared for until our return.

Out of the darkness a roly-poly Indonesian approached. “Dr. Reynolds?” he asked, in carefully enunciated syllables. He handed me his card: Mr. Ndonoe, Customs Office. He wanted to go out to the boat.

“Tomorrow morning all right?”

“No, please. Now.”

A word from Mr. Ndonoe and the dinghy was rushed back down the beach and refloated. We climbed in. Mr. Ndonoe, as I mentioned, was hefty and there seemed no point in overloading the boat, so I suggested that Ted, Barbara, and Jessica remain ashore until our return. We gained nothing by this maneuver, however, as their places were promptly taken by three young Timorese, two of whom seized an oar apiece and began to row mightily in opposite directions, while the third shouted orders. Finally we got partially squared away and began an erratic course out across the harbor. Looking shoreward I could see that the rest of my family were being herded up the beach under escort—evidently someone had been delegated to look after them. I could only hope that Mr. Ndonoe’s business would not keep them waiting too long.

When we finally reached the Phoenix it developed that Mr. Ndonoe’s visit was by no means an official one. His curiosity stimulated by the reports of the two young immigration officers, he simply wanted to see for himself the small refrigerator that made ice by means of a kerosene flame! And, having shown him the ice, which had hardly begun to solidify around the edges, since we had used it for our earlier guests, I had to mix him a drink to prove the usefulness of the six small cubes.

By the time we got back to shore Barbara and the youngsters, who had been shown to Mr. Ndonoe’s office in the customs shed, had practically memorized the customs forms, written in Indonesian, which was all they had found to entertain themselves. They had almost convinced themselves that our amateur oarsmen had sunk us in the bay and were so relieved to see us that nobody minded that it was too late to shop for the bread and fresh vegetables we had hoped to take back for supper.

I was able to assure them that Nick, Mickey, and Moto were not waiting for any problematical fresh produce but had already started philosophically to cook rice and open cans.

“Then why can’t we go to a restaurant?” A longing for someone else’s cooking—anything, in fact, that they themselves hadn’t prepared—seemed to be an occupational disease with the women.

“I doubt if there’s a restaurant here—and anyway we haven’t any money, remember?”

Mr. Ndonoe confirmed my doubt. Yes, there was no restaurant and there was no place to get our American money changed.

“There is American family, though,” he volunteered.

“Where?”

A guide was sent to lead us through dark, narrow, teeming streets to the large and rambling house (a Japanese hospital during the war), where the Kingsleys, Mennonite agricultural consultants, were living with their seven children and a couple of missionaries from Australia. They took us in at once and, when they learned we had not eaten, placed us around their kitchen table and filled us with home-baked bread, butter and jam, hot chocolate, and bananas—green in color and about the size of a hot dog, but ripe and very good.

While we were still eating, another official dropped by. He spoke no English, but told us—through our hosts—that our Japanese men would not, after all, be allowed ashore. Also, in spite of our earlier understanding that we had satisfied all requirements, it now developed that Mr. Ndonoe wished to see all of our ship’s papers in the morning; the “polisi” wished me to report to them first thing; and it would also be necessary to pay calls on the harbormaster and the port doctor. The next day, it appeared, would be a busy one.

In the morning, with the Australian, Mr. Dicker, to translate, I went to plead with the headman. He was polite but adamant. He had no intention of permitting any Japanese to set foot in Kupang. He gave no reason, but I assumed it was a personal matter. Perhaps he had unpleasant memories of the Japanese occupation. He acknowledged that all our visas were in order, but managed to bring out the fact that it is a long way from Jakarta, where such permission is given, to Kupang, where he was in charge. A long way, both in miles and in authority.

I sent off a cable of protest to both the American and the Japanese Embassy, but the Kingsleys warned me that even a cable exchange between the islands would take at least three days at best. This effectually killed any desire we had to linger in Timor, for we felt keenly how infuriating it would be to have to stay aboard, in full view of such a colorful port. Moreover, I had a strong hunch that no matter what cabled instructions were received, there would be no change in local policy.

I decided to accept Mr. Kingsley’s offer to cash one of our stateside checks for Indonesian rupiah so that we could lay in a few fresh provisions and push on at once for Bali, where we hoped our cabled protests would assure us of a friendlier reception.

Mrs. Kingsley sent her cook to help Barbara and Jessica shop. Ted and I made the rounds of the port authorities to announce our change of plans and clear for sea again. The cook was tiny—not just short, like Japanese women, but small and fragile looking. She wore a white blouse and a figured sarong and, like most women in Timor, even the poorest, she wore dangling gold earrings through her pierced ears. She spoke almost no English, but with the help of an Indonesian phrase book borrowed from the Kingsleys, Barbara managed to do very well.

Off they went, along the street that curves beside the harbor, past the bombed-out shells of what had once been substantial brick buildings, to the market—a miscellaneous collection of mats beneath a single thatched roof. The stallkeepers squatted cross-legged on the ground or, if they boasted counters, on the counters behind their wares. In neat piles arranged upon banana leaves were chunks of meat, hands of tiny green bananas, fish, eggs, Chinese cabbage, bean sprouts, and bright red chili peppers. Barbara’s guide seemed to know the going price of everything without asking. Eggs—all tiny and without any guarantee of freshness—were six rupiah for eight—one rupiah being worth about nine American cents on the official exchange. Potatoes, sold in heaps of ten or twelve, cost one rupiah per pile, the catch being that each potato is, literally, the size of a marble! Tomatoes were the same size and about as costly. Bananas, however, were cheap—only five rupiah for a good-sized stalk—and oranges were one rupiah for four.

The final purchase, and one for which the phrase book had to be called into play and a special expedition made, was bread. The bakery, at a considerable distance from the market, had a complete stock of ten loaves of bread, each loaf consisting of a length of five to eight bun-sized segments which sold for a half rupiah apiece. The very idea of any one customer buying the lot was staggering, but once Barbara had managed to persuade the cook—and the cook had reassured the baker—he became very businesslike. He wrapped each loaf separately in a fresh green banana leaf and laid it on the counter, where it promptly unwrapped itself while he worked on the next one. The individual segments began to come apart as he worked, but the baker, nothing daunted, produced more leaves and showed a willingness to wrap each bun if necessary. The market basket was already overflowing and the cook’s arms were full, so Barbara scooped up the whole lot, leaves, buns, and all, and made her way back to the beach where we were waiting by the dinghy.

Ted and I, for our part, had been enjoying another aspect of Kupang. Our official business disposed of, we had wandered up and down the streets of the city trying to register everything in a short time so that we could share it with the others on board. For the first time since leaving Japan we had the impression in Kupang of teeming life, of countless people, of bustle, color, movement—and above all poverty, grinding poverty. Many people were clothed in nothing but patches, one upon another. Faces were gaunt, arms and legs were nothing but sinewy muscle laid upon bone. Most noticeable of all were the toothless, gaping maws of the betel chewers, men and women alike, their mouths stained red and drooling fungus-like shreds as they chewed. It was a sight, we felt, that would take a bit of getting used to.

There was wide variety in the costumes of Timor. The most common form of dress seemed to be a tubular length of bright cloth which served equally as a skirt, a shawl, or a complete costume à la Gandhi. Fierce-looking banditti from the hills strolled around with bright scarf turbans on their heads and sheathed knives stuck in their sashes; Muslim in black-velvet fez worked side by side with nearly naked Malays whose headgear dress was an amazing replica in woven pandanus of the fifteenth-century flat-crowned velvet hats worn by the early Portuguese explorers.

This latter style, in fact, had for centuries been the traditional headgear of the Timorese but when Ted, who has few wants, demanded excitedly to know where he could buy such a hat, Mr. Kingsley assured him that none were ever offered for sale. Any man who needed a new hat would design and create his own and there is no tourist trade in Kupang to create a demand for mass merchandising.

Nothing daunted, Ted borrowed a phrase book, memorized a few words, touched me for a handful of rupiah, and began to scan every hat that passed with a critical and speculative eye. In the end he succeeded in buying an almost new hat right off the head of its surprised—and delighted—wearer.

A few more enterprising visitors like Ted, and mass production of Timorese hats will revolutionize the economy of Kupang!

At the waterfront there was plenty to see while we waited. The freighter was loading with passengers for its return trip to Jakarta and the beach was turbulent. Bedrolls, bundles of goods wrapped in matting, fighting cocks in bamboo cages, and eating chickens tied by their feet into bundles were all being carried down to the shore and loaded onto the backs of porters, who waded out with them into deeper water where the lighters were waiting, followed by the passengers themselves. Just beyond the shallows, the boats would stand by while the oarsmen held them steady and passengers scrambled over the gunwales and helped to load the cargo aboard. At last, with only inches of freeboard, the lighter would move off ponderously in the direction of the freighter.

When the family finally assembled at the waterfront, I loaded our purchases and the girls into the dinghy and then shook hands with everybody, including Mr. Ndonoe, who had come down to see us off. Mr. Ndonoe, however, simply kept hold of my hand and used it to steady himself as he climbed into the dinghy and settled himself comfortably. I tried to explain that we were ready to sail as soon as we got to the Phoenix, but he indicated that he would go along. Mr. Dicker had the impression that the visit was official, so there was nothing to do but make the best of it.

Once on board, however, it appeared that Mr. Ndonoe had come with us for the same reason a pup jumps onto the seat of a car—because he enjoys the ride. I’m afraid we were a bit abrupt as we packed him into Flatty again, since Moto had to row him all the way to shore and return before we could load our dinghy aboard and get underway.

Boatwise, it is a pleasure to leave Kupang: just up anchor, drift slowly seaward as you make sail at your leisure, and you are on your way. No tricky channels, no coral, no adverse tides, no shifting winds, no held breath.

Much as we had looked forward to a leisurely trip up the Indonesian archipelago, we decided to make no more stops until Bali, where we felt more certain of our welcome. We had no desire to cause incidents, and were afraid that the feeling against the Japanese which had been evidenced in such a relatively large port as Kupang might cause even more trouble in remote spots, even farther removed from central control.

Accordingly, we set our course for Benoa, the port of entry to Bali, 500 miles to the west. On this hop there was much leisure for reading and relaxation. Books were always a special joy at sea, partly because we had time to think about what we read and partly because, in the hours when we gathered in the cockpit, we found pleasure in sharing what we had been reading through discussion or by reading bits aloud. Life at sea was teaching us the joys of conversation, of propounding a theory, of following an idea to its logical conclusion. We all increased our knowledge painlessly and almost unconsciously as we compared impressions of the people and places we had left behind or tried to learn a bit about the ports that lay ahead.

In route to Bali we talked, among other things, about our brief experience in Timor, about Mr. Ndonoe and his almost childlike eagerness, about the unreasonably prejudiced and stubborn senior immigration officer; about the very young immigration officials; and about the Italian port doctor who had come out for a two-year term “because not enough doctor for all the place they need.”

For the first time, as we read something of the history of this very new republic, we realized what terrible obstacles Indonesia was facing in her struggle to achieve a place in the community of nations. She had no background of gradual education and preparation for self-rule, as had the Philippines. Having thrown off a very paternalistic colonial rule by sudden revolution, she found herself without enough experienced leaders, professional men, and trained government officials. No wonder so many of the officers we met had seemed young. They were! And as for the older ones, like our senior official in Kupang, he had perhaps worked in a minor capacity under the Dutch and, on the basis of such slight experience, had been quickly kicked upstairs. Perhaps his overbearing and dogmatic attitude was simply a reflection of the treatment he himself had received or observed under the hated colonial rulers whom he had replaced.

Our periods of companionship in the cockpit were never scheduled and sometimes burgeoned at an hour that would have been unthinkable ashore. For example, from Barbara’s diary:

July 13. Woke up about 3 A.M. and realized by the wallowing of the ship, the slatting of sails, and the banging of blocks that the wind had left us. Went up to sit with Ted on watch. The wind was beginning to tease us, coming in little puffs and then falling off—but each time returning a little more strongly, until gradually we began to move and the water aft began to gurgle a bit. The phosphorescence of our wake was spectacular—we could trace the curve of the rudder deep down and bubbles of light like sparkling champagne were kicked up behind.

At four, when Earle came on watch, Jessica heard us talking and she, too, came up and joined us, just in time for a thrilling display of phosphorescent dolphins! They gamboled and disported about us in luminous streaks and splashes. We could follow them beneath the surface, a moving river of cold, greenish light, until they broke the surface in a shower of spangles accompanied by the characteristic “whoof” of expelled air.

Our entrance into Bali was one of the most trying and difficult that we had yet experienced. The currents that sweep down between the islands are fierce in these areas and the monsoon wind pours down through the passes. The year previous, a yacht larger than the Phoenix had been blown down the strait while attempting to reach Bali and it had taken her a month to work her way back against the winds. We had no desire to emulate that experience!

The log tells of some of our difficulties:

Last night set course to reach Bali—allowed 1 knot westerly current.

When estimated distance run at 0500, sailed N and at dawn saw outlines of land. Rainy, misty, visibility poor.

Thought this point of land was S.E. Bali and set course to run up coast to Benoa. No visibility in frequent showers. Lost land, picked up another point, and decided we were in the middle of Lombok Strait. Terribly rough—roughest we’ve had yet—high, steep waves, from all directions. (Displaced all the boxes tied in the back of the cockpit—first time that ever happened.)

Finally saw small island S. of Nusa Besar, and thus positively identified position. Cut south of island, across both Lombok and Bandung Straits.

Very rough, tough trip. To cross straits logged about 25 miles to make 10 good.

Finally located Benoa, in a relatively clear moment, got the leading marks in line, when a heavy shower washed out all sight. Since the entrance involves a right-hand turn and various tricky meanderings, we put about and lay off one hour until the weather cleared a bit.

When we entered, we found buoys were completely changed from the pilot book and our up-to-date chart. Had to put man at masthead and con our way through the reef.

The village of Benoa turned out to be a picturesque cluster of houses and brightly painted fishing boats drawn up on a spit of land to the left of the harbor, but the port of Benoa, on the other side of the water, was less interesting. It consisted of a few large and, at this hour, quite deserted buildings beside a large dock. We drifted in, tied alongside just at dusk, and gathered on the deck wondering what to do next and whether anyone from the village should be notified of our arrival.

Across the water a few early fires flickered in the town. On the dock, high above, a half dozen men began to congregate, squatting to look down at us with friendly curiosity. I decided to see what I could find out, but when I climbed up the ratlines and so to the dock, I met with no success. Phrases I had memorized in Dutch—in Indonesian—in Malay—nothing seemed to arouse any understanding. At last, in desperation, I tried a few words of Japanese—and suddenly we were off! Only then did I remember that Bali had been held by the Japanese from 1942 until the end of the war. Their Japanese was not much better than mine—but different. Anyway, it served and through an exchange of very halting questions-and-answers I learned that all the officials had gone for the day, that it was quite all right for us to remain at the dock overnight, and that Den Pasar, the main city of Bali, was 11 kilometers away and could be reached by bus.

I returned to the deck, where we had a leisurely supper and turned in early. To tell the truth, I was utterly exhausted. The family took a short walk, but came back to report nothing of interest on our side of the harbor except the dock buildings, a long, deserted causeway stretching into the distance across tidal flats, and a stack of long wicker baskets like porous sausages, each of which contained—a real, live pig!

Even this news failed to arouse me. However the Balinese arranged to package and store their bacon for export, it could wait, I decided, until morning.

10      BALI, JAVA,
THE KEELING-COCOS

“A sense of uneasy anticipation....”

Bali was worth all the trouble it took to get there. Not only is it spectacularly beautiful, with its rugged mountains, its misty vales, its crumbling temples, and the glossy green of its rice paddies, but the people are beautiful too. Outside of Den Pasar, where the tourists congregate and create understandable disruptions and where it is considered “rude” for women to go about unclothed above the waist, the Balinese serenely follow their age-old customs, practice the Hindu religion, which is the hard core of their society, and preserve their independence and integrity.

In contrast to other countries we had visited, even the more remote islands, we saw little influence of the West in Bali. No American movies, not even in Den Pasar; no Cokes or chewing gum. Music could be heard as one strolled the streets of a village at night, and it was not rock and roll but the hauntingly compelling music of Bali, played on drum and gamelin.

Our first act, after officially entering the next morning, was to take the bus to Den Pasar to meet Barbara’s mother. Minnetta herself was on a trip around the world, traveling by a somewhat faster means and at a bit higher altitude, but the motivating aim of her entire junket had been to meet us in Indonesia!

No one seemed to know the bus schedule, but all were happy to show us where to wait for it. Eventually, a dilapidated bus pulled up, so we climbed on and waited. And waited. And waited.

Several praus with wishbone sails pulled up to the sea wall and willing hands began to unload. Stalks of bananas, bunches of coconuts, matting bundles were all unloaded, carried up the sloping sea wall to the road and thence up a narrow ladder to the top of the bus.

The driver returned, carrying a woven banana leaf tray on which were a few carefully arranged yellow flowers and a few leaves. He placed this in a niche above the driver’s seat and stuck a stick of burning incense into a holder on the dashboard. (There’s an extra that American models don’t have!) We wondered if he was exorcising whatever demons may have gotten aboard with us.

A little later the people began to get on. Soon the bus was full, but still we waited. Down at the waterfront another prau came in. This one was loaded to the gunwales with large turtles and Barbara scrambled out with her camera.

“Don’t let them go without me!” she warned, stalking her photographic prey.

She didn’t have to go to the shore for her pictures, however. Her subjects were being brought to her, each turtle borne upside down on the shoulders of a man who walked with it easily up the sloping ladder to the top of the bus and there deposited it neatly.

The last two turtles were too large to be carried by a single man. These were slung from poles and brought up to the road by two men each, who shoved them inside the bus where they just filled the aisle and made an excellent footrest for the passengers, who sat in long seats facing one another. At last we started.

Once we were rolling, we passed beautifully irrigated rice fields, villages with walled compounds, and temples which looked centuries old, with carved elephants or boars guarding their narrow gates. Everywhere we saw evidences of the rice harvest: rows of workers in the fields, seemingly bowed over beneath the weight of huge mushroom-shaped hats as they cut the ripened grain; men and women carrying sheaves to be threshed, the men with two full shocks swinging from each end of a pole across the shoulders, the women with a single, larger bundle balanced on the head.

Throughout the Balinese countryside women apparently have not heard of the regulation, promulgated in Java, that they must be “properly clothed” or, if they have heard of it, they pay it the same attention that the Balinese, through the centuries, traditionally have paid to the directives of their alien rulers: they ignore it. In the dooryards the lovely bodies of the women, clothed only in a sarong of patterned batik, moved in graceful rhythm as they bounced an upright pole first with one hand, then with the other, to thresh the grain which had been spread on mats to dry.

In Den Pasar we got off at the wide dirt lot which is the bus terminus and transferred to a doh-ka, the pony-cart-for-two which is the picturesque means of travel through the city streets. The driver whipped his tiny horse to a gallop, the plume of bells on its head jingled merrily, and in no time at all we were deposited in front of the Bali Hotel, where Minnetta was waiting on the porch.

She was far too travel-wise to be living at the Bali Hotel, however. Already she had found lodgings, at one-fifth the tourist rate, at a small Balinese hotel on a side street. That night Barbara stayed with her there and, on the way back from seeing the rest of us off at the bus terminal, she managed to get herself completely lost. Through this happy accident she made the acquaintance of Igusti Rai Suwandi, a charming young Indonesian of Ted’s age who had been studying English in school. Rai (Igusti, we learned, is a title of caste and not a proper name) was happy to show Barbara back to her hotel and practice his English.

“Tomorrow I come again,” he promised. “I will meet your son. I will show him many things. If he will come by me for two days I will show him fete of young girl who become big.”

This event, which took place in two days, turned out to be the coming-of-age ceremony for a young cousin, and Rai invited our whole family to attend. At the appointed time he took us to the outer courtyard of his “oldest brother’s wife’s father’s home.” We found it overflowing with milling tourists from the Bali Hotel who were busily taking pictures of suckling pigs turning on a spit and lovely girls passing through from the street to the inner courtyard with trays of food on their heads.

Our hearts sank. We had hoped for more than this, colorful as it was. But we needn’t have worried. Rai led us through the crowd, up some stone steps, through a narrow doorway in the brick wall, and down to the inner courtyard—and another world. All about us were open buildings with thatched roofs, their floors raised above the ground. Each of them was gaily decorated with lengths of bright cloth, flowers, and woven palm leaves. The guests, sitting cross-legged upon the floor of each pavilion, were all wearing native Balinese costume—magnificent sarongs of red or green or blue cloth with designs of gold thread and turbans of batik. They eyed us with curiosity and reserve and, for one horrible second, I wondered if Rai had brashly invited us without consulting his elders. Almost immediately, however, we were greeted warmly by Rai’s brother, who told us to make his home our own and led us to one of the detached buildings which had been, apparently, assigned to us for our own use.

In one of the houses, discreetly curtained off with gay hangings, the young girl for whom the ceremony was being held was being adorned for the main event of the day: the ritual of filing down her canine teeth. The reason for this operation was cheerfully given us by Rai: “So she not be like animal.”

When all was ready the maiden—a pretty, frightened-looking girl of seventeen—was borne out on the shoulders of two men, for on this day her feet must never touch the ground. She was clothed in a sarong of green and gold lamé, with a gold scarf bound around her breasts and wearing a tall crown of beaten gold, heavy with ornaments.

In the center of the courtyard was the most gaily decorated pavilion of all and here she was deposited on a raised couch in full view of all the family and guests. Women attendants removed her headdress and helped her to lie down. A priest then took over, intoning prayers and throwing petals of flowers around and over her with a ceremonial gesture. Having induced at least semihypnosis, he began the task of filing down her teeth. Throughout the proceedings, the chants of a dozen handmaidens provided a moaning background, in which the girl herself joined at times as if in fear or pain. Several times she sat up long enough to rinse her mouth and spit into a yellow coconut shell. The business had just enough of a suggestion of the dentist’s chair to lend it a slightly incongruous note.

When all was over, she was again lifted to the shoulders of her bearers and carried, wan and red-eyed, back to the privacy of the dressing room.

“Soon,” Rai promised Jessica, who was visibly upset, “she be more happy, you see. This afternoon, many food—everything play.”

For us, too, there was “many food”: trays heaped high with molded rice, both plain and highly seasoned; a wide variety of curries and condiments; succulent roast pork; sate—bits of spicy meat on thin skewers; bananas, mandarin oranges, and various other dishes that I preferred to eat without identifying.

In the afternoon, as Rai had promised, the girl—now a marriageable young lady—was again carried among us, glowingly triumphant. Dances and a Balinese puppet play were presented for the assembled guests.

Also thanks to Rai—and because it was an auspicious time on the Balinese lunar calendar for ceremonial occasions of any kind—we had the opportunity of viewing a cremation. The remains of a number of deceased persons had been “saved up” for months, waiting until the bereaved families could prepare, and afford, a properly grand celebration. I use the term “celebration” advisedly, for a cremation in Bali, coming many months after the sorrow of death has faded, is not a time of mourning but a joyous release: release of the soul of the departed and, one presumes, release of the family from a heavy burden of obligation.

The procession accompanying the crematory tower itself was long and colorful. It included groups of musicians who played on the melodious Balinese drums, gongs, cymbals, and flutes; men who carried bundles of rice straw and others with cords of firewood; and a lengthy file of women with offerings of all kinds which they bore upon their heads. Everyone, it seemed, contributed food or goods, according to his means or ambition, and everything was to be consumed—by fire.

The main attraction, naturally, was the tall and elaborately decorated cremation tower, which carried the mortal remains of the dozen or so individuals who were being honored. This was borne upon the shoulders of some eighteen or twenty men, who plunged it from one side of the road to the other, splashed it with water from the drainage ditches along the way, or spun it about in erratic, zigzag patterns. This, we were told, was to confuse the spirits of the dead so they could not find their way back to haunt the living.

At the cremation grounds all the carefully wrapped bundles of bones were removed from the tower and placed, each in its own wooden coffin, beneath a long shed. The offerings were piled, as if for lavish display, upon a low platform covered with mats, nearby, and then the whole was set ablaze.

Only one development marred our enjoyment of this happy island. This was an illness which laid Jessica low for several days. On the night after the cremation—which had been a swelteringly hot day filled with excitement and topped off by a meal of strange and exotic foods—Jessica complained that she “didn’t feel good.” I wasn’t too surprised, but we decided to spare her the long bus ride back to Benoa and arranged for Barbara and Jessica to take a room at Minnetta’s hotel for the night.

Gradually Jessica’s vague symptoms seemed to localize in a stiff neck and I set off for Benoa with Ted, sure that all she needed was a good night’s sleep to put her back on her feet.

Early the next morning, however, Barbara turned up at the boat, having left Jessica with her grandmother and caught the first bus from Den Pasar.

“She must be running a high fever,” she told me, with a slightly wild look in her eye. “It was like sleeping with a hot pad, but I didn’t have my thermometer or even aspirin with me!”

She dived below to consult her medical bible, The Ship’s Medicine Chest at Sea, which she had not, so far, been called upon to use. Now, however, she was in no way reassured to discover that both polio and meningitis may start with the symptoms of “stiff neck and fever.” Armed with thermometer, textbook, and an overnight case stuffed with every medication she thought she might need, Barbara set off again for the hotel.

By the time she got back Jessica’s fever had turned into a chill and Minnetta, finding no blankets available at the hotel, had commandeered every coat and sweater she could lay hands on and piled them all on top of her shivering charge. Jessica insisted that she had no headache, so Barbara gratefully scratched meningitis as a possibility but the dread of polio still lingered. Rai, as deeply concerned as the family, had been hovering around anxiously and Barbara now dispatched him on his bicycle to look for a qualified physician who could speak English.

Jessica, meanwhile, slept fitfully. Occasionally she woke up to report a new symptom or a change in one of her old ones, whereupon Barbara flew back to her “do-it-yourself” medical text and started her diagnosis all over. The stiff neck turned out to be “more of a sore throat, really” and the “buzzing in the head” was tracked down to a vagrant bluebottle fly.

The climax came when Jessica, her temperature soaring again, began to toss off sweaters and shawls and disclosed a stomach covered with bright red spots! “Sore throat ... fever ... and a rash!” At last Barbara felt that she had it pinned down. “Scarlet fever!”

She began the indicated medication. It was getting dark now, and Jessica, in delirium, began to talk wildly. Barbara’s nerve was just about to break when Rai returned to report that he had “heard of a doctor” who could speak English. The women bundled Jessica up, summoned a doh-ka, and off they started across town, escorted by Rai on his bicycle.

Dr. M. Muhamad Angsar Kartakusuma left his supper to see them. He listened gravely as Barbara outlined the symptoms. Then he took a tongue depressor (the one item Barbara hadn’t thought to bring) and made an easy diagnosis—tonsillitis.

“A shot of penicillin”—he administered it almost before Jessica had time to flinch; “and these pills every four hours”—he handed an envelope to Barbara—“and I think you have nothing more to worry!”

“But—what about the rash?” Barbara protested.

Dr. Kartakusuma examined it briefly. “From heat,” he said, and added a box of medicated powder to relieve the itch.

The charge: nothing!

As Dr. Kartakusuma expressed it, “You are strangers in my country—and in trouble.” He shook hands all around and returned to his supper.

After several days of medication—complicated by the discovery that she had a penicillin allergy—Jessica was recovered enough to pour into her Journal a hundred pages of impressions of Bali, which she has since epitomized in a single word: eerie! The street noises outside her hotel room; a flute and the weird cadence of a gamelin; an old sow who splashed her way up the drainage ditch every morning; the startling cry of a gekko lizard in the night—these apparently had merged in her delirium with distorted memories of ceremonies she had seen, such as the tooth filing and the cremation. Most haunting of all, she and her grandmother had had an experience the rest of us did not share. One night, escorted by a fellow guest at the hotel, they had ridden many miles into the country to witness a kris dance at a village temple. The dancers had gone into trance and ended by plunging the twisted blades of their daggers into their own bodies “right up to the handle!” as Jessica insisted. People near her had fallen to the ground, “invaded by spirits,” and Jessica could actually feel the ground shaking.

As she summed it up, “It was enough to make anybody get tonsillitis—or something!”

We could have spent much longer in Bali, but if we were to get another sampling of Indonesia, the capital, we had to push on. In Jakarta, Marjorie Harris—a childhood friend of Barbara’s—and her husband Mike, of the Ford Foundation, were waiting for us, and Jessica was looking forward to meeting their thirteen-year-old Susan.

Remembering our violently rough entry into Benoa, I put my foot down firmly on Minnetta’s proposal that she return to Jakarta on the Phoenix. No matter how indomitable the spirit, the bones of a woman in her seventies are liable to be brittle and the ways of the sea, especially in interisland channels, can be rugged, as we had cause to know. And so, using my authority as captain, I sent her back to Java by plane, to wait for us there.

Actually our passage out through Lombok Strait was gratifyingly easy and, once in the Java Sea, we had fine sailing. Jessica, contentedly convalescent, was busy getting caught up in her Journal or sunning in the cockpit while Ted reeled off fabulous stories on his watch. I, tired for the moment of serious reading, turned to a tale of high adventure at sea. So overloaded was it with drama that I fell to considering the whole difficult problem of trying to communicate a very meaningful experience. How, for instance, could I convey to a reader the wonderful adventure of just being at sea; the thrill I sometimes felt, lying in my bunk and listening to the whisper of water flowing past, in thinking, I’m doing it! I’m actually sailing around the world, just as I planned and dreamed! This is my ship, my life, my adventure, and nobody can take it away from me! Perhaps it is necessary to “juice up” a story, or nobody would ever read it, but although I felt sorry for the hero on the night he crashed into a reef—my own memory of a similar mishap was that it is more like a sickening crunch. And yet, crash or crunch, how is it possible to get across a feeling to one who has never been there? More and more I was grateful to Barbara because she had known instinctively that this experience was one that we had to share, since no words of mine could ever have made this vital part of my life real or meaningful to her if she had stayed behind.

That night on watch, still struggling with the problem that confronts any writer, of trying to capture and share an experience through words, I was led to speculate on the subject of sounds at sea. Some are ominous, such as the snap of a jerking anchor chain at an uneasy anchorage or the wind rising and beginning to whistle high in the rigging; others are merely annoying, like the slapping of halyards or the banging of a block on a quiet night, if one is restless. While musing over sounds, it occurred to me that by now I had classified every sound my boat made (I had spent hours tracking down each one in the first months when every noise was a possible harbinger of trouble). At that precise instant, from the darkness of the cabin below, I heard what can only be described as thump—pause—plump—pause—plop—pause—thud! That was a new one! I shone a light below. Nothing. Now I did have something to occupy my mind throughout the rest of my watch.

The next day, during lunch, there was a lull in the conversation. Suddenly Manuia appeared at the porthole. She leaped lightly down to Jessica’s desk—thump—then across to the table—plump—then down to the plastic-covered couch cushion—plop—and finally to the floor—thud.

At least one mystery of the sea had been solved!

All along the coast we passed numerous praus. I was always conscious of the possibility of being hijacked by pirates, and whenever one changed course and came over to take a look at us, we mustered all hands—and a couple of rifles—and waved heartily. Invariably, they waved back and shouted cheery greetings and we each went on our way.

A more real danger turned out to be that of running down, at night, an unlighted prau at anchor. On the night of the 29th we had two narrow escapes from such a collision, the second one literally by inches. This shook us quite a bit and I debated following the local example and simply stopping for the night to anchor in the shallow water along the coast. Finally I decided to carry on, stationing a man forward with a searchlight in addition to the man at the helm. Naturally, having made the decision, I began to question my own judgment, with the result that there was still another man on duty for the rest of the night—me!

The next day we were far enough along the coast to hope to reach Jakarta before dark, but the day was misty and, although we were close to shore, it was difficult to tell where the water met the land. We could find nothing that looked like a harbor of the size we knew must be at Jakarta.

At last we spotted a channel through which small-boat traffic was moving toward shore and we worked our way in, sounding as we went. At four fathoms, while still fairly well out, I gave orders to drop the anchor.

“Why we don’t go in until eight feet?” asked one of the crew with sweet reasonableness. “Then anchor?”

Since we draw almost eight feet, that would hardly have left enough margin for error, tide, or rapidly shelving bottom.

“We’ll anchor here!” I repeated firmly.

There was such obvious dissatisfaction with my decision and so many allusions to “toi”—with the emphasis meaning very, very far, that I picked Ted alone to accompany me in to the shore. We started up the channel, but were quickly hailed by a soldier at a guard station. He spoke no English, but had an efficient-looking gun which spoke an easily understandable language. We rowed over and struggled with a Malay dictionary but were unable to communicate. Finally, soldier-plus-gun piled into the dinghy with us and waved us on up the channel. We started rowing again.

On the way we passed several hundred seagoing praus, brilliantly painted, all very real and all very much lived on. In this corner of the world, at least, the age of sail is far from over. As we toiled up the narrow canal, several of these ships passed us on their way in. It was truly thrilling to see them drive boldly for the entrance, fly up the channel, shedding canvas as they came, to reach their berths with sails neatly stowed and just enough way on to come snugly up to their dock. Such skill, however, doesn’t come from sailing even ten times around the world, but from generations of experience in a vessel which is not just an avocation but one’s whole life.

In the course of an hourlong trip we passed several check points before we reached the inner sanctum and were taken in hand by an English-speaking official. We explained the situation, showed our credentials, and blessed the lucky day that had given us the director of the Ford Foundation in Indonesia as a character reference. We were given permission to telephone Mike, who further cleared up the difficulties and gave us an explanation of what we had done.

We were, it seems, in Jakarta, all right—but in old Jakarta, formerly known as Batavia. Only sailing ships were permitted in here, many of whose crews were not entirely sympathetic to the existing government. During their stay in port all these ships were made to observe a rigid curfew and were kept under close observation. It seemed that our proper port was Tanjung Priok, the large new harbor for overseas vessels, five miles along the coast. Now we could understand the reason for the suspicious treatment, the guards, the frequent check points, and the barbed-wire fences. For all they knew, we were the vanguards of a revolutionary force, come to overthrow the regime.

By the time we got back to the Phoenix it was well after dark and Barbara was frantic with anxiety. Jessica was already asleep and Nick, Mickey, and Moto, quite unconcerned over our prolonged absence, also had retired. Had we been set upon and carved up by pirates? Were we languishing in some moldy Malay jail? Or were we having dinner with President Sukarno, as honored guests of the government? Any of these might have explained the delay, and I’m not sure which possibility caused her more anguish.

Actually, the only danger we ran was on the return trip when, with no flashlight, we were in constant danger of being run down by belated praus charging past in the dark to reach the channel before curfew.

The next morning, under power, we moved to Tanjung Priok in a foggy calm, groped for the entrance, and were met and escorted to a dock within easy rowing distance of the Tanjung Priok “Jachtclub,” one of the few holdovers from the colonial Dutch regime. There the Harrises, Minnetta, and cold drinks were waiting to welcome us, and we were made to understand that all the facilities of the club, including free use of restaurant and bar, were at our disposal!

The location at Tanjung Priok had little beside the hospitality of the yacht club to recommend it. It was steamingly hot, noisy, and odorous. The nights were made miserable by mosquitoes and by the hourly clangor of the night watchman, who punched his time clock every hour by beating a length of pipe upon a metal ring.

Thanks to the Harrises, some of us were spared this discomfort for all or a part of our three weeks’ stay, for they whisked Barbara and Jessica off to Jakarta. Barbara shared the guest room with her mother and Jessica moved in with Susan and began to gain back a bit of the weight and color she had lost during her illness.

I did not feel the same compulsion the girls apparently felt, to desert ship at every opportunity; in fact, I always felt uneasy when I did not sleep aboard. Yet in Java I, too, took a holiday from the sea by accepting the Harrises’ offer of their mountain retreat as a place to do some very necessary writing. (Unless Barbara and I mailed off a couple of salable articles before we left Java, there would be no checks awaiting us in Durban—and no Christmas for the Phoenix.)

Our trip into the pundjak, the pass through the mountains of Central Java, was an invigorating change from the fetid city. Each morning we awoke in the crisp, cool air of the hills and were greeted by a magnificent vista of twin mountain peaks thrusting against the sky.

As Barbara expressed it: “Imagine! A view like that just by opening your eyes! What luxury! No getting dressed, no going up on deck—and not a speck of water in the foreground to muck it all up!”

There are times when I suspect that Barbara is just a landlubber at heart.

In these surroundings our writing flourished and almost before we knew it the Harrises’ car had arrived to take us back to the city with our completed manuscripts. Here we rejoined Ted and Minnetta, who had also managed to squeeze in an overland trip, to Jogjakarta, seat of Javanese culture. There Ted, exploring the vast archaeological ruins in the vicinity, had the experience of being accompanied by an armed bodyguard. Being an American, he was obviously a millionaire and a rich prize for kidnapers! (Little did they know!) At night, through the solicitude of his hosts, the bodyguard had slept across the threshold of Ted’s room, but whether such protection is conducive to better slumber Ted didn’t reveal.

Our last few days were divided between laying in last-minute supplies for our crossing of the Indian Ocean and accumulating memories of a diffuse and very confusing place. Jakarta is vast, sprawling, and amorphous. It is a city of beautiful residential areas with red-tiled houses set well back from shaded streets—and of squalid kompiangs where hundreds of families are herded together without sanitation, light, or even air. For these crowded thousands, the canals that traverse the city are laundry, swimming pool, public bath, social center—and privy.

From the deck of the Phoenix we could see, in one direction, the beautifully appointed yacht club where a constant procession of limousines drew up to discharge members and their friends who came to swim, sail, or water-ski, or just to relax with a drink on the shaded veranda. In the other direction, just across the road, a procession of another sort moved slowly from dawn to dark—a long line of tired, ragged women, each waiting with a pail or a battered old kerosene tin to get water at the single faucet which served as the sole drinking and bathing supply for hundreds of people in the dock compound. It was a desperate imbalance, which obviously could not endure for long.

Generally speaking, the officials in Indonesia were very helpful and pleasant. One of them, Commander of the Navy, Jakarta, presented each of us with an imposing document which called upon “Whom It May Concern” to give us all possible aid and assistance. I flashed mine several times in the course of my shopping expeditions, until an old-timer pointed out that, in the present state of the government, there were almost as many to whom a letter from Major Lie would be an invitation to shoot me as there were those to honor it!

A Voyage around the World—October 4, 1954–July 30, 1960

Werner Stoy

Yacht Phoenix in full sail off Hawaii, after maiden voyage from Japan

Drying Sails—Wellington, New Zealand

The Reynolds Family
Ted, Jessica, Barbara, and Earle

Buying scrap iron in Japan to use as inside ballast

Shaping up the hull by eye and by hand

A solemn little man, armed with an enormous saw....

Full-size patterns for the ribs

The skipper and his ship—even the ladder is curved

Launching the Phoenix
The skipper, as new as his ship, makes a speech

Bora Bora, French Oceania. Earle Reynolds with Schoolmaster Sanford; in front of schoolhouse

The skipper and Mi-ke

Sextant shot on a quiet day

A seasick sailor Mickey wishing he weren’t there

Galley scene, April, 1955

Jessica and her Journal

The sea at her best
Lassoing albatross on a calm day

The sea at her worst
A stormy day on the Tasman Sea

Repairing sails, L. to R.: Moto, Mickey, and Nick in Sydney harbor

UPI

Staten Island Marina. Ted lost no time heading for the joys of New York

Judith Belisle

Ted painting the figurehead, Rowayton, Conn.

Jessica sewing on Girl Scout badges

Safe in port
Captain Reynolds, Jessica, and Mrs. Reynolds

The highlight of our stay in Indonesia, and one for which we laid over a few extra days, was the eleventh anniversary of the founding of the republic, on August 17. The entire city was decorated for the occasion with archways of greenery across the streets and parades and festivities in every district. We had received invitations from President Sukarno himself, beautifully embossed with the Indonesian emblem in gold, to attend a program of dances at the palace that evening. It was a splendid affair, staged on the floodlit grounds, beneath the high branches of enormous trees. The variety and fascination of the dances, representing many of the islands of the spread-out archipelago, kept us enthralled until well after midnight.

On August 20 we set out once more, bound for the Keeling Cocos Islands, 740 miles out in the Indian Ocean. It was not by chance that we were crossing this ocean in August and September, but because, as I always tried to do, we had chosen the season when, according to the pilot books, cyclones are “unknown.” As far as we were concerned, they could remain that way. We had had our bellyful of typhoons in Japan and we knew that by any other name—whether cyclones in the Indian, hurricanes in the Atlantic, or typhoons in the Pacific—these tropical revolving storms are nasty customers and nothing to fool around with.

Our first two or three days out of Jakarta were quiet, with little wind and frequent rains. The second evening, after passing through the Sunda Strait between Java and Sumatra, we could see the volcanic cone of Krakatoa with a trailing cloud, like a plume of smoke, rising from its tip. As we ate our supper on deck, Ted read aloud the encyclopedia account of that tremendous eruption, source of such widespread devastation, and Jessica eyed the now somnolent peak uneasily.

“Shouldn’t we turn on the engine and go a little faster till we get past?” she suggested, in a whisper.

“Better not,” Ted whispered back. “The engine might wake it up!”

Jessica, who showed a regrettable tendency to “put down roots” whenever she had been given shore leave, was finding it particularly hard to leave the land—and Susan Harris—behind, but she was not the only one who felt a continuing malaise.

From Barbara’s diary on the third day:

Everyone feels unaccountably under the weather. No active seasickness, but depressed and broody. Hard to carry out resolutions for making good use of my time at sea when each trip seems to involve this period of adjustment after life ashore. By the time the incipient mal de mer and the regrets of leave-taking have subsided, the pattern of lazy, do-nothing days has already taken hold.

Part of the mood was caused, I am sure, because the expected trades never settled down, the seas remained high, and the weather was vaguely threatening. There was a sense of uneasy anticipation which could not be pinned down by any instrument. This is not aftersight, as I noted in my log that on the fourth night I felt so strangely ill at ease that I was awake most of the night and during my early-morning watch Barbara, who also was wakeful, came up to keep me company as she frequently did at sea.

Barbara’s own diary continues to reflect the unusual atmosphere:

A miserable, rolling, wallowing night with alternate rains and high seas, followed by dropping winds. Rolled violently in my bunk from side to side and dozed fitfully. The swift dropping sensation as the boat rolls down, down, goes against one’s most basic instinct, the fear of falling. A queer shuddering seems to have entered the picture, giving rise to night fancies involving a loosened rudder or working keel bolts! What terrors can suggest themselves and become rapidly convincing in the dark!

The day before we were due to sight the islands, Ted and I spent a number of hours checking the charts and making our plans. The Cocos are low islands, with an altitude of only 10 feet plus the height of the palm trees. If the day continued overcast so that we could not get a good position, we might have quite a job finding them. If the weather was bad, we would have to decide whether to attempt an entrance, to lay off until the weather improved, or give the islands a miss altogether, which would mean continuing on to Rodrigues, 2,000 miles to the west.

That night the barometer began a slow, ominous fall. The next morning the seas were high and the wind at gale force. It was time to heave to. With the wind out of the southeast, we lay under mizzen alone, facing south, with a westerly drift of about two knots. The barometer was by now at about 1000. We were riding well, and I hoped that the worst would soon be over and we could continue on our way to the shelter of the lagoon at Keeling-Cocos.

But the worst had just begun. By the afternoon, the barometer fell sharply to 991, and for the first time in our trip we were in conditions that I could honestly call “storm.” The peak hit at 1400 with solid rain, blown horizontal by the wind. I couldn’t see the mainmast from the cockpit and the seas were enormous. The wind, especially at the height of the gusts, had a strength and fury I had never known before, on land or sea.

Faced with this, we at once changed our strategy. The last thing we now wanted was to be anywhere near the reefs of Cocos, especially with night coming on. What we needed was plenty of sea room. The wind by now was out of the northeast and shifting to north. The current in this area, according to the charts, was about 18 miles a day, generally northwest, but there was no telling what the storm had done to the pattern. Our estimated position, about 25 miles east of the islands, was too close for comfort and, if we remained hove to, it was not at all impossible that we might drift down onto the reefs.

In spite of the weather, I decided we must try to make some easting. We set up the storm jib and mizzen and headed east, managing to make good southeast at about four knots even under this scrap of canvas. It was a very bad night and my log book at this point is almost illegible, for the following reason:

1930. Tremendous dollop of water through afterhatch—wet everything—including this book. Gallons and gallons—worst inside wetting I’ve ever had—bunk a shambles.

Barbara’s diary was spared, however, and she describes the same incident with a bit more gusto:

In the early evening, after we had started to sail, a huge wave came aboard and poured, steadily and by bucketsful, down the afterhatch on top of poor Skip who had been trying to snatch a brief rest. He landed standing in the middle of his cabin, looking as though he’d just been in for a swim with his clothes on. Even the folded blankets under the mattress were soaked and his pillow and bolster were hopeless. With the patience of Job, he unloaded everything; wiped and blotted his books and instruments; remade his bed—using dry wool blankets on top of the wet mattress; got into dry clothes, and climbed back to continue his sleep. What a man!

Throughout the night I arose frequently and kept an anxious eye on the barometer, which was now slowly rising. By morning it was up to 1004 and our spirits were obviously climbing right along with it. There is a real lift in knowing that the worst is over and I feel sure it is no accident that we refer to spirits, as well as barometric pressure, as being “high” or “low.”

I felt we had made enough easting during the night so we could afford to give everyone a rest by again heaving to. This time we tried a new maneuver—lying atry: that is, taking down all sail and letting the ship take its natural position. It seemed to make little difference to the Phoenix, other than that she lay a little bit more in the trough. We rode quite comfortably.

The seas and wind were down considerably, but this is a relative statement as they were still very high. With a constant drizzle, visibility was poor and there was no chance to get our position. I estimated that we were about 35 miles southeast of the islands, but that could be only the merest guess.

During the next day the skies began to clear, with the wind still strong and gusty. We could now be sure that the worst was really over and began to check our damage. It was not too bad: four or five clips had pulled loose from the foresail; the main downhaul block was broken at the end of the gaff; the mainsail had chafed through in one spot where ironwork had rubbed against the furled sail. Otherwise we were in good shape.

That afternoon the mizzen flag halyard, which had worked loose and had been flying straight out and beyond our reach for the past two days, at last allowed itself to be captured from the deck. I took this as a sign that we were ready to carry on, so we set sail again to the northwest under mizzen and foresail. In a couple of hours we had the main repaired and ready for action.

Now our problem was to find the islands. The next day we were able to get a hasty sun shot. Barbara took the tiller while Ted and I went below to plot it. Suddenly she let out a whoop.

“Land ho!”

“Where?”

“Off the port bow!”

“Right where it’s supposed to be!” said Ted, with satisfaction.

We felt a tremendous sense of triumph after four days of storm and aimless drifting—to have been able to find our low island after all, almost by dead reckoning alone.

As we approached it, however, we began to have doubts. It was too small. And where were the other islands of the group, some twenty or so, which encircled a reef-enclosed lagoon?

Moto went up the mast and came down to report no other islands visible.

Ted, unwilling to take another’s word, went up next, with binoculars, and reported that he thought he could see other islands beyond this one.

Nick went up last and announced, in his positive and dogmatic way, that there was no other island. By this time we were close enough to make further debate unnecessary. What we had picked up was North Keeling, an isolated, seldom-seen island 15 miles from our destination.

At least we knew where we were, which was a great relief, but we also knew we had one more night at sea with a very hard beat ahead of us, for the main group of islands was dead upwind.

That night Barbara challenged Jessica to a game of cribbage, but both of them were rather subdued and in the midst of the game Jessica began to drip quiet tears and soon decided to crawl into her bunk “to keep Manuia warm.”

Ted and I were up most of the night, trying to plot a course that would keep us within a day’s sail of the islands without getting too close to the reef in the dark. The only navigational light mentioned on Keeling-Cocos is a “sometime thing” hung in a palm tree, so there was no question of coming in close and standing off and on as we had done on other occasions.

All night, with passing squalls and a high and confused sea, we worked our way south, but by daylight there was no land in sight. As soon as we could we got a sun shot, hasty and unsatisfactory though it was, and estimated our position as being south of the main group. We turned north.

At 0800 I sent Mickey up the mast, giving a specific order this time instead of asking for a volunteer. It was a very tough job and the first time he had ever done it, but the rest of us had taken our turns and I felt that, for the good of the ship, he must not shirk the assignment. He came down, looking green—reported nothing in sight.

I frankly didn’t know where we were, in spite of having had a good departure from North Keeling the day before. I decided to look for the islands one more day and then, unless the weather cleared so we could get a definitive position, to stop flirting with the low reefs of Cocos and carry on for the high island of Rodrigues.

It would not, I knew, be a popular decision.

However, by 1100 the welcome sight of palm trees shimmered dead ahead and during the afternoon, with the weather improving rapidly, we gradually closed the islands and rounded to the north entrance.

Never did water look so calm and clear and blue! Never did a beach gleam so white and welcoming! We were eleven days, a thousand miles of sailing, and one humdinger of a storm out of Java and very, very happy to be here.

11      ACROSS THE INDIAN OCEAN:
COCOS TO DURBAN

“You have seen people of all sorts. Makes my mouth water....”

The Keeling-Cocos Islands are the perfect model of a South Seas atoll. About twenty small, low-lying islets, of coral and sand topped with palm trees, form an oval about a lagoon of some 5 by 10 miles. Only three of the islands are inhabited: Direction Island, off which we had dropped anchor, which exists solely for the purpose of operating the British Cable and Wireless establishment; West Island, five miles away across the lagoon, where a colony of some 200 Australians maintains the Qantas airstrip and meteorological station; and Home Island, where some 500 natives live under the benign but feudal patronage of the Clunies-Ross family, hereditary owners of all the Keeling-Cocos Islands since the days of Queen Victoria.

During our ten days’ stay we were to learn more of the rather intricate relationships and frictions between these three groups. At the moment, however, we were just happy to have arrived.

On shore we could see a bustle of activity. Figures dashed here and there, into buildings and out again, but nothing constructive seemed to happen. At last a small native boat was launched and started out under sail, bringing Chris Bartlett, manager of C. & W., some half dozen of his group, and a couple of native boatmen.

As we helped him over the side, Mr. Bartlett’s first words were “Well, how did you like the cyclone?”

This was the first time the word had been spoken aloud. I had secretly thought that this storm bore all the earmarks of a typical Indian Ocean cyclone but had pushed the idea aside, because of course they just didn’t occur at this season!

Jessica’s eyes grew round. “Was it really a cyclone?” she breathed.

“It certainly was!” Mr. Bartlett assured her. He handed us a copy of a cablegram he had received from Perth, Australia:

28/8/56.  HEREWITH CYCLONE WARNING  AREA
AFFECTED LATITUDE 10 AND 25  LONGITUDE 90 AND
105  CENTRE BELOW 985 MILLIBARS  MOVEMENT

INDEFINITE  FORCE 10 TO 12 WINDS WITHIN 70 MILES

Jessica eagerly took the cable and rushed below to record the momentous fact in her Journal. Later, at the weather station, we were given more detail. Except for one other ship, on the edge of the disturbance, West Island and the Phoenix had been the only ones in a position to report the out-of-season cyclone. Several hundred miles to the south the freighter Hollywood had reported rough seas, confused swell, and a barometer of 1003. Mr. Lardi, meteorologist at Qantas, showed us all their records and was delighted when I turned over the data from my log so that he could round out the picture. The eye of the cyclone had passed between the Phoenix and the islands, coming down out of the northeast. At the height of the storm, the Qantas rain gauge measured seven inches in 75 minutes, and the barometer dropped to 988 millibars. Peak winds were over 70 knots, or almost 80 miles an hour.

Barely within cyclone range but, as Jessica pointed out, “It was a real cyclone, even if it was a little one—just the way even a baby dragon would be a real dragon!” Even with my dull adult mind I was able to follow her logic.

Locally, damage had been considerable. All the powerboats in the lagoon had been sunk or put out of commission—an embarrassing circumstance for the Air and Sea Rescue Service. Both power and water had failed on West Island; a number of houses were damaged, and several score palm trees were blown down or decapitated. The roof of the passenger terminal at the airstrip had been blown away. The schoolhouse was completely demolished, the walls knocked down, and even the books blown away. Only the blackboard had been left unharmed but this, as the schoolmaster put it, had been “well and truly washed.” There were no serious injuries.

The Keeling-Cocos have one distinction which will always stand out in our minds: never have so many parties been given so often by so few. Any occasion, it seemed, was sufficient reason for a whingding: the 21st birthday of one of the C. & W. “Exiles,” the arrival of a yacht, the miracle of having survived a cyclone—or “just because it’s Thursday, you know.”

Parties to welcome visiting yachts are rather rare, to judge from the visitors’ book in the C. & W. office. I counted only five yachts, from 1952 until the arrival of the Phoenix in 1956.

Supply ships, we were told, came almost as rarely and the Cable and Wireless people, who must order everything out of Singapore, have to provision almost as far in advance as we of the Phoenix. Qantas employees, on the other hand, were receiving fresh fruits and vegetables and frozen meats by air twice a month, which made for a certain amount of envy on the part of the Exiles, who had to “make do with tinned goods.”

On the other hand, the Australians on West Island were envious of the luxurious standard of living enjoyed by C. & W., who could import Malay help from the Straits Settlements, a privilege Qantas did not accord to its employees, in conformity with the “whites only” policy of Australia. Furthermore, both groups felt a certain resentment against the benevolent dictatorship of John Clunies-Ross, from whom both Direction and West Islands were leased, because he would allow none of his natives to work for, or even to visit, the installations from which he derived profit.

It was also forbidden to set foot on Home Island, except by express invitation, which was rarely forthcoming. In the case of the Australians, in the wake of some unspecified incident, such an invitation was categorically denied. There was, however, some social interchange between Clunies-Ross and the C. & W. personnel, another cause for complaint.

As visitors, we were sought after by all three camps and exposed to all three points of view. We were careful not to take sides, but it did seem to us pitiful that, in such a remote and potentially peaceful paradise as Cocos, it was not possible to escape the discord and the rivalries of the outside world.

John Clunies-Ross and his wife were in England at the time of our visit, but we spent a most interesting day on Home Island at the invitation of the Keegans, caretakers and baby-sitters-in-residence to two-year-old Linda, the crown princess of the Cocos.

The natives of Home Island, so far as we could tell from a superficial visit, were happy, healthy, and content, although they are entirely dependent upon the Clunies-Ross family for employment and subsistence. All necessities are provided, so that their nominal wages for working in the coconut plantations are needed only for such individual luxuries as may be desired from the local store. The predominant religion is Muslim and no attempt has been made to convert them. On the contrary, they took great pride in showing us a newly completed mosque, simple but attractive, which had been built to supplement an earlier one. All of the houses were well built and in good repair, but the older buildings are gradually being replaced with modern units with concrete floors and fluorescent lighting.

Little “Princess” Linda accompanied us on our tour in her royal carriage (pram, that is), standing up and waving in semi-regal fashion to her subjects. Crowds followed us wherever we went, whether out of devotion to their blonde, blue-eyed princess or out of curiosity over the presence of a strange family, it was hard to say. Certainly, they seemed genuinely happy and if, as we were told, they are being “ruthlessly exploited,” they don’t seem to be aware of it.

Before our departure from Direction Island, and in honor of the American and Japanese visitors, an event was scheduled which will forever stand out in my memory: a baseball game, pitting the Exiles of C. & W. against the Outcasts of Qantas. Naturally, it took place on the cricket field and, as a special honor and because none of our hosts knew the rules, I was appointed umpire.

The players, once the game had been explained to them (“Rather like rounders, wouldn’t you say?”), took it very seriously indeed, but added a certain exotic element that I never could have imagined. Pitchers were changed every inning and, under the influence of cricket, threw overhand with a stiff arm. Runners slid into every base, regardless. And not a single decision of the umpire was questioned—although many of them, under the circumstances, were questionable.

Between the sixth and seventh innings a break was called and players and spectators knocked off for a cup of tea. I happened to make a comment about the polite restraint of the gallery, comparing it to the more typical behavior of a baseball crowd at Yankee Stadium. In the midst of the next inning there floated out over the field in the sweet voice of Mrs. Bartlett, one single, gentle recommendation: “Please kill the umpire!”

The game lasted the full nine innings and the score, for the record, was: Exiles, 22—Outcasts, 14.

We sailed on September 9, with regrets as always, but this time with the guarantee of further friendships to come, for we had entered into the magic network of the far-flung Cable and Wireless system. Henceforth, we would be passed along from one island outpost to another, introduced in advance by the cable grapevine.

As if to make up for our unseasonable cyclone, the elements combined, on the passage to Rodrigues, to give us some of the finest sailing we have ever had. With a following wind and under full lowers, the Phoenix racked up the best record of her trip to date—2,023 miles in 13½ days, or better than 6 knots all the way.

There was little to record in the log other than good weather, good progress, and good times. From my bunk, where I had leisure to spend many lazy hours, I could catch scraps of Ted’s stories drifting down through the afterhatch, as he kept himself entertained on watch by amusing Jessica.

“Once there was a small kingdom—” such a story would frequently begin.

“Oh, goodie!” says Jessica, settling herself comfortably. “I love small kingdoms!”

“—with a very small king,” Ted continues. “About two days old, in fact.” And he’s off.

On another occasion, I made record of a typical exchange:

Ted: “—a lady of stupendiferous bearing—”

Jessica: “What bearing?”

Ted: “North by west.”

On the afternoon of September 22 we sighted the peaks of Rodrigues just off the port bow. By 1750 we were at the port of Mathurin, but still outside the reefs. A launch, loaded with officials, local residents, and boatmen came out to meet us. They undertook to pilot us through the intricate channel—and promptly dumped us on a reef. For the next half hour, in the growing dark, there was a certain amount of confusion, with mingled orders and oaths in English, French, Japanese, and various Creole dialects. Finally we worked clear and were secured in mid-channel by divers, who personally went down to set our anchor firmly in the coral.

No harm was done to the boat, aside from a small rubbed spot at the turn of the starboard bilge. There was also a small rubbed spot in the temper of the Skipper, but after I had pouted a bit, we ushered our guests below and exchanged introductions. Entry formalities were quickly cleared away by Christian Belcourt, medical officer, and Claude Rouchecouste, chief magistrate. Before we knew it, all seven of the Phoenix crew were in the launch, along with the reception committee, and heading in to shore for baths, drinks, and dinner with M. and Mme. Rouchecouste. (Monsieur because, although Rodrigues belongs to the British Crown Colony of Mauritius, it is predominantly French in language and culture.)

On the way in we passed the only navigational light of Rodrigues—a one-candlepower beacon marking the edge of the inner reef. We knew it was one candlepower, because we could see the candle itself, flickering fitfully behind its glass shade. As Ted summed it up, “If you can see this light, you’re too darn close!”

Now began ten of the pleasantest days we have ever spent anywhere. As on Keeling-Cocos all invitations and activities included all of us. The veranda of the magistrate’s large house near the landing was the unofficial clubhouse where we were made to feel at home and where good conversation, cold drinks, and numerous newspapers and magazines—both French and English—were always available. In the course of many convivial afternoons and evenings, we began to feel that, through the interest of our hosts of Rodrigues, we were learning more about our Japanese companions, their backgrounds and their impressions, than we had ever been able to elicit during the two years of our relationship.

Rodrigues itself is an island of unusual attractions, not the least of which is its inaccessibility. There are only two practicable ways to reach it: you can go on the supply boat from Mauritius, which makes the trip three or four times a year and stays about three days, or you may visit the island on a private yacht.

Although the island is only 42 square miles in area, it is densely populated. Most of the 16,000 people are of African or Malagasy racial stock, many are descended from slaves brought in from Mauritius by the French, while others trace their ancestral lines back to Breton or Scottish families.

Mauritius is the hub of their universe and the supply ship, also named Mauritius, is the connecting link. “Have you ever visited Mauritius?” Barbara asked one of the teachers in the Port Mathurin school.

“Oh, yes!” she answered eagerly. “We go on board every time it comes!”

There are no newspapers on Rodrigues, no telephones, no radio stations, no banks, no movies; there is no airport or commercial shipping, no harbor, no railway, no buses, and no taxis. There were, however, five horses (“three cobs and two mules”), a number of bicycles, and two jeeps. The jeeps, one of which belongs to the magistrate and the other to the Catholic priests, are recent acquisitions and have already accounted for one traffic fatality. Within the first week a cyclist tried to go between the headlights of an oncoming jeep, in the mistaken impression that they were the lights of two bicycles. By the way of instilling caution and avoiding further accidents, there is now a large, hand-lettered sign over the gate that leads from the schoolyard onto the road. STOP! LOOK! LISTEN! JEEP!

Each night we had dinner at a different house, but always with a nucleus of the same group: the magistrate and his wife, the two doctors, the meteorologist, and various members of the Cable and Wireless installation on Rodrigues.

As they came to know us better, the Rouchecoustes in particular became more frank in their eagerness to learn all they could about America and Japan while Exhibits A and B were available. M. Rouchecouste confided that, although he had studied for several years in Europe, we were the first Americans, as well as the first Japanese, that he had ever met—and the first of either, to his knowledge, ever to visit Rodrigues.

“Tell me, Madame Reynolds,” he asked, “would you say you were a typical American woman?”

Barbara, obviously nonplused, looked helplessly at me.

I came to her rescue. “I should imagine,” I stated judicially, “that she’s certainly the typical American woman who goes around the world on a Japanese-built yacht.”

This response seemed to be entirely satisfactory.

By contrast with our first week on Rodrigues, which was peaceful and relaxed, the last three days gave us a taste of the furor that surrounds the rare visits of M.V. Mauritius. The sleepy town of Port Mathurin woke up. From all over the island, people converged on the town. Boats from villages along the shore began to arrive, piled high with produce and livestock. Impromptu pens were knocked together and the waterfront was transformed into a squealing, bleating, and cackling open-air market where traders, who came over from Mauritius on the boat, could wander up and down to inspect and bid on the available stock.

The day the boat arrived was given over to landing the cargo, including two mares to swell the equine population. Letters and packages were distributed in a daylong ceremony of mail call from the porch of the administration building.

The second day saw hundreds of empty oil drums ferried out, to be refilled and brought back on the next trip. The produce of the island, principally garlic and dried octopus, was sent aboard in a never-ending procession of lighters that were towed out through the channel in strings of three or four to deliver their cargo and then return, under sail, at their own convenience.

On the final day, with a proficiency obviously developed from much practice, the animals were loaded. The cows, lassoed expertly and forced onto their sides by the seemingly painful expedient of twisting their tails up between their legs, were trussed up by their four feet and loaded upside down into the open boats. Eight or ten were carried at a time, rolling their eyes in patient misery until they had been hoisted aboard the Mauritius by crane and released into the hold.

The goats were all driven out to the end of the dock, their retreat was blocked off with movable barricades, and then they were relentlessly herded off the edge into the waiting lighters, some of the recalcitrant ones being tossed in by a couple of legs. Arrived at the ship, a huge wicker basket was lowered by crane, ten to twenty goats at a time were tumbled in and lifted aboard to be dumped into deck pens.

Last of all went the pigs—and the passengers. The pigs, “who always get seasick,” according to the captain, were stacked on deck in the same kind of tubular wicker container we had seen in Bali—with a snout protruding from one end and a tail from the other. For the sake of the passengers, we hoped their bloodcurdling shrieks and squeals as they were rolled down to the boats would eventually diminish.

We sailed a few hours before the Mauritius, knowing she would pass us, probably during the first night, and would be waiting when we reached Port Louis. The only unusual circumstance of our departure was our decision, on the advice of the pilot, to slip our hawser rather than risk maneuvering among the reefs while attempting to get it aboard.

“We’ll take it out to the supply ship,” he assured us, “and you can get it from them in Mauritius.”

The trip to Mauritius, 400 miles to the west, was routine and we made an easy entrance into the inner harbor of Port Louis at 1000 on October 5. By 1130 we had been cleared by the harbor office, doctor, and immigration officer and were free to explore the homeland of the now extinct dodo.

Our first impression of Port Louis, even before going ashore, was of a harbor more bustling and colorful than any we had yet visited. Work began early in the morning and lasted, with much attendant shouting and seeming confusion, until late at night. A procession of Indians in brief loincloths, coifed like Egyptians of ancient tomb paintings, marched back and forth like industrious ants between the docks and a never-ending succession of barges. The coif arrangement was formed by heavy material wound turbanwise around the head and hanging down the back in a thick pad, making it possible to distribute the immense weight of their loads evenly between head and shoulders.

The island itself is a beautiful sight from the harbor. A range of deep-green mountains, dominated by the distinctive peak of La Pousse (The Thumb), forms a dramatic backdrop to the low red roofs of the warehouses along the shore. We anchored well out hoping to ensure a bit of privacy, but it did us very little good. Local water taxis, flitting about like bugs, were all too available and many curiosity seekers came out for the ride and boarded us with no advance warning other than a hail as they clambered over the gunwales.

One of our first callers was M. Appavou, the Indian ship chandler who has earned for himself a well-deserved reputation among yachtsmen. He gave us a bottle of the local rum with his compliments, and urged us to make use of him in any way. His representative would call daily to pick up our shopping list and our orders would be delivered on board in the afternoon. “No extra charge.”

I warned M. Appavou that he could expect little profit from us, but that didn’t seem to worry him. Anything we might need, he would be happy to get. Barbara decided to test him out and ordered a fez. (My birthday was coming up.) That afternoon the fez was delivered, a handsome one in maroon felt. Its cost, we discovered, was less than we would have paid in the market.

Thereafter, we made full use of M. Appavou’s advice and services. In addition to keeping us supplied with meat and vegetables, he guided us to the best barbershop, arranged to have a suit made for Ted, gave us tips on the races (we broke even), located beautiful saris for the girls, and contracted for the building of a new small boat. Moreover, we became very good friends. At New Year’s, in South Africa, we were both pleased and touched to receive a warm personal response to the mimeographed letter we had sent out to announce our arrival.

No doubt you must be proud of accomplishing such a cruise, and you must be thankful to God for your luck of what I call a trouble-free track, but for a few odds. You have seen oceans, seas, countries, and peoples of all sorts. Makes my mouth water, so to say. You have made friends everywhere, because sympathy is not merchantable: it is born in Earle, Barbara, Ted, and Jessica; you are such a charming group, you are.

Well, Capt., God give you en famille, His gifts in galore—which spell: HEALTH, BLISS, HAPPINESS, and most happy conclusion of the marvellous cruise of the gallant “PHOENIX.”...

During our stay in Mauritius we met a number of yachtsmen, both cruising and local. One of them, planning a cruise shortly, came aboard “for advice.” It seemed strange to have another asking advice of us and making eager notes of such bits and pieces of hard-won experience as we were able to pass along!

Another small-boat sailor was Jacques Rousset, an eager young chap who appointed himself our guide and mentor. Piling us into his car amid cases of soft drinks and hampers of lunch, he set off at top speed along the narrow, winding roads of his island. Cows, goats, chickens, children, and ox-drawn cane carts kept appearing unexpectedly around curves and kept all of us, who had just come in from weeks on the uncrowded ocean, in a constant state of nerves. In vain we hinted that we would much prefer a more sedate pace. As Jessica put it, “We want to see everything—but we want to be able to remember it, too!”

Perhaps Jacques thought we were old fuddy-duddies, but I managed to take the sting out of my eventual ultimatum by rhapsodizing over the charm of Mauritius, not only its beauty, but the novelty of the sari-clad women we passed along the road; the rows of sugar cane that alternated in the fields with rows of rock; and the two-wheeled carts pulled by broad-horned oxen.

“Don’t you have those in America?” Jacques demanded, astonished. From then on he drove circumspectly, deriving wonder and pleasure from our comments about his homeland and plying us with questions about our own.

Three yachts arrived while we were in Port Louis, rather more than usual. First was Jeanne Mathilde, a 40-footer out of Singapore, with “Rex” King aboard. In our yacht register King merely notes that he left Great Nicobar with a crew of one and “arrived alone.” The actual story is dramatic. While at sea, his companion developed acute appendicitis. By rarest good luck, they met a passing ship and Rex was able, by means of flares, to attract their attention and have the ill man taken off. In the process of signaling, however, one of the flares exploded and King was badly burned. He refused to leave his ship and sailed on alone. When we met him in Mauritius his face still bore scars and powder burns.

The second yacht to arrive was Marie Thérèse II, with singlehander Bernard Moitessier, a very likable Frenchman. He, too, had known the rigors of the sea. In his own words, written in our log, his first Marie Thérèse, a Chinese junk, was “lost in a reef in the Chagos Archipelago during her attempt to reach the Seychelles Islands from Indonesia. Reason was no chronometer, no radio, lost, no binoculars, and probably too much cheek from the skiper” (sic!).

King and Moitessier, obviously, were not usual types, but the third arrival was the most bizarre of all, as well as the least communicative. This was a lone Australian on Kate. His brief entry in the register says merely: “Best wishes and regards from Bill Geering of Kate, 21 ft. L.O.A., and 60 days out of Fremantle to Mauritius. Bon Voyage.”

The voyage, as we were able to piece it together, was less routine. Kate, on a coastal cruise from Fremantle to Darwin, had been caught offshore and blown out to sea. With the strong trade winds and westbound current against him, Geering had no choice but to carry on across the Indian Ocean. He had tried for Christmas Island, but missed it. He had tried to find the Keeling-Cocos, but without success. At last, fifty-three days out, he had made a landfall at Rodrigues and then sailed on to Mauritius. He was not in too good shape when he arrived, having been on short rations of food and water for several weeks and without standing room in his tiny ship. In addition, he had managed to injure his back. When we asked him how long he expected to stay in Mauritius, he replied succinctly, “Maybe forever!” Shortly thereafter he sold Kate to a local resident and flew back to Australia.

Mauritius, rather pretentiously known as “The Crown and Pearl of the Indian Ocean,” proved to be a fascinating island but with a social and economic situation that is highly confused and potentially explosive. It is made up of many racial groups: English, French, Malay, African, Indian, Chinese, and many admixtures—and these groups are further divided by religious or social prejudices. The Hindus feud constantly with the Muslims; the Chinese are divided into Communist and Nationalist factions; while the 15 per cent that make up the remainder of the population include a scattering of British, who come on temporary government appointments and feel superior to the locals, and a residue of French-Mauritians, who regard themselves as the entrenched aristocracy.

A single observation summed up, to my mind, the self-consciousness of the entire racial scene. As in other countries, Jessica made contact with the Girl Guides and found them, as in Fiji, divided into mutually exclusive troops on the basis of race. The daughter of a British civil servant thus explained it, “We don’t even call the younger Guides ‘Brownies’ here—because of the Indians, you know. We call them ‘Bluebirds.’”

In almost every port we received applications from would-be adventurers—of all ages and several sexes. I always listened to their pleas with sympathy, for I have never forgotten the day I spent at the yacht harbor in Honolulu on my way out to Japan, too timid to ask if I might take a look aboard a yacht. It must be admitted that the vast majority of applicants had little to offer aside from a vague desire to get away from it all. Moreover, I noticed that the peak of these requests always came on a beautiful Sunday afternoon when a gentle breeze ruffled the waters of the bay. I have yet to have an applicant row out to offer his services in some dark predawn at the height of a williwaw, while we’re bouncing all over the place and trying to get a second anchor out.

Many of our applicants, of course, were under the impression that we employed a paid crew. The fact that Nick, Mickey, and Moto were yachting companions rather than hired hands was a source of constant astonishment, although we never failed to emphasize the relationship. As for us, we took increasing pride in the fact that after two years and more than 25,000 miles, the original Phoenix crew was still together and still, we felt, good friends.

There was one type of applicant, however, whom we sometimes signed on for a short hop. Such a one was Jean de St. Pern, an ebullient young French-Mauritian who begged to sail with us as far as Durban. He volunteered to help Jessica in her struggles with beginning French and, the clincher as far as Barbara was concerned, expressed a willingness, nay, an eagerness, to cook. We took him along.

We sailed from Mauritius on October 19, bound for South Africa. Though our visas had been granted without difficulty, we were more than a little dubious about our visit because of the government’s well-known racial policies. Our relations on board had been pleasant and increasingly friendly since leaving Indonesia and we rather dreaded entering an area where color and nationality would again assume false values. However, it is difficult to go around the Cape without calling somewhere in South Africa, so we hoped for the best.

Once again our life fell into that routine which is so difficult for landsmen, day sailors, or even passengers on an ocean liner to comprehend. The land one has left falls behind, the pleasures and friendships that await are in some indefinite future. All that exists is the present—the sea, the ship, the ship’s company, and the little happenings of each day. Local events, such as the loss of a whole bunch of bananas over the side, become tremendously important, while world events recede into the background. Intellectually we could comprehend and keep these things in perspective, but emotionally the here and now has more impact than the there and then. From the log:

Listened to five-minute summary of news. First sentence, trouble in Hungary; 2nd, trouble in Singapore; 3rd, trouble in Tunis; 4th, hydrogen bomb test.—Angrily, I turned the radio off.

On the seventh day out, when far south of Madagascar, we could smell the land, literally. Suddenly all eight of us were on deck, breathing deeply. There was a different quality in the wind—a warm, dry, slightly dusty odor, faintly spiced, like the scent of a distant campfire. Manuia, too, sniffed deeply upwind, her front paws on the bulwarks. Moto grinned appreciatively. “Maybe mouse on Madagascar,” he observed.

Jean, true to his promise, showed great prowess in the galley. He had brought aboard a mysterious carton of bottles and jars, and from these he added a spoonful of this or a dash of that to whatever he had on the fire. No matter what the contents of a jar looked like—a spinach-green paste, a catsup-type sauce, or something lumpy and yellow like mustard pickles—it was all, according to Jean, called “piment” and was invariably hot. One or two of us acquired a taste for this fiery seasoning of Mauritian cooking (in moderation), but the rest found it hard to be too unhappy when a sudden roll of the boat sent Jean’s carton of condiments crashing to the floor in a welter of broken glass. Desolate, he picked over the mess and scooped up spoonfuls, insisting that a little glass wouldn’t hurt anyone, but the Skipper was firm and insisted that all food thereafter must be seasoned by the individual.

Jean could really cook, but in the tradition of great French chefs. His talents ran to directing, concocting, adding, stirring, and tasting. With one of us to hand him utensils, another to cut up onions, and the Skipper to restrain his too lavish use of piment, he turned out a number of delectable dishes. As he explained seriously, “Eef I cook eet, eet has to be good!”

Like his condiments, Jean added interesting variety to our shipboard life. Although a British subject, he was completely French in language, personality, and gestures. He delighted the family and both delighted and bewildered Nick, Mickey, and Moto.

His effervescence rose to a crescendo on the day we ran through a school of whales. Prancing all over the deck, scrambling up the rigging, he was beside himself with excitement, relapsing entirely into French punctuated with staccato bursts of “Ooo-la-la! Ooo-la-la!” One whale, of impressive size, came up for mutual inspection less than a boat’s length away. We all felt, a little nervously, that that was quite close enough and were relieved when he apparently felt the same, and sounded.

We hove to once on this passage, in a heavy thunderstorm, with driving rain and incessant lightning. The wind oscillated between dead calm and terrific gusts, so we thought it better to strike all sail and wait for the weather to make up its mind. Early next morning, with the wind still strong and the seas high, we could see the loom of Durban’s lights on the horizon just before dawn. Throughout the day we worked our way in but the wind was dead against us and after taking several long tacks, each of which put us only slightly nearer our goal, it became apparent that we could not make it before dark. I wanted to lay off, but my crew had land fever and I finally compromised by trying to raise the harbor officials by radio telephone.

Five miles off the harbor entrance, I made contact and a pilot boat was sent out to meet us. The seas were much too rough for them to take us in tow, but they stood by for the next three hours while we labored along under sail and engine, against wind, heavy seas, and the outgoing tide, at the magnificent speed of one knot. Inside the channel, well after dark, they finally came alongside, put a pilot aboard, and guided us briskly into the completely landlocked harbor, where we were put on a buoy for the night.

On our way up the channel, with Nick at the tiller, my crew were given a lesson in how to answer orders. Over and over on the trip I had emphasized the need for repeating an order aloud, in times of stress or noise, so there could be no misunderstanding. The Japanese had been very reluctant to cooperate, perhaps feeling that it put them in a subservient position. Now, on our way up the channel, the pilot called an order to the helmsman and Nick, as usual, obeyed silently. In no uncertain terms, though quite politely, the pilot directed Nick (through me) to repeat every order as given.

I thought it a salutary lesson and was human enough to see the culprit, thus reprimanded, squirm. And yet I wish I could report that the lesson had been learned. On the contrary, perhaps because of the loss of face involved, the issue became sharper than ever before.

It was a baffling situation. A couple of years earlier I would have dissolved the relationship summarily, exercising my right to demand compliance even though it forced a parting of the ways. Now, however, the desire to succeed in our trip, to keep our original group intact, had assumed an importance that made the question “Who is boss?” seem a bit childish. In addition, I believe I was gaining in patience and understanding, in desire to understand the point of view of my companions. Their deep insecurity in the many situations they had to face around the world gave them a real need to re-establish constantly their status as equals. Untrained in democratic procedures, they at times withdrew from responsibility and left the entire weight of decisions to me; and at times reasserted their independence by refusing, in unimportant details, to accept any suggestion of authority.

Perhaps, I told myself, I was demanding a subservience to which I was not entitled. Perhaps the matter of repeating orders should be relegated to the same category as saluting the bridge or piping the captain aboard, observances of rank and authority that were perhaps correct in their proper place but not aboard a small boat. And yet, balancing all this rationalization was the knowledge that, in a tight spot, an order not heard or perhaps misunderstood could mean the loss of the ship. I didn’t give a damn about salutes and pipes, but I cared a great deal about my family and the Phoenix.

At any rate, by 2130 we were snugly moored with the lights of Durban all about us. Barbara, who had not wanted to miss our entrance, now went below to whip up a late, hot supper, and everyone visibly relaxed as I broke out a bottle of rum. I brought my log up to date: our last lap of 16 days at sea had added another 1,756 miles; another ocean crossed, another continent, another milestone on our voyage. We were in Africa!

12      SOUTH AFRICA:
BEAUTIFUL, UNHAPPY LAND

“What will you do when that day comes?”

In the morning we were again picked up by the pilot and escorted to a mooring in the small-craft harbor.

“There will be no charge,” he told us.

“None at all?” I was incredulous, remembering that they had come out at our request and stood by for three hours while we crawled in.

“No charge,” he repeated. “We’re happy to serve you.”

It was luck we arrived when we did, for by the next week they could not have served us at any price. The pressure from the Suez crisis was beginning to be felt and every pilot was working almost around the clock. Even so, many ships were obliged to stand off and wait before they could be brought in for refueling, and their lights at night stretched along the coast like an offshore roadway.

Our next contact with South African officialdom was not so hospitable. I hit a snag when I reported to immigration officials and tried to clarify the position of the Japanese. There are few Orientals in South Africa, most of them transients aboard ships, who never leave the ports. Upon learning that we all planned to take a trip to Kruger National Park, the officials became disturbed and downright uncooperative. The Japanese were “urgently advised against” using public transportation; we were “strongly urged” not to travel as a mixed group. And, in any event, the Japanese could not leave Durban without permission. When I requested that permission, they said they would “take the matter under advisement” and that it would be necessary to “clear with Pretoria.” In the meantime Nick, Mickey, and Moto were restricted to the city.

A reporter got hold of the story and asked me about it. I pointed out that I had obtained, at a cost of £5 apiece, valid visas for these men and that no travel restrictions had been mentioned. I added that had I known of conditions here I would have entered at Portuguese Lourenço Marques and given Durban a miss altogether.

Since Durban is one of the largest holiday and resort centers in South Africa, this blast, delivered primarily to get a gripe off my chest, was given a big play in the papers. Just at this time the men received an invitation from the Japanese Ambassador to visit the Embassy in Pretoria. I was summoned back to the immigration office and told that a special pass would be issued (at the cost of an extra pound apiece) so that the Japanese could make a trip to Pretoria and Johannesburg, said trip to take no more than four days, including travel time. It was not until I got back to the boat that we discovered that the pass had been dated as of the day of issue and therefore the first day of the allotted time period had already elapsed. Since it takes twenty-six hours to get to Johannesburg—and an equally long time to return—it didn’t leave much time for visiting the Embassy or doing any sightseeing. Nevertheless, two of the three elected to go anyway. On their return they replied, briefly, to our questions, that they had had “a nice time,” whatever that means. They never elaborated except that once, many months later, Barbara asked Nick, “How did you like your trip to Johannesburg?”

Nick replied, “Terrible!” and that closed the conversation.

The situation for the three M’s throughout our stay in South Africa was anomalous in the extreme and the above is only a sample. The government itself seems confused as to who is who, and their definitions of racial categories do little to clarify the situation. The official definition of “European,” as stated in a government publication, is as follows:

“European” means a person who in appearance is, or who is generally accepted as a white person, but does not include a person who, although in appearance obviously a white person, is generally accepted as a coloured person. (A “coloured person,” under the same edict, is a person who is “neither European nor a Native.” “I guess that means us,” Jessica decided. “We’re American.”)

So confused is the terminology that one of our “European” acquaintances reacted with horror when I described a friend as a “native of New Zealand.”

“Oh,” she cried, “I didn’t think they allowed natives there!” To her—and to many in South Africa—“native” is synonymous with “black man”—nothing else. So accepted is this double talk that newspapers actually referred to a visiting diplomat from Ethiopia as a “foreign native”!

Japanese may be officially regarded as “European,” but the ruling meant nothing to the man on the street. Each waiter or box-office clerk, was forced to make his own decision, to serve or not to serve.

Early in their stay, before they had become so sensitive that they refused to go out by themselves at all, Nick, Mickey, and Moto were out seeing the town and decided to stop at a pub for some beer. They entered a “European” bar, but the bartender, albeit courteously, referred them to another place just around the corner.

“That’s where you boys belong,” he told them. “This is the European bar.”

Rather than argue their status, they went around the corner as directed. Here, too, the proprietor, an Indian, was most polite and helpful. “Just what are you men?”

“We’re Japanese.”

“I see. Well, I’ll tell you—you go just around the corner—”

At this point Mickey leaned forward and said confidentially, “We don’t want European beer. We want non-European beer. We don’t like Europeans!”

“You don’t!” the proprietor exclaimed, in pleased amazement. “Gentlemen, the drinks are on the house!”

Not only the barkeeper, but every patron in the establishment insisted on setting them up, until the three M’s had consumed all they could hold. They came back to the boat considerably cheered, so much so that Nick volunteered the story, which we would otherwise certainly never have heard.

The tension between “European” and “non-European” is by no means the only conflict in this unhappy country. There is a deep and ever-widening schism between the whites themselves, between those of British background and those descended from the early Boers. The latter speak Afrikaans, are fantastically conservative, and are doing everything they can to break all ties with the English. The few we met seemed to us to have a pathological sensitivity to criticism. On one occasion, in the course of a very enjoyable afternoon’s ride through the countryside, I saw a sign painted in Afrikaans beside the road: SKOOL. Beneath it was the same word in the second official language: SCHOOL. I made a joking reference to the first spelling, something like, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again!”—only to be blasted by an outburst from the lady in the party, who apparently came from an Afrikaner family. Her tirade included charges that foreigners always acted superior, were always looking for things to criticize, and didn’t do any better in their own country! There was much truth in what she said, so I made a shame-faced apology and took the lesson to heart. She, too, apologized, but her last remark was almost desperate in its intensity: “You just can’t understand the situation here!”

To me the most remarkable thing about the incident was the fact that such a trivial and relatively meaningless jest should have brought on such a disproportionate response. Tensions are great in South Africa and very little is required to bring them to the breaking point.

We ourselves were by no means immune. There was poison in the very atmosphere and doubts and dissensions began to work insidiously within our own group. Nick, Mickey, and Moto rarely left the boat, although they had many visitors, mainly from visiting Japanese ships. More and more they drew into themselves and there was a subtle atmosphere of brooding and dissatisfaction. Finally matters came to a head. Some small incident released the pressure and we had another “blowing off” session.

“Why you call us ‘boys’?” Moto, usually the peaceable one, demanded. “You think we are your servant!”

Shocked, we re-examined the term we had often used with reference to our companions as a group. We had always regarded Nick, Mickey, and Moto as a part of our extended family and just as we had referred to our two sons as “the boys” (and as I had often spoken of my wife and daughter collectively as “the girls”), so we had unconsciously stretched the terminology to include all the junior males of the Phoenix family. It had seemed less pompous than referring to them as “the Japanese” and more accurate than “the crew”—since all of us were crew together. Now, however, we realized that in many countries “boy” is a peremptory form of address used by a white man toward a colored person of any age, from one to a hundred. By speaking to outsiders of “the boys,” we had obviously given the wrong impression to many.

Thereafter we made a real effort to change our habits and began to substitute the term “men”—although we felt that our relationship lost something of its warmth and intimacy in the process.

Fortunately for our crew relations—and for the reputation of the white man in South Africa—there were those who extended friendship and hospitality to our entire group. Outstanding among these was Lindsay Moller, a South African “European” whom we had met fleetingly two years before when he had been vacationing on the Kona coast of Hawaii. He had given me his card and told me to look him up when we got to Africa—an eventuality that had seemed highly remote and problematical at that time when my main concern had been the next hop, around to Hilo. Yet now, miraculously, we had arrived on the far side of the globe. I had kept Lindsay’s card—and I dropped him a note.

He came down promptly and took us all in hand. The Mollers were heaven-sent for our needs, for they had a long list of assets over and above their warm hearts: two daughters, Christine and Vicky, who bracketed Jessica in age and quickly adopted her for the duration of our stay; a town house, which was convenient; a farm 22 miles up in the hills, which provided, in addition to an ultramodern piggery for 2,700 pigs, a swimming pool, riding horses, miles of walking trails, and an unsurpassed view of the mountains. Lindsay drove up to the farm every weekend and always had room for any and all, for a day or for the week. During our two-month stay in Durban, all of us took him up at least once, and Jessica, once the Moller girls were out of school for the “long vac,” became a permanent resident at the farm.

For the men, as was always the case in major ports, work on the boat came first. We made arrangements to haul out, to paint the bottom, and catch up on the many small jobs that had accumulated since Sydney. When we were put back in the water and the bill presented, we found there was no charge for the service and that all materials had been sold to us at cost (or “nett,” as the British have it). The bill was marked “Compliments of the Country.”

Jimmy Whittle, manager of the boatyard, and his wife Jean showed us many kindnesses, including inviting us for a memorable Christmas dinner along with all their visiting relatives from Griqualand East and Natal, a traditional English celebration with crepe paper hats, “crackers” to pull, and plenty of sixpenny bits in the flaming plum pudding for the young people to find.

Christmas shopping at the height of summer was an exhausting experience but full of interest and surprises in Durban. We found the big department stores in the center of town rather depressing than otherwise, with their mixed crowds of irritable Europeans and apologetic Africans (whose money was accepted graciously in any store, apartheid notwithstanding), but we never tired of browsing in the Indian and native markets, which somehow managed to remain off the beaten tourist track.

In the Indian market were hundreds of small stalls beneath one roof where importunate salesmen of curios tried to waylay the visitor with “cut rate” ebony or embroidered fans, while dark-skinned women in graceful saris measured out curry seasonings from brilliant piles of brown, yellow, orange, and saffron-colored powders.

Next door to the Indian market, on bare dirt behind a corrugated iron fence, was the native bazaar. Here tribesmen, just in from the hinterland, wandered barefooted, wrapped in bright blankets, to inspect racks of used city clothing. Women, their hair fashioned into elaborate headdresses held in place with red clay, their arms and necks and waists encircled with heavy ropes of magnificent beadwork, squatted beside a counter full of scrap metal and suckled their infants while searching for treasure: a usable flashlight, a rusty knife, a discarded kerosene stove. In the bazaar one could see lion or zebra skins being stretched and dried; could watch Zulus fashioning medicine wands with leopard-tail tassels or stringing necklaces and breastplates with thousands of tiny colored beads; could see Xosa and Basuto and Swazi and Zulu and hear the babel of their many tongues. And one could see the swiftly veiled glint of distrust and hatred when one of them looked up and recognized a white face.

We had been forced to give up our ambition to get to Kruger National Park, both because of travel restrictions for our entire group and because of finances. Nick and Moto, as I have mentioned, settled for a trip to Pretoria; Barbara and Jessica seemed quite content to relax at the Mollers’ farm. But Ted and I would not give up so easily and we looked about for a less-distant goal.

On the advice of Bill Sinclair, a wild-life photographer for the national parks service whose spectacular color shots had even further whetted our desires, we chose the Hluhluwe (shloo-shloo-way) Game Reserve in Zululand. The variety of game there, he assured us, was quite as impressive as at Kruger—if we didn’t mind missing the elephants and lions. We did mind, but we had long since learned that our trip was of necessity a long series of compromises, and we settled for Hluhluwe.

Actually, we were not at all disappointed, for we were able to see not only the African interior, with its characteristic highlands, its Zulu villages of kraals and beehive-shaped rondevals, but also a fine selection of native animal life. We saw, in their native state, wildebeest, zebra, kudu, impala, and warthog—and, the highlight of the trip, the ponderous but amazingly swift rhino.

We have reason to know how fast a rhino can move. We found out on the day we trotted down a narrow path through the bush, in hot pursuit of a white rhino lumbering on ahead. Suddenly he became aware that he was being trailed. Swinging around abruptly, he reversed his course and we had barely time to take to the trees before he crashed blindly past us through the undergrowth.

Two days after the New Year we left Durban, bound around the Cape of Good Hope to Cape Town. Although this was considered the best season for the trip, we had no guarantee that the passage would be quiet and I’m sure we all had mentally crossed our fingers. A number of yachts accompanied us through the harbor and the Sea Scouts, among whom Ted had made many friends, continued for a short distance outside in their launch. Then we were on our own.

On our own—but we did not lack for company, much of which we could well have done without. Because of the Suez blockade, there was scarcely an hour of the day or night when we did not have at least one ship in sight. On the very first day a freighter changed course and came bearing down on us, a frightening sight to one who is maneuvering under sail. We tacked and headed out, but the freighter too changed course. I was becoming more and more uneasy. Obviously, they were merely interested in looking us over, but what if they overestimated our maneuverability under sail? What if they came too close upwind and blanketed our sails so that we lost steerageway? What if—It is impossible to describe how small and vulnerable a yacht can feel when forced to play tag with a large and relentless freighter!

The ship approached closer and at last Barbara was able to make out the name on her hull: Sulu. It was a cargo ship from the Philippines, whose captain had visited us on board and had later taken us all out to dinner. Sulu approached very close, far closer than I cared for, sounding her whistle repeatedly. We broke out our compressed-air hooter and returned the greeting, waving heartfelt permission for our jovial escort to go on his way. At last he did, and the Sulu carried on out of sight.

For the first six days the breeze was light and the weather fair, but on January 8 things took a turn for the worse. The radio was giving out gale warnings, so we took down the main and were prepared when a thunderstorm hit in the early-morning hours, bringing heavy rain and strong winds at its peak. By dawn the breeze had fallen off enough so that we were banging around considerably in very heavy seas.

This was the worst spot in our rounding of the continent, however. We drifted past Cape Agulhas, the southernmost tip of Africa, in quiet seas and with the lightest of airs, as if on a sail in the bay. On our last afternoon, while under bare steerageway, we narrowly missed being run down by the tanker Kongstank, which passed us just to port, running at a good clip and with no one visible anywhere on the ship. So far as we could see, the bridge was quite empty and we could only assume that they had set the automatic controls and gone below for a cup of coffee or a nap. It was a sobering thought to realize that they might have sent us to the bottom without ever knowing what they’d hit!

Throughout that day, as we cruised slowly northward, we were skirting the Cape Peninsula, which well deserves its reputation as one of the most beautiful sights in the world. The dramatically eroded pinnacles, rather like a cross section of the Grand Canyon taken out of context, run down to the sea, with deep-purple gorges between. The Twelve Apostles, the Lion, and, finally, Table Mountain were all formations we had seen in photographs, but now we were seeing them for the first time in full color. Dusk settled over the sea. A pale moon gradually deepened to rich yellow as we drew closer to Cape Town and, behind the mountain peaks, the sky grew dark. Lights of the city began to flicker on around the base of the hills, sparkling like fireflies. The air grew colder. We were in the Atlantic now, and the water in this new ocean was frigid to the touch. For the first time since 1954 in the North Pacific I could see my breath, and the fur-lined parkas were dug out.

During the night we lay off, merely keeping our position. With an almost constant movement of shipping in and out, we had no desire to attempt a strange and crowded harbor after dark.

Next morning, finding ourselves blanketed by Table Mountain, we turned on the engine and motored in. Following the chart, we proceeded down the entire length of the harbor, inside the breakwater, past several dozen freighters and tankers and passenger ships, until we reached the area marked “Small Boat Harbor” at the extreme end. A number of frolicking seals came out to greet us and Jessica was enchanted when two little penguins drifted by, sitting demurely side by side on a floating board.

Near the inner entrance we were met by a motorboat filled with members of the Royal Cape Yacht Club, who showed us to the mooring that had been reserved for us. By midmorning all was secure, we had been cleared, and Cape Town lay before us.

Cape Town, spread out at the foot of Table Mountain, has a spectacular setting, but the city itself, from the narrow viewpoint of the yachtsman, is somewhat less than easily accessible. The small-boat anchorage is at the far end of a long, unfinished, and unshaded road within the commercial dock area where no public transportation is available. Going out and coming back it is necessary to check with guards at the customs gate, some of whom were pleasant and some of whom, like human beings everywhere, were officious. It was at this gate that another of those incidents occurred, during our stay in Cape Town, which had far-reaching consequences in terms of misunderstanding. I recount it merely to illustrate from what a small scratch a festering sore can develop, particularly if the scratch occurs when poisons are in the very air.

One evening we were driving out of the dock area in a friend’s car. Barbara and I were in front with our host; Nick, Mickey, and Moto, in the back.

As always, we stopped and made the usual report to the guard: “We’re from the yacht Phoenix.”

Usually this was enough to give us clearance, but this time the guard came over and peered in the rear window. “What about those chaps?” he demanded.

“They’re from the yacht, too.”

“Seamen?”

“No, yachtsmen.”

There was a pause—and then the guard waved us on. I thought nothing more of the incident, but many months later Moto rather sadly brought the incident up.

“You never on our side,” he accused us. “Never—really.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like Cape Town—you let policeman call us Japs.”

Only one who knows the fierce pride of the Japanese can understand how they hate and resent being called Japs. I was completely in the dark.

“When did anyone ever call you Japs—without my correcting them?”

Finally, after much digging and probing, we pieced the story together. Moto described the circumstances at the Cape Town docks and suddenly the scene came back to me. I recalled the guard, peering in the back window and asking, in quite neutral tones, “What about those chaps?”

The Japanese didn’t know the word “chaps” and had thought they were being insulted. Almost a year later I was given a chance to explain, but it was too late. The damage had been done.

The walk to town is long, even after one has left the dock area—and it is even longer coming back with supplies. And the wind! Here is one place where it blows—and rarely, it seems, in a direction to give the tired pedestrian a needed boost. One afternoon I was coming back from town, leaning against the wind at every step, with my eyes slitted to protect them from the grit that stung my face. Arriving at the club, I understandably felt the need of a rest and nourishment before attempting the trip by dinghy to my ship. The anemometer on the clubhouse wall was registering 60 knots, but no one seemed to be paying it any particular attention.

“Is your wind gauge accurate?” I asked a member.

He smiled sheepishly. “As a matter of fact, I’m awfully afraid it’s not. Underregisters a bit, you know—five or six knots, actually. Must have it fixed!”

In a wind such as this, just getting out to the Phoenix became high adventure. The method was to drag Flatty around the harbor until well upwind of the Phoenix, then get in and take a sleighride down to the boat, making very certain not to miss! The approved method of rounding up into the wind and coming up alongside would have got one nowhere—except into the most remote corner of Duncan Dock at the other end of the harbor.

Cape Town, we were happy to find, was more relaxed than Durban. The Royal Cape Yacht Club extended a welcome to our whole party and gave us the freedom of their facilities, while the press also played up the interracial composition of our group and ran a story that resulted in bringing us many rewarding contacts we would not otherwise have had.

Among these visitors were three representatives of the African magazine Drum, who came down to judge for themselves an intercultural relationship that would be impossible in South Africa. Two of them were “Colored,” one Indian, and they stayed for several hours.

“How many of us can you squeeze in your sail locker?” one of them joked, with a serious undercurrent that was pathetic. “You could drop us off anywhere—Brazil—the United States—even Mississippi!”

“You wouldn’t like Mississippi,” I said, speaking with some knowledge, since I had spent much of my youth there.

“Man, just try me and see!” exclaimed one, a big Cape Colored. “I’d trade places with any Negro in any part of your ‘Solid South’! At least there I’d know my children and grandchildren would have a future.”

At last, with obvious reluctance, the Indian reminded them that they had a deadline to meet.

“Just a few minutes more!” the big fellow pleaded. “Let me stay here just a little longer—on free soil—and dream!”

On another occasion a South African—a Negro—came aboard after writing us a note. Obviously well educated, a born leader, he was polite but wary. When he came aboard I offered my hand as a matter of course. He hesitated, then took it briefly.

We went below and spent a long afternoon. He told us, vividly, quietly, and without ranting, of the situation that existed in South Africa—from the black man’s point of view—and tried to explain why it could not last.

I remember what he said: “A man who drives a truck can drive a tank; a man who handles a shovel can handle a gun; a man who can read the Bible can read a sign telling him to rise up in revolt. They cannot use us as their tools without giving us some education; they cannot educate us without losing us.”

“Will there be an uprising?”

“There will be. There will be killing and destruction. There will be a return to barbarism—on both sides—in spite of all we can do. For the moment,” he added in measured tones, “the barbarism is on only one side—the government’s.”

“What will you do when the day comes?” I asked.

He looked at us calmly. “I will kill as many white men as I can, before I am killed myself.”

I rowed him to shore and when he got out he paused a moment—and then offered his hand to me.

“Today,” he told me, “was the first time in my life that a white man has ever shaken hands with me! Thank you—and do not stay in this unhappy place.”

That same week at the home of the American representative of Coca-Cola, we met the Commissioner of Education—a white man, of course. We found Mr. De Plessis to be witty, urbane, and well informed, a delightful dinner companion but, like almost every other “European” we spoke to, defensive and uneasy on the subject of apartheid. He expressed sympathy for the condition of the natives and readily acknowledged the dangers and inequalities of the existing government policy. Nevertheless, he defended it, refusing to admit that there was any alternative. He emphasized (as did everyone else, as if it were a lesson they had learned by rote) that “South Africa’s problem is very different from yours in America,” and repeated the inevitable statistics: eight million nonwhites; only two million whites.

Of course, if one accepts his thesis that the white group is innately superior (citing, among other authorities, the Bible) and must maintain ascendancy, there does seem to be no alternative. De Plessis’s only hope seemed to be that during his tenure at least he would be able to maintain the status quo.

This philosophy, however urbanely expressed, seems to be prevalent in many countries today including, I am ashamed to say, our own. It can be expressed crudely as: “Get yours, keep the lid on, and leave the mess for your children to clean up.”

It is not a philosophy that tends to make for secure or stable children!

While we were in the country, several hundred prominent citizens, including Alan Paton, were rounded up in a single night and thrown into jail on the blanket, undocumented charge of “treason.” Treason, in South Africa, can be attributed to anyone who disagrees with the Nationalist party or criticizes its policies, with the result that more and more troubled individuals are leaving the country or, against the dictates of conscience, letting themselves be lulled into doing nothing.

We met one very brave man, a professor at the university, and a group of his friends whom we would never have met if it had not been for the unusual composition of our crew. Professor Maxwell and his wife (that is not their name) daily expected the ominous knock on the door, the summons to appear—or to disappear. And for what heinous crime? Only that they refused to choose or reject their friends on the basis of race. They have continued to entertain in their home men and women of whatever ancestry and by this personal defiance have cut themselves off from most of their “European” associates, who are afraid to continue a relationship with such dubious characters. Already the professor’s classes had been cut, his salary reduced, his membership canceled, in an effort to force him into line. The next step, of course, which he anticipated momentarily, was outright dismissal from the university—and jail.

The Maxwells’ courage was a revelation to us and a profound inspiration. Through them, for the first time, was brought home to us the realization that blind obedience to the laws of one’s country is not always the highest duty of a conscientious man. The actions taken by the Nationalists, such as the disenfranchisement of the Coloreds, restrictions on travel, the “pass laws” for Africans, curfews based on race, curtailment of job opportunities, and other encroachments on human rights have all been done quite legally—that is, in accord with the existing laws in South Africa. And yet the disparity between law and morality is so great that even those who have helped to make the laws seem to feel an impelling need to explain and justify.

What does a scientist do when confronted with such a situation as exists in South Africa? I saw one man’s adaptation, when I visited another university near Cape Town. My host was a fellow anthropologist, a specialist in early man, who very kindly spent the afternoon with me, showing me his laboratory and materials. Later, over tea, I commented, as one anthropologist to another, on the obviously erroneous racist policy of the government. My host froze instantly.

“That is not my field of interest,” he said coldly.

“But as an anthropologist—”

“That is not my field of interest,” he repeated, and the discussion was ended.

All of us were beginning to look forward almost desperately to setting sail again, as though we, too, were in danger of being imprisoned if we lingered. When the Brazilian Consulate stipulated that we must all present a doctor’s report from a complete physical examination before visas for that country would be issued, I felt a ridiculous premonition that something, some symptom, would be discovered which would make it necessary for us to linger. Let sleeping dogs lie was my feeling—but there was no way to secure our visas without the doctor’s report—and Brazil was a “must” on our itinerary because of our Japanese. They had had slim pickings in many ports, but in São Paulo or Belém, where there was a very large Japanese population, they could look forward to an overwhelming reception such as they had experienced in Hawaii. They had it coming to them—and so I made appointments for our physicals.

I needn’t have worried. The doctor did little more than fill out and sign the official forms, after asking such general questions as “Do you feel all right? Any complaints?”

The only complaint I had was the cost—a pretty stiff fee for such a cursory going over. (I carefully filed the expensive documents away with our other official forms, but no one in Brazil ever examined or even asked for them. Needless to say, however, had we neglected to get the papers, they would have been the first thing we had to produce upon arrival in Brazil.)

A few days before leaving we moved to Fisherman’s Harbor, where there was a commercial slip, and once more we hauled out to give the bottom a check and add an iron brace to the rudder, which had begun to work a bit. Two nights before our departure I was coming back from the Flying Angel Mission for Seamen, carrying an armload of books they had generously donated to the Phoenix. While crossing over a couple of boats to get to our own, I made a miscalculation in stepping from one to another. Instead of putting my foot on solid deck, I walked off into air, with the result that I fell heavily, knocked all the breath out of me, and injured my ribs.

Barbara, as ship’s medical officer, immediately attempted to invalid me, which I naturally resisted violently. She wound me around with an elastic bandage and begged me to delay departure until I was “out of danger,” but I had already announced the day and hour of leaving and, being a determined sort, I continued with preparations for departure.

(At this point Jessica has just reminded me of the conjugation of “I am determined.” According to her, it continues: “You are stubborn—he is a pigheaded fool!”)

In any event, I had no intention of letting South Africa keep us in her clutches.

Barbara’s diary has something to say about the last hectic day before sailing:

Usual rush of shopping, this time with the help and company of Mrs. Maxwell and Mr. T——. (Mr. T——, an African of the Xosa tribe, speaks flawless English and is highly educated and intelligent. He is a leader among his people—for which reason his pass has been confiscated. For five years he cannot leave Cape Town, nor attend any meetings or speak to any gathering. With dogged determination, he is trying to get his message across through the written word, but there is no outlet for his articles, no money to have his books privately published.)

When we wanted to pause in the middle of our hectic day for a cup of tea, we had to return to the Phoenix, as there is no public place in all of Cape Town where we could have sat down and been served together.

While we were relaxing and chatting over our tea, Mr. W—— (a white man) of the yacht club came aboard. We introduced him to our friends. Noticed that he did not shake hands with Mr. T——. Stayed only a moment and did not look directly at him as he made his farewells. Awkward. A pity, as Mr. W—— is a fine man and has been wonderfully kind to us. (He even took Nick, Mickey, and Moto to his club one Sunday to sail with him in an 18-footer event. This took a bit of courage; as he admitted later: “I didn’t know if I’d get away with it.” But apparently there is all the difference in the world between a visiting Japanese yachtsman and a resident African.)

I’ll be glad to leave South Africa, but some of the friends we have made I’ll carry always with me. The Maxwells, Mr. T——, the rest of their group—these people I will never forget. How fine they are in every way—and under what terrible pressures. I wonder how many of us would have the courage they have if we were put to the test as they have been—every day, every hour.

At last the final day dawned. Manuia, who had produced one small, black, and completely tailless kitten in Durban (Hobson’s Choice—or Hobby, by name), was already in the mood for trying again and had spent the night out. All day we watched anxiously for her return, but the hour of sailing drew near and there was still no sign of her.

“We can’t go without Manuia!” Jessica protested tearfully.

I had spent the morning going through the red tape of clearing port, had handed in our exit visas to the immigration authorities, and had spent my last few South African coins on a few extra “sweets” for the trip. Besides, my ribs hurt and I thought Jessica’s tears were misplaced. Surely my condition justified a few of them!

“Manuia knew we were sailing today,” I pronounced. “Besides, that’s why you’ve got a Spare Cat.” That didn’t seem to comfort her.

I went below and started the engine.

“Okay—cast off!” Ted, in the cockpit, relayed the order to Mickey on the foredeck. We drifted slowly away from the dock, Barbara waving to friends ashore and Jessica still looking despairingly for a glimpse of the errant Manuia.

Suddenly we heard a hail. “Hold on!” Someone on the dock was waving a slip of paper. “Here’s a notice from the post office—a package is being held for you to clear it through customs!”

“Our Christmas package from Minnetta!” wailed Barbara. “It’s finally here. We’ve got to go back!”

“Manuia!” Jessica called piteously. “Manuia! Please come back!”

At this moment Ted spoke up. “Skip, I don’t think the water’s coming out right.”

I looked at the engine exhaust. He was correct.

That settled it. Ribs, cat, package, engine—we had four valid reasons for postponing our departure. There was only one thing to do, and I did it.

“Get up the sails!” I directed.

The men got up foresail and mizzen and, with a fair wind, we sailed out of the harbor while I got to work on the balky engine. I knew that if we turned back we might never get out of South Africa.

We set the course for St. Helena, an isolated dot, 1,700 miles out in the Atlantic, and by nightfall the beautiful, unhappy land at the tip of the African continent was fast falling astern.

13      ACROSS THE ATLANTIC THE
LONG WAY: CAPE TOWN
TO NEW YORK CITY

“Beautiful night, new moon, slow progress, who cares?”

For the rest of the day I was very unpopular with the female members of my crew, and that night Jessica cried herself to sleep with our last remaining cat, three-month-old Hobby, in her arms.

By the next morning, however, Barbara was able to record:

Feb. 9. Everyone in better spirits now that we have left S.A. and its creeping poisons behind.... The Japanese seem very friendly and willing again and I have a hunch that Cape Town was the low point as far as group morale was concerned. Brazil should be far better.

Our track lay close to the great-circle route between South Africa and New York, so that we were not in an empty part of the world as we had been in the North Pacific and the Indian Ocean. On this trip we saw several ships.

For the first week we worked our way through light variables, with generally fair weather, until we picked up the trades at about 25° South. For the rest of the trip the wind for the most part was almost dead aft, and we sailed with the main on one side and the foresail or genoa swung out on the other, wing and wing.

On the morning of February 23 we rounded the north end of St. Helena and dropped down to St. James Bay. As we approached, the wind became strong and gusty. Several mild squalls made maneuvering difficult, so we anchored well out, and moved in later after the wind had dropped.

By 1400 we had been cleared and were free to go ashore to look over our first Atlantic island. St. Helena is rugged and beautiful—not at all the “barren fortress rock” we had imagined. Perhaps our views had been shaped by our awareness of St. Helena’s chief claim to world fame, as the place of Napoleon’s last exile. Certainly it is remote enough, and we could understand how, to Napoleon and later prisoners, it might well seem like the end of the world.

On our first expedition to shore we had a few bad moments. A native boy in a largish dory came alongside and offered to row us in. Since we had not yet launched Dodo (our new ship’s boat from Mauritius) and the seas in the roadstead were too high for our Flatty to carry more than two, Barbara, Jessica and I accepted the offer. We had only gone a few hundred yards when our oarsman somehow lost one oar, and we began drifting rapidly out to sea. He attempted to scull with the other oar, but with little success. Fortunately Ted was on deck and, seeing our predicament, rowed out in Flatty, rescued the oar, and overtook us. If he hadn’t acted quickly, we would have had the alternatives of jumping out and swimming for it or of continuing our seaward drift, with no help to be expected from shore. The nearest leeward land was South America, 2,000 miles to the west, which would have been quite a trip without food, water, compass, or sail.

Jamestown, the only settlement on the island, is a clean and fascinating village huddled in the deep cleft between two rugged mountains. The streets are narrow, winding into the valley, with dignified houses of fieldstone painted a yellowish cream and fronting directly on the pavement. Loaded burros, with or without masters, wander through the village and sometimes (as we found out) stop to poke their noses into a conversation. The people—a mixture of European, East Indian, and African—are friendly, dignified, and self-confident. There is undoubtedly, as elsewhere, a certain degree of stratification and snobbishness, but it is refreshingly minor.

Sir James Harford, Governor of St. Helena, invited us to the Residency for tea, and later Lady Harford, learning that Barbara was planning to move into the local hotel for a few days in order to finish a book, invited both her and Jessica to Plantation House, where they could work in a “breakfast-in-bed” atmosphere—an invitation which the girls wasted no time in accepting. They returned with a completed book manuscript and countless anecdotes about the island.

Jessica described the ponderous antics of Jonathan, the 200-year-old giant tortoise from the Galápagos who makes his home in the Governor’s front yard and can cross it (all 250 feet) in 33 minutes when moving at top speed, as officially timed by Jessica.

And Barbara told of the near-disastrous visit of Prince Philip which had taken place only the month before. (So rare are the visitors to the Residency that we were the next guests to sign the book after the page that had been devoted to the single imposing signature: “Philip.”) It seems that the Prince and his party had created a minor crisis on arrival, for they had been conducting a beard-raising competition, and Philip, with “a face full of rather scruffy whiskers,” bore no resemblance to the official photos that hung in every island home. Thus many islanders did not realize they had actually seen him until he had passed, and a number of Girl Guides who had been waiting for hours broke into mass tears.

During our stay the fortnightly Castle Line ship called, and we saw an amazing transformation take place when 500 tourists were decanted for the day. Shops which had been locked and shuttered threw open their doors to display tables covered with beautiful lacework, weaving, basketry, and art. The streets were crowded. The visitors undoubtedly carried away the impression of a bustling port town where hundreds of people milled and bumped into one another day after day in a frenetic pursuit of souvenirs. Only we, who remained after the boat had gone and peace again descended on the somnolent village, knew the truth.

It was amazing how much there was to do on so small an island. For one thing, there were the 699 steps of “Jacob’s Ladder” to climb, a morning’s undertaking in itself. This almost perpendicular flight of steps mounts steeply from Jamestown to a cluster of houses on Signal Hill, saving a trip by road of several miles. We found the short cut to be literally breath-taking and made the grade only by pausing every hundredth step to “admire the view.”

We had planned, of course, to pay our respects to the most historic spot on the island: Longwood, the last home of Napoleon. Jessica’s lessons after leaving Cape Town had leaned heavily toward the Napoleonic era and, needless to say, what Jessica studied we all studied. Always our readings and discussions in the cockpit gained meaningful focus as we looked forward to seeing the places we were reading about. (Yet, over and over, we are asked, “But what did your children do for their education?”)

But when we were driven up into the hills to see the rambling house—painted a startling raspberry pink—the gate was locked. The French Consul, whom we were told to telephone, was most cordial, but we somehow failed to make connections, and we finally had to sail, reluctantly but on schedule, with the dubious distinction of being the only visitors who have spent more than a week on St. Helena without visiting Napoleon’s tomb.

On March 3 we departed for Ascension, 700 miles to the northwest. There had been rumors that because of the American missile installations being erected on this British island, we might not be allowed to land. However, with the cooperation of C. & W. contacts, we received a cable from the Resident Magistrate granting us permission to visit, but adding that “access to certain areas ashore, details of which will be advised upon arrival, is prohibited.”

Our passage was quiet—almost too quiet. It took eleven days, including two of flat calm right in the middle of the southeast trades. On several nights the sea was so quiet that the stars were clearly mirrored on its surface. My log says, “Beautiful night, new moon, slow progress, who cares?”

On the tenth night we sighted Ascension just off the port bow. We kept it in sight all night in the moonlight, and dropped anchor in the morning just off Georgetown. The roadstead was very rough, which we were told was the usual condition. Our trips to and from the land were made in the shore boat, with skilled local boatmen at the long sweeps. The passengers must have a certain degree of skill, too. Arrived at the landing steps, one must wait for the proper moment, then grasp a hanging rope and swing quickly to the shore. If you fail to connect, you are left either swimming or dangling, depending on just where you made your mistake.

C. & W. has for many years been the principal installation on the island, which has no indigenous population. Now, however, all is overshadowed by the busy and highly secret activities of the U.S. military. Although we were in Ascension for only three days, it was long enough to become aware of a certain amount of friction between the British and American factions, one reason for which lay in the fact that the American installations have a superfluity of luxuries while the British are obliged to live a rather austere life. For example, there was the matter of water.

The British were dependent upon rain for their water supply. Cement watersheds high in the hills trapped moisture deposited by the trade winds and carried the water to storage tanks which, at the time of our visit, were almost empty. British water consumption, therefore, was strictly rationed. For the Americans, however, there was a whole ocean full of water distilled in practically unlimited amounts at a cost, we were told, of some 10 cents per gallon to the American taxpayers.

We sailed on March 16 for Belém, Brazil, which we had given as our next mailing address. The family would have preferred to set a course directly for Barbados and so back to the States by the most expeditious route, but the detour was made for the sake of our Japanese crew members. They wanted to investigate the possibilities for emigrating to Brazil and had chosen Belém because there was a Japanese Consulate there, as well as a Japanese newspaper and more than 2,000 Japanese emigrants, and they had reason to expect a more cordial reception there than they had had in South Africa.

Our course was laid to pass south of Fernando de Noronha and around the bulge of South America. The breeze continued light and fluky, although the weather was fine. On the fourteenth day a series of squalls hit. The first, which was the heaviest, caught us with the genoa up and ripped it thoroughly. Fortunately, we had enough spare canvas to replace the ruined panel, but Moto—who had quietly taken over most of the sail repair chores—had to settle down to a three-day sewing job.

As we closed the coast the weather grew more and more uncertain, with frequent showers and many wind shifts. We had done much reading en route, in an effort to learn something about the conditions we might expect, but could find nothing to indicate that any other yachts had ever called at Belém, 70 miles up the Pará, a branch of the Amazon. However, Frank Wightman of Wylo had been aboard in Cape Town, and had mentioned Fortaleza, about 600 miles east of Belém. According to him, the port was easy of access, so we decided to put in there first, in the hope of getting some of the information—and the hospitality—that the Japanese were looking for.

On March 31 we sighted our first land and two hours later we spoke a sailing schooner out of Alagoas, heading down the coast. In our best Portuguese (culled word by word from a dictionary and strung together in what we hoped was the proper order) we asked, “Onde está Fortaleza?” and were loudly reassured by gestures and unanimous voice vote that we were on the right track. By afternoon we could see the breakwater and the city beyond.

Having no harbor chart, we entered carefully, just at dusk, and dropped anchor off the main part of town. Soon we were sitting on deck, eating a hot dinner and admiring the view of a new continent. Fortaleza, as seen from the harbor, is a clean-looking city with a few large white buildings and many modern-appearing homes with colored roofs. The bay was full of sailing craft, most of them of the jangada type—a raft of balsa logs with a mast and a sail, so that the boatmen sail standing up and often have water swishing around their knees. One by one, as night fell, the fishing boats sailed right up to the beach and were pulled beyond the tide line, where they lay with their sails still up, like a flotilla of stranded butterflies.

Morning came and still no one paid any attention to us. Finally, becoming a touch impatient, we upped anchor and made our way to the corner of the harbor where the breakwater joins the land and where the greatest activity seemed to be concentrated. Again we anchored and waited, flying our Q-flag and a skillful facsimile of the Brazilian ensign which Nick had painted on white cloth, its design and colors being too complicated for the materials and ingenuity of the girls. Still nothing happened. At noon I rowed ashore, only to be motioned by the officer on the dock to go back on board.

Shortly thereafter an official boarded us: the port doctor, who spoke practically no English, but chattered along most sociably in Portuguese. He showed us pictures of his house (Spanish type) and of his six children (Brazilian type), and managed to convey that there was no American or Japanese Consulate here, and no Japanese emigrants. He was not in the least interested in our expensive and hard-gotten papers and health certificates, but he inquired, by gestures, if we happened to have a few spare cigarettes. We did, and were duly cleared.

Later, from a German national working in Fortaleza, we learned the reason for the long delay in acknowledging our presence. Since our arrival we had been under constant surveillance. To the Fortalezan mind there could be only one reason for a foreign yacht to enter this port: smuggling. They had held off boarding us in order to see what moves we would make, and who would try illegally to contact us. Throughout the night they had been watching us, until finally they had concluded not that we were innocent of smuggling but that we were too smart to try it in their port!

We spent four days in Fortaleza. It was a unique place. In Brazil more than in any other country we ran into communication difficulties, for practically no one spoke English. Not shopkeepers, nor police, nor bus drivers. We were forced to make sign language go a long way and had quite a time locating essential supplies. Because of a severe drought in the islands of the South Atlantic we had been unable to lay in fresh supplies and had arrived in Fortaleza completely out of many of the basic comestibles upon which the cook depended: onions, potatoes, eggs, cheese. Worst of all, we had less than a cupful of rice aboard. Through the help of English-speaking clerks at Brooks Bros. we were able to obtain some of these items.

From our anchorage it was a five-mile bus ride to the center of town, the road curving along the shore of the bay or through narrow streets a block or two inland. The city, which had looked so clean and modern from our first anchorage, turned out to be a strange combination of squalor and a rather down-at-the-heels magnificence. The bus stopped frequently to allow herds of goats to move to one side or the other of the road or waited while passengers who were about to get on or off bade lingering farewells to the friends they were leaving behind.

Fortaleza, though interesting, was no substitute for Belém, as far as Nick, Mickey, and Moto were concerned. Instead of 2,000 Japanese emigrants, there was only one family of Japanese ancestry—and they couldn’t speak Japanese! As to conditions in Belém, and the practical problem of taking a yacht up the Pará River, we could learn little. We did find out that there was a pilot station at Salinas, just east of the mouth of the Pará, and that because of shoals and unpredictable currents all ships were required to stop there to pick up a pilot. Whether this regulation included yachts, no one knew. What the charges might be, no one knew. What the river was like, no one knew. There was only one way to find out, and that was to go and see.

We moved on up the coast, staying well offshore. On the sixth day we edged back toward land, and the following evening identified Japerica Island. That night we could see Salinas Light faintly off the port bow. We sailed cautiously and sounded at intervals, getting between 8 and 11 fathoms at a distance of some 10 to 15 miles offshore. The area is cluttered with shoals and banks and there is little comfort to be derived from the chart, which says, “This chart cannot be regarded as trustworthy. The buoys cannot be depended upon.”

Next morning we dropped anchor in six fathoms, about five miles offshore. Many jangada were flitting about and we hailed one. After a session in sign language, Ted and I were taken aboard for a trip to the beach. We made a wet landing in the surf and then walked the mile or so to the small village where the pilot station is located. Here we were lucky enough to find an English-speaking pilot, so that my soaked and pulpy phrase book was not needed.

He strongly advised us to remain at anchor, rather than attempt the Pará without a strong engine, and assured me that our delegation to Belém could travel the ninety miles overland “by bus.” He himself was scheduled to leave for Belém at once as pilot on the freighter now waiting well offshore, but he would drop us at the Phoenix on his way out and leave orders for the pilot boat to come out in the morning to pick up those who wanted to take the bus. It seemed a very sound plan.

Ted and I returned to the Phoenix and called a conference. Nick, Mickey, and Moto, of course, would form the core of the overland expedition to Belém. That meant that Ted and I must both remain aboard, as I had no intention of leaving my ship in such an uneasy anchorage without two able-bodied men to sail out in case of need. This made it necessary for Barbara to head the expedition to Belém, so that she could pick up our mail, cash some travelers’ checks, and lay in the necessary provisions for our next hop, to the West Indies. Jessica, anxiously expecting stacks of birthday mail, elected to go, too.

Well before dawn the next morning the pilot boat came alongside, signaling its arrival with a chorus of frantic shouts in Portuguese, followed by a solid crash which left deep gouges in our rubbing strake. The pilot boat was entirely devoid of fenders or mats and the sea was, to put it mildly, rough. While they maneuvered to stay alongside in darkness and drizzle, we somehow accomplished the tricky transfer of our five travelers and their duffel. Ted and I watched them go and then settled down for an indefinite period at an anchorage which was, without any close competition, the worst we had ever been in.

We stood watch and watch, spending most of our waking time together playing chess. We held ourselves ready to sail out at a moment’s notice, if necessary, and to cruise on and off until the pilot boat brought back our ship’s company. Rough waters, heavy tides, and numerous squalls kept us company, and the imperative clank of the anchor chain was an ominous and constant sound. Meantime, during the heavy and frequent showers, we filled all the water tanks to overflowing, and, on Jessica’s birthday, we whipped up and frosted a birthday cake for her, which we put away against her return.

We had estimated that the trip to Belém would take three or four hours each way, and allowing one or two days for business and pleasure, we looked for the travelers’ return any time after the second day. Actually, four long days had to drag by before the pilot boat came alongside again, to return a bedraggled and exhausted bunch of excursionists. They had brought with them all the supplies we needed for the next leg and Barbara, guessing correctly that no one would want to make another trip ashore, had attended to the formalities of clearance.

Within half an hour we had everything stowed and, deciding that the mail, the wild tales, and the delayed birthday celebration could wait, I ordered the anchor up and we headed out.

I have never been quite clear about what happened to the rest of the gang during the trip ashore, but twenty-two pages in Jessica’s Journal gave me some idea and Barbara tried to fill me in on the rest. The “bus to Belém,” which I had thought was standard transportation, had turned out to be a private car, for which the driver expected to be paid 40,000 cruzeiros (about $90), in advance. Barbara tells me she had no difficulty in making her emphatic “No!” understood, but after the car had been driven sadly away, she found her phrase book quite inadequate to ask the bewildered but eager-to-help villagers who crowded around, “How do you travel when you want to go to Belém?” The only interpretation she could make from their baffled shrugs was that no one ever wanted to go there. There certainly was no regular bus service, and the railroad, mentioned in the pilot book and shown neatly on the map, had never been developed beyond the ten miles of track laid in a flush of enthusiasm ten years earlier.

By some intricate process I never fully understood, Barbara got her entire gang to Belém, and back. They traveled by truck, by local bus, by passing jeep, and by a number of other unnamed means. In Belém they managed to pick up the mail and supplies and, in the case of the men, to get a smattering of the information for which we had come so far out of our way.

We now set a course for Barbados, 1,100 miles to the northwest. Our route led us across the Great Amazon Bight, a region of dirty brown water and uncertain weather. For the first two days it rained almost continuously, with mean rip tides and cross swells. Our progress alternated between a drift and a fast run, depending on the squalls. Each burst of wind and rain carried us along a few miles and then passed on, leaving us wallowing behind to wait for the next boost. They were not too violent, so we kept up our four lowers throughout.

On the afternoon of the second day, however, we could see a squall approaching which obviously meant business, and we thought it prudent to reduce sail a bit. My log tells what happened:

Biggest squall we’ve ever had, hit suddenly just as we were downing foresail. Ripped main and jib to pieces. Rain torrential and flat out, stung like hail. Continued under foresail and mizzen until things quieted.

The main was a total loss but the canvas scraps, as Slocum philosophically observed under similar circumstances, made good material for pot rags. The foresail was saved, with only minor tears, but the jib was badly damaged and required a complete overhaul. It was an amazing sensation to see a full, billowing mainsail disappear in an instant, and Ted, who was at the tiller, confessed that his first instinct was one of helplessness because bits of canvas were carried out of reach so fast there was no chance to grab and save them!

We bent on our spare mainsail and carried on, working our way across the bight under the three lowers. Frequently we passed boiling patches of confused waters, bubbling in turbulent rips. The water was dirty brown in color and brackish in taste, although closer to shore it may well have been completely fresh, as the stories of travelers claim. Sometime during all this—we could not take sights because of overcast skies—we passed the equator and entered the Northern Hemisphere, but we didn’t feel in the mood to make a celebration of it.

At last, toward evening of the third day, we saw blue water ahead. The line of demarcation was surprisingly abrupt, and as we passed out of the discolored area of the Amazon current the weather, too, settled into an ideal trade-wind pattern. We had left behind one more region of unpredictable conditions which had been considerably on my mind. That night we saw the North Star for the first time in two years.

We made the rest of the trip in good time and even better spirits, reaching Barbados early in the morning of April 23. We stayed a week at this very British isle, not so much because we fell in love with its charms as from the necessity for awaiting the arrival of funds. The authorities in Salinas had managed to extract from Barbara every cent she had, as fees for the trips made by the pilot boat. When she had turned out her purse and pocketbook, and showed that was all the money she had in her possession, the total charges proved to be, by an amazing coincidence, exactly the amount she had.

On our first evening at anchor, while we were eating on deck, we heard a splash alongside and a voice hailed us from the water. “Ahoy, Phoenix! May I come aboard?”

Permission being granted, a sunburned face with a white nose (zinc oxide) appeared over the gunwales. The wet and burly stranger introduced himself as Larry Foley, New York correspondent for the Sydney Daily Telegraph, now on vacation in the West Indies. He had scented a story in the Phoenix and had swum out to interview us.

We became very friendly with Larry and on our departure from Barbados invited him to island-hop with us for a bit, so he could see how the other ten-thousandth of one per cent lives.

Early on the morning of the 30th we passed between St. Lucia and Martinique, an island of magnificent mountain peaks reminiscent of Hawaii and the high islands of the South Seas. By noon we had put Diamond Rock astern and rounded Cape Solomon. In midafternoon, less than twenty-four hours from Bridgetown, we dropped the anchor in the lee of an imposing gray stone fortress. Fort de France, the port city and capital of Martinique, spread out along the waterfront, looking very much like Papeete in the French Societies. A park along the shore was embellished with an edging of city dump and the buildings facing the harbor bore large signs, in English: “Buy your Perfume from us! Free Port Prices!”

We spent a couple of busy days in Martinique, some of us going overland to visit Saint-Pierre, the site of the tremendous volcanic eruption of 1902 in which some 40,000 lives were lost. Ted decided to spend the night ashore, to get the flavor of the place. What flavor he found, we didn’t learn, but he dragged himself aboard the next morning muttering something about walking all night, deserted roads, and a solitary fellow pedestrian, and spent his second day in Martinique sleeping.

I don’t always know how these things arrange themselves, but on our second afternoon we discovered that we had annexed, for a few hours, a French teen-ager of solid dimensions and stolid personality (and no English) whom we knew only as Mlle. Petite. The arrangements were Barbara’s and had something to do with an exchange visit, Mlle. Petite being traded for a couple of our men. I rowed them out to the Phoenix and had to shove her up the boarding ladder, as she was quite incapacitated by fright. We tumbled her onto the deck, where she promptly became sick from the motion at anchor. Each time she recovered slightly and attempted to go below, the mal de mer returned, which, combined with her embarrassment, reduced her to a state of mute despair. Barbara’s halting French was inadequate to reassure or comfort her, and at last it appeared that the only remedy was to get her back to shore.

Reversing ourselves, we tried to get her into the dinghy. The bay was choppy, and she again petrified, this time clinging desperately to the ladder even when her feet were in the dinghy. The edge of the dinghy caught under the bottom of the ladder and promptly swamped, swamping with it two rather irritated people—the Skipper and Ted, whom we had turned out of his bunk to help us. We clambered on deck, righted and bailed the dinghy, brought it around again, unclenched Mlle. Petite’s fists from the ladder, and dumped her with scant ceremony onto the center thwart. With firm instructions to “Restez la!” Barbara rowed her ashore, to await the exchange of hostages.

Four hours later Barbara returned to the ship, minus Mlle. Petite but with the rest of our crew.

“What did you do all that time?” I asked her.

“Walked!” she snapped, showing some very convincing blisters.

“Did you improve your French?”

“Improve it!” she said bitterly. “How could I? I couldn’t understand a word she said, and she couldn’t understand me!”

We decided to stop the next day in Dominica, a British possession just 50 miles upwind, which is not too accessible to the tourist. It promised to be a good day’s sail, so we weighed anchor at Fort de France at dawn, passing Saint-Pierre Bay by 0730. Crossing the Dominica Channel in moderate seas, we passed close up the west coast of the island and anchored in Roseau Road by midafternoon. Since the bottom slopes steeply here, it was necessary to come close in. By 1500 we were cleared and on our way ashore.

It was obvious, from the attention we commanded at Roseau, that visitors are much less common here than in Barbados and Martinique. A herd of small boys waited at the dock and vied for permission to “look after” our dinghy—which they did by overloading it almost to sinking point and rowing happily around the harbor. A sizable crowd followed us around as we wandered through the narrow streets where we heard our first West Indian calypso singers—on a jukebox. When we returned to the dock we crossed thirteen eager palms with copper in order to ransom our dinghy. Several older boys applied eagerly for a berth on the Phoenix. “I work for you cheap,” one pleaded.

“I work more cheap!” another countered.

Ted grinned at them as we shoved off. “We’ve already got a crew that works most cheap,” he told them. “For nothing!”

Though we found Roseau attractive and worth exploring further, we decided to move on the next day to Portsmouth, another 20 miles up the coast. That evening, after dropping the hook, we had a swim in the beautifully clear water of Portsmouth Bay and then spent a wonderful evening aboard, playing Hawaiian and Tahitian records.

The next morning we went ashore. It was market day, which meant an unusual bustle in town, or so we were told by the young Britisher in Barclay’s Bank, a one-room, clapboard shack at the end of the dock. We visited the open-air market and had the pleasure of buying an entire stalk of bananas for “30 cents Bee-wee” (B.W.I.), or about 24 cents American. My most vivid memory of Portsmouth is of three young girls, with shining black skin and kinky hair, strolling home from market, each wearing a hand of green bananas on her head, like a hat.

During the day we stopped frequently to drink “punch,” which turned out to be made with the local rum. Punch, at 10 cents B.W.I., was by far the most economical drink, as soft drinks cost 14 cents, gin and brandy 18 cents a shot, and beer a prohibitive 42 cents.

A couple of little girls attached themselves to Jessica and followed her about all day. Instead of asking (or demanding) “few cents,” as children had done during our tour of Roseau, they asked, wistfully, if we had “an old dress.” When we said we could probably find something, their faces lighted like a sunrise.

“I bring you something!” one promised. “I bring you coconut!”

Sure enough, when Barbara came ashore later with several worn and outgrown garments, the two little girls met us at the docks with a coconut, three limes, and five nutmegs—all that they had.

Our next port was the British island of Antigua (pronounced an-tee-ga, and not, to our dismay, a rhyme for “what a pig you ah,” as we had been fondly chanting). We were looking forward to spending several days at Nelson’s Dockyard, in famous English Harbor, so Larry Foley, whose vacation was running out, decided to do the rest of his island hopping by air.

We sailed from Dominica about sundown, setting a course which would take us up the west coast of Guadeloupe during the night. By 0600 we had put that island astern, in spite of a light and fickle breeze in the lee, which kept up most of the night nursing us along, and Montserrat was almost abeam to port. We were finding that Caribbean cruising, as many yachtsmen had discovered before us, has much of beauty and fascination to recommend it. Almost never were we out of sight of at least one island, mountainous and green, each one unique in itself. Only a growing eagerness to reach our own shores, after six years in foreign lands, kept us from stopping everywhere and lingering indefinitely.

The entrance to English Harbor is not too easy to spot from the sea, and even after we had identified its landmarks and knew from the charts that a harbor would open up sharply to port after making the narrow entrance, it took an act of faith to approach what looked like certain disaster. The directions had also been quite right in saying that a head wind usually blows through the pass and that an engine is desirable. It was.

At English Harbor we found a spot so hospitable, so historic, and so quietly relaxing that, for the first time in our mad rush homeward, we were tempted to linger. As Jessica said, it was like living in a museum, for we were surrounded by buildings which had been erected at the time of the British-American “incident” of 1776. A few hundred yards from the Phoenix was the Admiral’s House, where the commanding officer resided when English Harbor was the naval fortress of the British West Indies and Nelson was a young lieutenant.

Jessica had a wonderful time scraping around in the dirt of the ruins and coming up with likely-looking coins and buttons. One coin turned out, upon polishing, to be a beaten-up halfpenny of 1954, but a brass button, bearing a crown and anchor, looked sufficiently authentic to have dropped from the cuff of Nelson himself.

There is no village at English Harbor, no stores, and no accommodations for overnight guests. A single family, the Nicholsons, live in what was once the “Pay Office.” They had arrived nine years earlier in their own yacht, Mollihawk, from England and stayed on as “squatters” in the ruins. Now, with their tenure officially recognized and their untiring contributions to the restoration of a historic site commended and encouraged, they remain the sole permanent residents.

From English Harbor we made another overnight hop, this time to St. Martin (or St. Maarten, as the Dutch spell it), an island which is amicably shared by two European powers. The apocryphal story goes that a Dutchman and an officer from a French ship set foot on the island simultaneously. Each laid claim to it, but they agreed to settle the argument by walking in opposite directions from a given point, meeting on the other side of the island. The Frenchman, who walked faster, had secured the larger northern section, but the Dutchman gained the land containing the salt flats, which yield the principal staple of the island.

There is a sand bar across the entrance to the bay fronting Philipsburg, so we entered cautiously, watching the color of the water and sounding as we went. Once inside, we anchored just off the town and were quickly and efficiently cleared by officials who spoke absolutely correct English. We found Philipsburg an exceptionally clean and attractive little town. Jessica and Barbara, who went off for a walk by themselves, claim they even saw women sweeping the beaches. The rest of us were somewhat more interested in looking for a cold drink, but found that because we had arrived on a Sunday no cafés or shops were open. So we strolled the streets, greeted the villagers—who always smiled and gave us a hearty “Good day” in English—visited the salt flats, and wandered back to the beach to meet the girls.

The next noon we left St. Martin, bound for the American Virgin Islands. Twenty-four hours later we had covered the 120 miles and dropped anchor just off King’s Dock in Charlotte Amalie, the port of St. Thomas. With the national ensign and our yellow quarantine flag flying briskly, we waited to be cleared.

Two hours later we were still waiting. There was plenty of activity ashore and we could see officials moving about, but none of the activity seemed to be directed toward us, nor did we get any signals. Finally we upped anchor and motored over to Long Bay, where we could see many yachts at anchor. No sooner had we arrived and anchored within happy hailing distance of the Carstarphens, of Shellback (fellow members of the Seven Seas Cruising Association whom we had long been waiting to meet), than a peremptory message was sent out from shore: “Return to King’s Wharf and go up to the dock!”

With our quarantine flag still flying, we headed back across the bay and nudged our way in among a flotilla of interisland boats, a very tricky procedure. There was less than a foot of clearance between the Phoenix and her neighbors when we finally tied up at the dock.

Eventually we were boarded by an immigration official, who seemed extremely irked because we had not come in at once. Being in an irritatingly mellow mood for once, I did not get my back up but only pointed out mildly that a ship entering from a foreign port does not usually dock until told to do so. We had been waiting to be boarded.

“How could we come out?” the official responded angrily. “We don’t have a boat!”

This seemed a good reason, but I wondered why the Coast Guard, which had three boats tied up alongside the dock, could not be induced to offer the services of one of them to Immigration. Meanwhile Barbara joined with me in applying the soothing treatment to our visitor, by serving tea and cookies, and although he made it difficult, we remained almost unbearably pleasant. At length he was sufficiently mollified to say that we might consider ourselves officially entered.

Once again we motored over to Long Bay and this time were allowed to stay.

Charlotte Amalie combines the bizarre tourist atmosphere of a Waikiki with the indolent, quaint flavor of an old Danish town revamped for a modern age. The stores, remodeled in what used to be warehouses, are deep, cool caverns with great steel doors that fold back by day and close to form a solid wall at night. Inside are subdued lights, tasteful decorations, and a display of wares from all over the world. Because St. Thomas is a free port, it is possible to buy luxury items at substantial saving: perfumes from France, clocks and music boxes from Switzerland, Swedish crystal, Danish silverware, tweeds and cashmeres from Britain, and of course liquor and tobacco from any country you care to name.

At the invitation of our fellow yachtsmen we spent one evening in a night-clubbing expedition to hear the renowned “steel bands” of the West Indies. The instruments themselves are ingenious—being fashioned from the cross section of a large steel oil drum, open at the bottom. Some drums are shallow, some deep, and each is made by the individual player, who tunes it by heating the drum until the metal is soft, and then pounding it until he acquires the exact tone he desires. The actual musical quality of such an instrument is a matter of opinion, but the combined effect of a number of them playing in concert is certainly unusual.

It was fun for an evening, but for me once was enough. The pleasure seemed highly artificial, and I suspected that most of the people packed into the room were there not because they actually enjoyed the heat and the noise and the crowd but because they had never learned how to find pleasure in themselves as individuals—only as members of a swarm. By contrast, I found myself recalling (and looking forward to) our peaceful evenings at sea, with familiar constellations wheeling overhead, the soft slap of the waves against the side, and a game of Twenty Questions or an animated discussion to unite my family in a contented, self-sufficient whole.

We sailed on May 20, bound for NEW YORK CITY, as Jessica announced in very large letters in her journal. Ever since leaving South Africa she had been getting more and more impatient to reach “home,” to renew contact with friends whom she had not seen in six years but who remained as dear to her as her family. One of them, indeed, Joan Clark, was her avowed “blood sister”—they had pricked their fingers and exchanged red smears by mail to prove it; and the first six months of 1957 had been designated, by Jessica: “January, February, March, April, May, JOAN!”

Our first four days were pleasant and we made good distance but as we worked our way out of the friendly trades our speed fell light. The sixteenth day marked our smallest run, when we recorded 16 miles made good. Most of the night was spent in slatting around, which is most unpleasant, as the wear on the gear and sails is excessive, due to the constant motion, and the noise is irritating.

We were sailing slightly to the west of the Sargasso Sea area and a new problem arose—keeping the rotator log free of floating Sargasso weed, which we passed in great patches. Another annoyance that was becoming well-nigh unbearable was bugs. We had gradually accumulated every kind and variety known to man: cockroaches, small, medium, and huge; biting ants, ants with wings, and ants without wings; moths; borers; fleas and bedbugs; weevils; and an infinitesimal insect which Jessica dubbed “red mouths” because they were all red and all mouth. But I am exaggerating; we did not have mosquitoes, sand flies, or hornets—although, as Barbara said, “We hardly miss them.”

The girls, not to put too fine a point to it, were getting fed up. Land fever was undermining their morale, but they nobly kept their feelings to themselves and it was not until long afterward, when I read their very outspoken journal entries, that I realized with what eagerness they were straining toward home and the reunion with family and friends. Barbara, on June 4:

The combination of sleepless nights (thanks to BUGS), becalmed days, and a diminishing larder makes it difficult to keep one’s spirits aloft. We are now out of potatoes and all other vegetables except one (1) onion. We have four cups of rice left (our usual allowance for a single meal being six!); and only enough tea for today’s tiffin; we are completely out of oleo and canned butter; ship’s biscuits (except for the emergency supply lashed in the life raft); and baking powder (I’ve been souring milk with vinegar and using baking soda for pancakes and dumplings, but now the flour is also gone and only the weevils are left). Eggs are down to three which, supplemented with (ugh) egg powder, will be sufficient for tomorrow’s scrambled breakfast.

We have one more “weekly sack” but it would go fast if we had only the canned goods it contains to fill us. The spaghetti is gone—and the last of the macaroni (without cheese) will be our supper tonight. Dehydrated soups, which usually eke out the canned variety, have also been finished, so lunches will begin to be a problem.

At any rate, we shan’t starve, for we have plenty of dried peas, beans and apricots; vacuum-packed cans of oatmeal; tins of pineapple juice; and lots of evaporated milk. A monotonous diet, but loaded with vitamins and calories. If only the wind would do us right, we could be there in two days!

However, the wind did not do us right, and on the morning of June 5 fog—a condition we had devoutly hoped to avoid—overtook us. As it gradually cleared, rain set in. We were now making three knots after sixty hours of mostly calms. For two days we had been unable to get a good position because of overcast and had to rely on dead reckoning.

During the night we passed many boats. The most baffling encounter is recorded as follows:

Small boat, dead ahead, showing green side-light, green masthead light, and all-around white light same level as side-light. As we approached, he turned off green light and headed directly for us. Could clearly hear engines. No running lights. He stopped several hundred yards away. We altered course and finally left him behind. Mysterious!

The next day we were again in fog, with cold rain and only a very light breeze. Our foghorn, hand operated, sounded small and insignificant, but we pressed a mournful wheeze from it every two minutes, in response to the hootings from ships around us, and hoped that the sound would carry. Eyes and ears have little relaxation in a fog. The known world contracts and all beyond the narrow range of vision becomes intangible and full of menace.

We had begun to feel that the small circle of visibility in which we moved was the only clearing in an otherwise opaque world, when suddenly a distant foghorn metamorphosed into a very large and close ship. It seemed to erupt full blown from the curtain of fog, complete with navigation lights, and passed us to port. Silent as a ghost ship it glided by and vanished gradually like the Cheshire cat, on the other side of our tiny circle, until only its stern remained, glowing more and more remotely. Yet, as the ship disappeared, the bellow of the foghorn doubled in volume, because its warning was now being carried to us from upwind, with far more urgency now that the danger was past.

We stood double watches, sounding our bellows continuously all night, but even when I was off duty I got precious little sleep.

In the morning we altered course to north-northwest, to pick up the Jersey coast, still operating by dead reckoning. We passed Scotland Light at 1000 and started the engine to go up the channel.

Just after noon we pulled up to the dock at the U.S. Quarantine Station at Staten Island, 19 days and 1,500 miles out of St. Thomas. I don’t know about the crew, but Barbara tells me she had a lump in her throat at the sight of the U.S. flag waving over the buildings—and I felt pretty lumpish myself.

14      EVERY KIND OF CRUISING:
NEW YORK TO PANAMA,
BY THE CORKSCREW ROUTE

“A man must stand up for what he believes.”

At Rosebank, the Quarantine Station for the Port of New York, we were given another example of the unreliability of hearsay predictions. In St. Thomas we had been warned that it would be foolish to enter at New York City, since it was not only dangerous for sailing craft (a point we were now willing to concede) but because the treatment given yachts was high-handed and arbitrary.

On the contrary, we were cleared in less than half an hour, and invited by the officials to move to a more secure spot inside the docks where we could relax for a day or two before going over to Manhattan. We were happy to accept, especially since it included showers and a chance to get in touch with family and friends by telephone.

In no time at all representatives of various “communications media” got wind of our arrival and began beating a path to the main hatch. Also, the families at the Quarantine Station, which is a surprisingly isolated community, were interested in the Phoenix, and most of them came on board to pay a visit, sign the guest book, and more often than not, leave a youngster or two behind to climb the masts or chin themselves on the ratlines.

Our first act was to get in touch with Tim, who had come into New York to await our arrival and now lost no time in joining us. It was our first meeting with our older son since he had left us back in Japan in ’53, and naturally we had a great deal of catching up to do.

In spite of the bustle, the weekend at Rosebank was most pleasant. As the reports of our arrival began to appear, friends sought us out and telegrams and letters of congratulation poured in.

We had an overflow crowd as we set out on Monday for the momentous trip across the bay. It was a sparkling day and lower Manhattan was a spectacular sight, especially as seen from the deck of the Phoenix. We were under both power and sail, but the breeze was too light to do us much good and it took four hours to inch our way up the Hudson, against the outgoing tide, to the small-boat basin at West 79th Street. On the way we tried to stay on the fringe of the busy harbor traffic and did not forget to make our bow to the Statue of Liberty, as we passed her very close on the port hand.

At the commercial dock we settled down to ten days or so of combined business and pleasure in Manhattan. The dockage fee was higher than in any other port we had visited—5 cents a foot per day—but we had Riverside Park at our bow, a view of the Palisades across the river, and fast connections to midtown within a few minutes’ walk. There was no need to remind ourselves that a cheap hotel room would have cost even one of us several times what we were paying for all seven.

It was a hot and hectic time. Just a list of the things we did would be exhausting, but they included many of the rubbernecking activities that Barbara and I had experienced before, but which were new and exciting to Ted, Jessica, and the three M’s. In addition we had a good deal of business to attend to, including a series of conferences with Lurton Blassingame, our indefatigable agent, and a number of radio and TV interviews.

One of these—a half-hour interview-type program called “Night Beat” on which I was interviewed alone—was particularly interesting to me and, in retrospect, perhaps crucial, as it served to crystallize some hitherto rather amorphous thinking. I had no idea which of the many subjects we had discussed before going on the air would be emphasized, and was completely surprised when John Wingate, the interviewer, chose to ignore the yachting and travel aspect entirely and concentrated instead on my scientific work in Hiroshima and on the problem of radioactivity and our government’s foreign policy as a whole.

The program was well known for its controversial nature but Barbara, watching with friends, was as unprepared as I was for the series of very direct questions regarding my attitude toward nuclear testing and disarmament. She told me later that she actually had not the slightest idea what my answer would be when Mr. Wingate brought up the issue of the recently announced “clean bomb” and asked what I thought of it.

My first remark was almost instinctive. “A ‘clean bomb’ is like an antiseptic bullet. It kills you just as dead.” I went on to amplify my feelings, pointing out that even the “ideal” clean bomb described by Mr. Eisenhower, 96 per cent “clean,” would be twice as radioactive as the bomb dropped on Hiroshima, from which victims were still dying of long-term effects of radioactivity.

Questions followed in quick succession. I didn’t resent the fact that they were “loaded,” since I had come on the program of my own free will and was intent only on answering as honestly and frankly as possible.

“Dr. Reynolds, would you unilaterally stop the testing of nuclear weapons?”

A host of thoughts crowded into my mind. To have given the audience a fair and comprehensible survey of the thinking and knowledge that determined my answer would have taken at least an hour. Anything less than that would have seemed equivocating. I simply answered, “Yes.”

The interviewer continued smoothly, “You realize, of course, that President Eisenhower has stated that people who express that point of view are giving aid and comfort to the enemy?”

This, of course, was the climax of the show, and the spot toward which the interviewer had been building. Strangely enough, to me it seemed an anticlimax. The President’s statements were his, my statements were mine. I answered briefly that a man must speak and act as he believes and not tailor his thinking with no view but to oppose the enemy. The United States would be in a sorry state indeed if our only reason for saying “No” is because Russia has said “Yes.” This merely plays into the hands of an antagonist.

“A man must stand up for what he believes.” I finished, “even if this occasionally means agreeing with the enemy.”

Following the broadcast we were quite unprepared for the reactions it caused. Within the next few days I was (a) hailed as an individual of heroic courage, (b) regarded with suspicion as a fellow traveler or dupe of Communists, (c) chided for being so foolhardy as to “stick your neck out.” Frankly, I was amazed. I had been asked certain questions and I had answered them as honestly as possible. I didn’t think I knew all the answers but, on the other hand, neither did I consider myself completely uninformed, and in the area of radioactivity and human well-being I felt I could speak with some authority. I felt that I had the interests of my own country at heart as well as did most Americans, and better than some. Why all the fuss?

On June 22, after checking the tide tables carefully, we rounded the foot of Manhattan and started up the East River, with the tide in our favor. The trip was quiet and uneventful. In the late afternoon we dropped anchor off the west end of City Island, outside a small cluster of boats. Curious yachtsmen soon boarded us, and after dinner we spent a fine evening ashore as guests of the Stuyvesant Yacht Club, off whose pier we had chanced to drop our hook.

The next morning we had a good day’s run among the Sunday sailors on Long Island Sound. In the afternoon we were met by Barbara’s cousin, Dave Dorn, and his family, in their cruiser Grand Slam, and with a convoy of boating friends were escorted to an anchorage off the Sprite Island Yacht Club near Norwalk.

There we were introduced to the sociable custom of “rafting.” With the Phoenix in the middle and our anchor responsible for the entire flotilla, we found six launches tied alongside, to port and starboard. Hampers of food were unpacked, and ice and drinks materialized, and people began to drift back and forth from one boat to another. Without more ado we found ourselves in the center of as cheering a welcome party as I have ever experienced.

After several days here we moved to a small shipyard in Rowayton, up the Five Mile River, where it had been arranged that the boat would spend the summer.

Here Ted left us temporarily to join Minnetta in Madison and enter summer school at the University of Wisconsin, where he was accepted, in spite of his unorthodox schooling, on the basis of entrance exams. Tim, too, checked out in early July to enlist in the army, while Jessica and Barbara made a semipermanent home ashore at the invitation of the Dorns. The rest of us embarked on an extensive haul-out, including the installation of a new engine, courtesy of Universal Motors, who had offered to replace our doughty kerosene-burning model with a gasoline engine of the same type, even-steven. (Why they should want an old, slightly beat-up engine which had been over 35,000 miles and across three oceans is anybody’s—or maybe only an adman’s—guess.)

Using Rowayton as a base, we worked out a schedule which would permit us to do the necessary boat work and still visit friends and relatives in the Middle West. We planned to take Nick, Mickey, and Moto with us, so they could see as much as possible of the United States. To do this, I bought a very secondhand station wagon. But when we were ready to leave for Wisconsin, we learned that Mickey and Moto had decided to remain. Only Nick elected to go with us. To me it was another indication of the chasm that was widening between the men, but we said nothing and set off with Barbara, Jessica, Nick, and myself.

Back in Connecticut after this pleasant break (the longest time I had been away from the boat since the launching), we found a number of problems awaiting us. First, I had a bill from the shipyard for $914.92, a figure which will remain engraved in my memory. I was aghast, for I knew that the dockage had been without charge, the materials at a discount, and we had done most of our own work. “Labor,” however, was still the chief item on the bill, and I was forcefully reminded of an incident I had witnessed earlier that illustrated most vividly how labor costs can mount. While installing the shaft, one of the workmen happened to touch a spot of wet green paint on the engine. He stopped work immediately, with a curse.

“That does it!” he exclaimed enigmatically, eying the green spot with disgust. Throwing down his tools, he left the boat.

Half an hour later I went from the boat into the shed and saw him still sitting there, idly rubbing his fingers with a rag, while smoking a cigarette. I said nothing, but later, while checking over the bill, I figured that that little spot of paint had cost me about $4—the cost of the time needed for the workman to recover his mental composure and restore his fingers to their former pristine condition.

Under the circumstances, I was particularly interested in an article I read about that time, by a yacht owner who had kept a record of the work done on his boat over a period of thirty years. He pointed out that, labor costs aside, the time taken to do the same job had more than doubled, and as I thought of the pouting workman, lounging in the shop and contemplating a green smear on his finger, I could understand why.

Another problem was slower to become apparent, but no less real, and couldn’t be solved by paying a bill. During our absence, Mickey and Moto had become friendly with a very fine family in Rowayton, who on our return immediately extended their hospitality to us all. It was the first time in our travels that we had spent so long a time in one place and achieved such an easy intimacy with any one group, and perhaps we should have been prepared for the tragicomic consequences.

Mickey and Moto, quite unfamiliar with the camaraderie of American girls, became enamored of the daughter of the family. Jealous of each other, they promptly joined ranks against Ted on his return to the boat, while he, completely unaware of the situation, began to compete for the attentions of the young lady.

Not until the day before we sailed from Rowayton did we realize that we had been sitting on a powder keg. Ted came home from a sail with the girl, to be greeted with a torrent of loud and tearful abuse from our usually quiet Moto, who had obviously been drinking. The unleashing of this apparently long-buried hatred and resentment was an unnerving experience, since we had come to like and respect Moto very much. His very real torment was obvious, and although at this time we did not fully realize the cause, it was impossible to write it off as the empty rantings of one in his cups.

We took off the next day, September 7, with a rather subdued and introspective crew. During the next several weeks, only gradually did we fit the story together. Just how involved the various men of our crew had been we will never know, but there is no doubt that bits and pieces of a number of hearts had been left behind in Rowayton. How deeply embedded were the suspicions and bitterness only slowly came to light in experiences such as the following:

Weeks later, in the course of a violent outburst, Mickey accused me of “spying on him.” It took considerable patience and much probing to get at the origin of his belief, but eventually it was traced back to Rowayton and an incident that had occurred during our stay.

One evening, arriving late, and looking for Barbara and our hostess, I had wandered into the small sitting room reserved for television. All was darkened except for the TV screen, and I had asked, referring to the program, “What’s going on?”

Someone had answered and, not being attracted by the program, I had gone on to another part of the house. Now, weeks later, it developed that Mickey and the young lady in question had been watching TV together, and Mickey had interpreted my commonplace remark as suspicion of his actions and a desire to spy on him.

In any event, our trip up Long Island Sound, around Montauk Point, down to the entrance of the Delaware, and on through the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal into Chesapeake Bay was not noted for its jollity. Nick was moody and Ted and Mickey unusually withdrawn, but Moto was particularly pathetic. In complete contrast to his former cheerful, wryly humorous self, he sat for hours in the bow, staring moodily at the water, or wove rope into intricate designs with all the withdrawal symptoms of a paranoid. We felt that he had lost so much face by his outburst that he did not know how to get back to our former friendly relations, and we did everything we could to assure him that we wanted to let bygones be bygones. What we did not realize, yet, was that his spirit was completely broken.

This trip was an introduction to a different type of cruising, where we used the engine much of the time and measured our progress not by noon shots but by markers as frequent as street signs in a city. By night we anchored: at Reedy Point, Delaware; Sassafras River, Maryland; and finally, in Whitehall Creek, near Annapolis, where we lay just off the back yard of Bob and Billy Phelps, guiding lights of the American Yachtsmen’s Association. If anything was calculated to repair shattered morale and raise the drooping spirits of our crew, the two weeks we spent with the Phelpses was it. Their instantaneous, homely welcome, the freedom of their pleasant home, the effervescence of their two lively dogs, and the easy exchange of yachting reminiscences were all fine medicine.

During this period we made one more inland trip, to our old haunts at Yellow Springs, Ohio. Once again we had intended to take the entire group, but once again, at the last moment, plans were changed. Mickey decided he would rather go to “see friend,” who lived near Schenectady or Syracuse, or, at any rate, “somewhere in state New York.” And Nick, at the last minute, announced that he would remain on board to “write letters.” It seemed unlikely that he had enough letters to last a week, but we accepted his decision.

Our return to Yellow Springs, although hectic and far too brief, was a highlight of our stay in the States. We could recognize now how unique was the community spirit we had taken for granted during our eight years at Fels Institute and on the Antioch campus. When a public meeting was organized to welcome us “home” and permit us to meet old friends, as well as give a talk about our travels, we were very much moved.

Jessica and Joan had renewed their former friendship so completely that nothing short of a major operation could successfully separate them, so we postponed that problem by packing Joan into the station wagon with us and taking her back for a short trip on the Phoenix and a week of sightseeing in and around Washington.

At Annapolis we took on fuel and supplies and I gave a slide talk to the members of the Yacht Club. It was an enjoyable stay except for one fierce day with torrential rain, and wind speeds up to 80 mph, which shattered a large window on the club veranda. At the height of the storm, poor Joan and Jessica finally had to part, and the weather provided a dramatically satisfactory background as we put Joan on the bus for Ohio, as per arrangement with her folks.

On October 9 we left Annapolis, sailing down Chesapeake Bay. It was a quiet and pleasant interlude, during which we made four stops—at Oxford, where we picked up our new genoa jib, and at Solomon’s Island, Indian Creek and Horseshoe Shoals. At Hampton, Virginia, we stopped for a slightly longer stay. Here we discovered old friends—Hugh Gloster and his family, of Hampton Institute. Hugh had been in Hiroshima as a Fulbright fellow at the university during our stay.

Also, I’m sorry to say that once again we found ourselves in an area of segregation. When we visited the local Marine Museum, I was deeply ashamed to see the look on my men’s faces when they saw “White” and “Colored” on the rest-room doors, here in my own country.

The tension caused by such incidents possibly triggered another flare-up, which developed just before our departure from Hampton. It began as a fairly routine issue between Mickey and myself over one of his derelictions but quickly developed into a confusing verbal free-for-all. It was obvious even to the most obtuse that Nick, Mickey, and Moto were badly divided. Mickey and Moto accused Nick of being “troublemaker,” while Nick retorted that they did not really care about the success of the voyage, but were always complaining—of the food, of the routines, of the Skipper. Mickey and Moto demanded that Nick be sent home, and I myself, remembering the many times he had been my outspoken critic, wondered if he might not welcome an excuse to get out. When I asked him, however, he maintained he wanted to finish the trip as planned. It was a disturbing impasse. The three seemed to be at complete loggerheads, and I could see no compromise.

At last, after a heated debate, we emerged with a temporary course of action: (a) Moto, who confessed that he had not felt well for some time, would be given a thorough medical examination at the first opportunity—and here Mickey chimed in with “Me too! I not feel so good!” (b) We would continue without any crew changes, at least as far as the Canal Zone, at which time we would have another session.

Only after the conference had broken up did I realize, with a kind of baffled double-take, that I had started out by taking Mickey to task, and ended by putting Moto on the sick list and asking Nick if he wanted to go back to Japan!

From Hampton we sailed past numerous naval ships at anchor and into Norfolk Channel. At Great Bridge we pulled alongside a dock, told the attendant to “Fill ’er up!” and then docked nearby for the night, a procedure we were to repeat a number of times. Again we were experiencing a new kind of cruising, along narrow channels, into locks, and through drawbridges where maneuvering was quite difficult for our underpowered boat. Our only safety lay in making plans well in advance, knowing the chart perfectly, and anticipating problems. Even so, we had several tense moments when a bridge seemed to lift with agonizing slowness while we were bearing down on it, urged on by the current and a following wind, with our puny reverse doing no measurable good. Also, although we followed the channel faithfully, we ran aground three times between Hampton and Morehead City, North Carolina. Each time we were able to get ourselves off without help, using sail, motor, and kedge.

Our last grounding was, humiliatingly enough, right in Morehead City, only half a mile from our destination. Going by the chart, which indicated a sufficiently deep channel up to the Yacht Club, we entered and immediately grounded. With a strong tide setting across the channel and a fresh north breeze, we were unable to budge. While we relaxed and waited for high slack, a Coast Guard vessel came alongside and offered to pull us off. I admit I was tempted.

“Well ...” I said.

“You just sign these papers in quadruplicate,” the officer said briskly, handing them to me.

“Well,” I continued, “I’ll tell you. So far we’ve never asked for help—I’d like to try to manage by ourselves.” Somehow the sight of all that paper work seemed to turn a kindly offer into a government project.

In Morehead City we tied up for two weeks at a gas dock near the center of town while we made final preparations for heading back out to sea. Also, we gladly accepted an invitation from our good friend, Dr. Warner Wells, surgeon at the University of North Carolina Medical School in Chapel Hill. I had written Warner from Hampton about our health problems, asking about a medical checkup for Moto and Mickey. For several years Warner had been on the research staff of the Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission in Hiroshima, where he had been well liked and respected by the Japanese community. He now had Japanese-speaking doctors on his staff, and I knew that Warner, if anyone, would be sympathetic with the psychology of our ailing men.

Moto and Mickey entered the university hospital, where for three days they were given an exhaustive series of examinations. The results, except for a slight vitamin C deficiency, were negative. The charges, although I had written in my letter that I would pay all fees, laboratory expenses, X rays, and the like, also were negative!

We in the family were enjoying a holiday with the lively and interesting Wells family. We would all have been perfectly content if the examinations had taken a week or more. But I had one more trip to make, back to Washington. At the request of the National Academy of Sciences, I attended meetings at which ongoing and future research programs in Hiroshima were discussed. There it was finally decided that the prospective follow-up of my studies in Hiroshima would not be “reactivated,” due to a change in research emphasis and the presence of a new director of ABCC in Hiroshima. My understanding that I would continue my research program in Hiroshima, on our return, had been very clear, and all our plans had revolved around this fact. However, I had no formal, written contract to that effect, only a gentleman’s agreement—and now, apparently, a new gentleman was in charge.

I was advised, however, to consult with the new director when we reached Hiroshima, as he would be “most sympathetic” to my plan for a continuation of my study on the effects of atomic radiation on the surviving children of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I appreciated the offer of sympathy, but I would have preferred something more definite, as I felt strongly that this promising line of research should be continued—if not by me, then by someone else.

We sailed from Morehead City on November 15, happy to be on the way once more. On a couple of mornings we had seen a light frost on deck, and the evenings had become too chilly for our blood and our wardrobes, both thinned by extended tropical living. Pulling away from the dock, we waved to the handful of friends we had made and headed out the channel, setting a course to the southeast as soon as we cleared the last buoy. By midnight we were well away from land and on our way to Jamaica, by way of the eastern Bahamas and the Windward Passage.

The two-week trip to the Bahamas was rather rugged, with a variety of weather that ranged from glassy calm to winds strong enough to cause us to heave to for half a day. The first part of the passage was mostly in southerlies, and not until the thirteenth day out did we have what might reasonably be called “trade wind” conditions. Even then, hesitating to tempt fate, I made the notation in the log in quotes.

On November 28, at 0900, we sighted Mayaguana Island, dead ahead, rounded the northwest point, and came to anchor just southwest of the lighthouse in five fathoms. We were fourteen days out of Morehead City and very glad to be back in the trades after a slow and vexatious passage. The direct distance was 763 miles, but we had logged over 1,000 due to the large percentage of adverse winds.

We spent the day—Thanksgiving—at Mayaguana. Like most of the Bahamas, it is low. The lighthouse, we learned, was automatic, with no sign of life around it. A wide sand road had been cleared through the surrounding growth of cactus and scrub trees, but our first shore party followed it for several miles without seeing any sign of habitation. They returned—having left me aboard to do some necessary work on the engine—with their arms full of booty: yellow fan coral, marble-white brain coral, a round fisherman’s float of blue-green glass, and numerous shells to add to Barbara’s collection, which she had persistently been building throughout our trip, in spite of our disinterest, gibes, and—when an occasional uncleaned shell smelled to high heaven—active protest. This time, however, no one said anything unkind, for we remembered that it was Thanksgiving and wanted our cook to be in a good mood.

She was. Relying entirely on canned goods, we had quite a feast, including shrimp cocktail, glazed ham, asparagus tips, potatoes (both mashed and sweet)—and, for dessert, mince pie! The prize dish, however, was neither the pie nor the ham, but a loaf of honest-to-goodness home-baked wholewheat bread which Barbara somehow managed to whip up in, of all things, a pressure cooker.

The next day Barbara and I went ashore to explore in the other direction, this time with more success. After following the road for four miles or more, we reached a small settlement—ten or twelve boxlike houses built of whitened coral stone, each with a wooden door and two wood-shuttered windows painted in blue, green or pink. The place looked deserted, but we could hear the voices of children at play and finally found a group of them. They stared at us for a moment with awe and then went tearing for the houses, yelling the news at top voice: “Ooooooh—white mon! Oooo—white mon!”

We gathered that Mayaguana was not a tourist island!

We were very hot and thirsty, but although there were some coconut trees growing in most of the dooryards, and all of them loaded with good drinking nuts, we had no coin of the realm and had not even thought to bring cigarettes or a candy bar. Several women came out to look at us and smile shyly, but no refreshment was offered and, as we had no bargaining power, we had to make the long walk back without refueling. How nostalgically we recalled the islands of the South Seas, where native hospitality had provided cool coconuts, open, ready and waiting, by the time the stranger had arrived!

In the afternoon we weighed anchor and set out for Great Inagua, some 70 miles to the south, arriving in Mathew Town late the following morning. It was Saturday, and the mail-and-supply boat had just arrived, so there was a considerable stir in the village. Five of us rowed ashore and spent several hours wandering around. As on most British islands, the buildings on Great Inagua were neat and freshly painted. The streets, paved with crushed white coral, were well laid out and carefully tended.

We found the one store overflowing with people who had just received their monthly pay checks from the town’s No. 1 employer, Morton’s Salt Company. We took our turn in line, and at last were permitted to purchase seven tomatoes and one (1) loaf of bread, both items having just arrived from Nassau.

On the way back to the dock we called—by request—at the office of the sole government official on the island, and forked out $8 (American money was graciously accepted) for “harbor and landing fees.” Clutching our unexpectedly costly purchases, we rowed back out to the Phoenix, and left for Jamaica the next morning.

The four-day trip, which took us through the Windward Passage between Cuba and Haiti, was uneventful from a sailing point of view, but climactic in terms of our crew relationships. Only a brief entry in my log refers to the incident:

Mickey refused to obey order to steer by standing in cockpit while boat was passing, so relieved him of duty.

The actual happening was somewhat less dry. In the afternoon while Mickey was on watch and I was below, I could hear a boat’s engines. I went up, and found Mickey lounging on the starboard side of the cockpit, steering with his foot. Overhauling us rapidly from astern was a motor vessel, probably a coastal trader, somewhat larger than we were. I spoke to Mickey.

“There’s a boat coming,” I said, indicating aft. He paid no attention, and did not move. “Mickey, stand up and steer.”

No movement. I repeated the order. Mickey said, without moving, “Why?”

I answered, “Because it’s dangerous and also it doesn’t look good.” No move. “Are you going to stand up and steer?”

“This is a yacht and I don’t have to.”

“Are you going to stand up and steer?”

“No.”

I stepped into the cockpit. “I will take the tiller.” Mickey left the cockpit, as I began to steer. The boat passed us close to port. I said, “Mickey, you are through.”

He went below. In a short while Nick appeared. “What is trouble?” he asked.

I explained the circumstances. “Unless Mickey is willing to apologize and make some effort to cooperate from now on, he is through,” I added.

This time I felt, and the family agreed with me, that the time had come for a showdown. Mickey knew how earnestly we hoped to finish the voyage with our original crew, but we felt that, more and more, he was taking advantage of this knowledge, confident that we would condone anything rather than break up the crew. Usually, however, his behavior took a more subtle form, such as shirking in his work, coming up late for “all hands on deck,” calling his relief watch five minutes early, and so on. He had seldom been, like Nick, openly in opposition, but on the other hand, I knew where I stood with Nick, although I didn’t welcome his spots of defiance. At least they cleared the air.

For the first time in our entire relationship we determined that Mickey must admit his error, apologize, and make some gesture of reconciliation. (In private I decided that even a very small gesture would suffice—but I, too, had my face to save.)

We completed the trip to Jamaica, with Mickey relieved of duty. By noon on the fourth day out we were off Kingston harbor but, rather than enter the busy harbor, we decided to pull in to the docks at Port Royal. We were still well out when a launch approached and we were boarded by officials who efficiently went about clearing us while we were still on the way in. By midafternoon we were safely tied up, had been cleared and given such a cordial welcome that we never did get around to moving the Phoenix over to Kingston.

But casting a shadow over the friendly ministrations of Sir Anthony and Lady Jenkinson, who were living aboard their yacht Fairweather while operating the hospitable Port Royal Beach Club, was the uncomfortable knowledge that the “clearinghouse session,” which I had put off until we reached port, would have to be held that night, and would be definitive. We all dreaded it, but unless Mickey was willing to meet me halfway, admit his error, and make a genuine promise to mend his increasingly insolent ways, we would have to part company. I said as much to Nick, who was doing what he could as go-between, but Nick brought word that Mickey would not apologize, that he considered it an “insult” for me to tell him what to do.

The meeting that night was brief and bitter. I stated my position, in clear and simple words. Mickey stood firm. I told him that in that case I would have to send him back to Japan.

He said, “Good!”

As had been the case in Hawaii, it was the other two who went to bat for Mickey. Their argument was that Mickey’s defection was harmless and that, since we were so near the end of our trip anyway, we should simply ignore the whole thing. I refused, saying it was neither safe nor prudent to continue with someone in whom I could have no confidence and who continued openly to defy me. As we talked, it developed that Mickey had given Moto a completely inaccurate version of the episode: (1) I had made an unreasonable demand; (2) he had complied with my order, but I had sent him below anyway, for some unknown reason.

There was only one flaw in Mickey’s account: Jessica, who had been in her cabin below, had heard the whole incident and remembered it perfectly.

I could only repeat that, under the circumstances, I had no other choice than to send Mickey home, by the first available ship.

There was a dead pause. Moto then said, in a low voice, that he would go, too, if Mickey went; then Nick, not looking at me, said he also would have to go. I said I was sorry that was their decision, but that I would make the arrangements. I left the boat and went ashore.

I walked aimlessly in the dark, in the vacant lot by the docks, trembling with frustration and disappointment. In a few minutes I saw dark forms approaching. It was the family, and I called out in blind anger, “I suppose you’re going to desert me too?”

They came over. “We just wanted to tell you,” Barbara said quietly, slipping her hand into mine, “that you were right and we’re with you all the way.”

“There was nothing else you could do,” said Ted, who had always been our mediator and balance wheel. “You’ve always put the safety of the voyage first and you mustn’t be influenced now by that dream of finishing the trip with the same crew. Even if we did give in, and take the boys back, it would be a kind of lie to pretend we had succeeded in finishing the trip as friends.”

“We’ll get along all right,” said Jessica. “I can take a watch.”

With tears in my eyes, I embraced them all.

The next morning, while I was making ready to go over to Kingston with Sir Anthony to see about boat schedules for shipping the men back, Nick approached me. “Skipper,” he began hesitantly, “if you would have me, I have changed my mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want to finish voyage. I want to stay on Phoenix.”

“I’ll talk to the family.”

I did, and we decided to accept Nick’s offer. So Nick stayed on with us, and from that moment an entirely new relationship began. Having thrown in his lot with us, breaking completely with his mates, Nick now came over wholly to our side, giving us unswerving loyalty and warm friendship. It was an amazing transformation.

Moto’s role in the case was a strange one. We still liked him very much; we felt strongly that he didn’t want to go but that some force stronger than himself compelled his action. He brooded for long hours, obviously miserable; and yet he either would not or could not revise his decision.

I learned in town that it would be almost impossible for me to send Mickey and Moto back from Kingston, as ships bound for Japan rarely called there. It would be far easier, I was told, to carry them on with us as far as the Canal Zone, where arrangements could easily be made. Mickey objected so violently to this suggestion that I told him he had full authority to go to town and make his own arrangements for the passage. He and Moto spent several days in town, but Mickey finally had to admit that my information was correct and they agreed to go on with us to the Panama Canal.

However, I made it very clear that they would travel as passengers and would have no hand in sailing the Phoenix. The family and Nick would handle the boat alone.

While here, it seemed wise to haul out once more, making use of the rather primitive (but cheap) marine railway in the old Naval Dockyard, instead of waiting until the Canal Zone, where prices, under American administration, were likely to be high. Sir Anthony enlisted the services of about twenty men from Port Royal to lend us a hand for a day—at 10 shillings apiece—and we all turned to on the huge cranks of the massive, hand-operated winch, taking an entire day literally to inch our thirty tons up the incline.

During our stay in Port Royal we went into the city only two or three times. There was no bus service between Kingston and Port Royal, and the tiny ferry-launch ran only one trip each way a day. The town was hot, dirty, and not too colorful. Although the Christmas season was in full swing, we found little that tempted us to buy.

Port Royal, however, we liked very much, and after a day’s work on the boat we would often take a stroll through the old town, with its ancient stone houses, narrow streets, and vital air of history. We knew that in the waters just off the dock, buried in the earthquake of 1692, lay the remains of most of the town, with its warehouses still full of booty taken by the pirates. Here, in the middle of the seventeenth century, was the city acknowledged to be the wickedest in the world.

Old Fort Charles was still active, now the training ground for the Jamaican constabulary. We recalled that Nelson was in command here briefly in 1779, and his quarterdeck, where he was wont to pace and watch for French ships, is still preserved.

At the church we had a chance to see a Jamaican wedding, which is often solemnized only after many years of preconnubial bliss and large families. As a matter of fact, the two little flower girls in flouncy white dresses, who escorted the bride with her magnificent ruffled train dragging in the dust as she came up the dirt road to the church, were daughters of the bride and groom. This state of affairs is due not to lack of morals but lack of funds, as a wedding must be celebrated in proper style. If the length of the procession that accompanied the bride was any indication of the length of the guest list, the financial outlay must have been staggering.

The party following the ceremony went on all night, just beyond the wall that separated the dockyard from the village of Port Royal, but the music, unfortunately, was not calypso or West Indian, but a particularly penetrating selection of canned American hit tunes.

We sailed for the Canal on December 18, hoping to make it in time to pick up our Christmas mail. Nick, Ted, and I shared watches, two on and four off, while Barbara and Jessica, between them, accounted for three hours during the day. The system worked very well.

Our two passengers remained below decks most of the time. Nick was patently being ostracized by them, but he refused our suggestion that he join the family at meals, stolidly eating in silence in the main cabin, ignoring and being ignored by his former companions. We all felt the strain. Since it was now too late to go back, and even surface formalities had ceased to exist, we looked forward to the time when we could part company.

On the morning of the 22nd we sighted land, very faintly, off the starboard bow. Later in the morning a number of ships passed in the early mists, all heading in the same general direction, so we knew we couldn’t be too far off course. We headed south-southeast to pick up the coast more firmly, then turned south along the coast to the harbor entrance. By midafternoon we had passed the breakwater, noting that the four buoys at the entrance, shown on our “up-to-date” chart, were not present.

Dropping anchor in the merchant anchorage near the channel, we flew our flags and awaited developments.

15      GALÁPAGOS:
HOME OF THE LAST PIONEERS

“Those delicate souls whose coffee must be just so....”

We were at anchor, awaiting further orders, by 1530. Five hours later we were still waiting. During this time, ships arrived, were boarded, cleared, and allowed to move on toward the entrance to the Canal. Several times official launches passed, the officers gazing curiously at us and sometimes waving.

Finally, just as we had decided to turn in for the night, we were boarded by a very cheerful Canal officer. He said quite frankly that the central office just hadn’t noticed us out here, and none of those going back and forth on official business had thought to report us. He didn’t look at our papers, passports, liquor, or cigarettes (all laid out for inspection) but merely told us to move over to the “East Flats” and gave us some forms to fill out. Then he shook hands briskly, got into his launch, and shot away.

We checked the chart, located East Flats, weighed anchor, and worked our way over there, across the Canal channel, dodging the harbor traffic which was moving busily even during the night. It was almost midnight when we reached the Flats, and dropped the hook. I got to work on the papers at once, but we were boarded again before I had finished. This time we had two visitors who took out the tape measure and solemnly, using flashlights, began to take measurements, inside and out, for all the world as if they were going to give our Phoenix a new suit—of sails, I hoped!

Because of their industry, I now have official figures on the size of our “Engine Room”: 3 ft. × 3 ft. × 3 ft. 6 in. They told me, while working, that they had just come from an eight-hour job of checking a tanker (which they had also measured with a tape measure). Surely there must be an easier way to do these things!

We were told that I should report, in the morning, to the port captain, Immigration, and Customs. It was already well into tomorrow by this time, and when the instructions for arriving at the protected anchorage off the yacht club began to involve getting permission from the Port Captain to request permission from the yacht club, whose permission must then be reported back to the port captain, I began to get a bit fuzzy.

By the time the measurements had been completed, I had the forms properly filled out and was able to hand them over. The two officials waved us a cheerful good night and took off—on their way to another boat. Work here goes on around the clock.

The next day we put the dinghy over the side, and Barbara and I went ashore. It was a stiff 40-minute row, and the harbor was choppy, so we arrived in a rather soggy condition. However, we started our rounds of the offices while we were still drying. After getting permission, etc., we walked the mile to the Panama Canal Yacht Club, where a very friendly manager received us and said it would be quite all right to anchor off the club, but had we asked permiss— I said that we had. “Then go back and tell them it’s okay with us!”

We motored at once to the yacht club, where we found a berth in quiet and protected waters only a lifebuoy’s throw from cold drinks and good old American hamburgers!

There we remained over the holiday season. We found that arranging passage for Mickey and Moto, contrary to our expectations, was a difficult and time-consuming task. Day after day, I made the rounds of various agencies, went on board Japanese ships—of which there were many—and talked to various officials. We got nowhere. At last I contacted Governor Potter, in charge of the Zone, to whom we had a letter from friends back in Yellow Springs. He very kindly put us under the full-time protection of Jim Barrett, who immediately put into motion wheels I had been unable to budge. Very shortly we had secured two reservations on the Eishin Maru due to pass through the Canal on January 6, bound for Yokohama. It was the earliest available date, but the men would have a private cabin and first-class accommodations.

During this period relations were strained on board. It was bitter for us all to face the knowledge that one of our aims—to complete the voyage with our original crew intact—had failed. But, as Ted so logically remarked: “Suppose we did complete the trip with all the men. If you ignored all the troubles, evaded all the issues, and kept secret all the fights, just so we could boast we had completed the voyage with the same seven people—just what would we have proved?”

I located a nice hotel in Cristobal for Mickey and Moto and was willing to underwrite their expenses while they were waiting for their boat, but the Canal Zone officials had other ideas: the men must stay on the Phoenix until transferred to the Eishin Maru.

Christmas was quietly observed by the family, with none of the gaiety of previous years. However, we did have our Christmas mail, which had been piling up for us on the other side of the Isthmus, and we had a most interesting introduction to the Canal when we went across by train—“Span a Continent, Atlantic to Pacific, in One Afternoon!” Skirting the Canal and Gatun Lake, we could catch glimpses of great steamships which seemed to be moving sedately through the jungle. Occasionally, as the track ran closer to the Canal, we saw them pausing at one of the locks, to be raised or lowered, or wandering as if along an inland stream, looking as lost as if they had been cast up from the Flood.

Back in Cristobal—the narrow American strip which borders the sprawling Panamanian city of Colón—we went ahead with arrangements for making transit of the Canal as soon as Mickey and Moto were on their way. On the day after Christmas I went “across the tracks” to Colón, to order a new foresail from a sailmaker whose address I had been given. It was depressing to walk through the narrow, dirty streets, which contrasted so markedly with the solid buildings and clean, broad streets on the American side. Only the children were out as I wandered through the seemingly deserted town; the elders presumably were still recovering from Christmas. In the alleys, as I passed, little boys were futilely snapping silent cap pistols guaranteed only yesterday to give forever five thousand bangs a day; while little girls were mourning over the cracked heads of their unbreakable plastic dolls.

On January 6, early in the morning, the Eishin Maru arrived and Mickey and Moto transferred themselves and their belongings under the eye of the authorities. The log makes the final entry:

Jan. 6, 1958. Mickey Suemitsu and Moto Fushima sailed today for Japan, on Eishin Maru. All family agreed Mickey must go, but feel sorry Moto went along. However, for months he has been in very poor spirits and losing weight, though thorough medical examination shows nothing wrong, so perhaps all for best.

Now only five in party.

On January 9 we made our transit of the Canal. We were told we would need extra “linesmen” aboard—either hired or volunteered—and Jim Barrett, who with his family had given us help and friendship far beyond the call of duty, promptly offered to take a day off and lend us a hand.

In addition, the pilot himself, when he reported aboard in the drizzly predawn darkness, brought along a companion, an apprentice pilot getting his first experience of taking a yacht through the locks. The weather was rainy and windy—the worst we had had since our arrival. At 0600 we got away from the anchorage and headed for Gatun Locks in a driving rain.

Well padded with fenders, and with one line forward and two aft, we entered the first lock, slipping in just behind the freighter Santa Olivia. We had elected to go through by tying alongside the walls, rather than tying to another boat or being held by lines in the middle of the lock. The walls stretched high above our heads. It was much the worst lock, but even so, when the water started pouring in, I was surprised at the turbulence. With a man on each line, we strained to keep our position. Suddenly a heavy surge hit us, and with a loud popping sound the two after lines snapped. Out of control, the ship plunged almost across the chamber, with only the forward line still holding.

At once our pilot, Captain Torstenson, blew a whistle and the incoming flow of water stopped. We hauled ourselves back toward the starboard wall by our remaining line, fending off as we came in, and leaving a slight mark where our bowsprit ground a light patch in the slimy discoloration of the lock wall. Fresh lines were broken out and made fast, and we tried it again, this time with the water coming in at a more sedate rate. The lift proceeded without further incident, and soon we were floating on a level with the men who had peered down on us a few minutes before. A great chain was dropped across the lock behind us, the heavy double gates ahead swung open, and we proceeded cautiously behind Santa Olivia into Lock No. Two. Each succeeding lift became easier, but because of our lack of power, the closest attention was required throughout the transit.

From the third lock we emerged into Gatun Lake, and a completely new type of sailing—in a fresh-water lake 90 feet above sea level where our course, marked by buoys at regular intervals, led past the skeleton tops of long-submerged trees and the peaks of hills which had learned to be islands. Santa Olivia moved rapidly out of sight, and many other vessels passed us going in both directions during the day. All the way across the lake we had unsettled weather, but the wind was fair, so I suggested using the sails to help out in the open areas. Captain Torstenson was a power man, however, and vetoed the idea. He seemed to be in no hurry. In fact, he and his assistant, Captain Fetherston, were both amiable, easygoing chaps who seemed to consider this job as a sort of picnic. They regaled us with lively stories of the Canal and its operations, and their relaxed attitude was infectious. We all took it easy and enjoyed the trip.

Our only other tense spot was at the second, and last, Miraflores lock, where the current is fast. Here we had to be out and away under full power even before the gates were fully opened, in order to beat the surge of the incoming sea.

By 1830 we were anchored off Balboa Yacht Club. The pilots and Jim left to catch transportation back to Cristobal and the rest of us settled down to savor the knowledge that we were once again in the Pacific—our own ocean.

The next morning we went ashore to check in at the Balboa Yacht Club and once again were accorded a friendly welcome and taken in tow by one of the old-timers. Our ten days in Balboa were taken up with preparations for the 6,000 miles of Pacific which lay between us and the Hawaiian Islands. We planned to make two stops, in the Galápagos and in the Marquesas, but in neither of these places could we expect to get supplies or provisions, so it was necessary to be completely self-sufficient for an indefinite number of months. Like Cristobal, on the Atlantic side, Balboa is attractive, self-contained, and completely American, catering only to government employees. We were distressed to learn that, contrary to advance information, we were not permitted to shop at the American commissaries in the Canal Zone and as for “free port” shops, such as those we had found so tempting in St. Thomas, they don’t exist here.

Adjoining Balboa is Panama City, capital of Panama, sprawling, colorful, and very Latin. Lovely old cathedrals front on verdant squares; wide main streets peter out into winding, thin alleys; Moorish-type architecture and free-flowing, highly expressive Spanish reminded us constantly that Panama has been and will remain far more simpatico to Latin ways than to the often-irritating American influences which exist in the Zone. While we were there, there was considerable grumbling, especially among the university students, at the control of the Canal by the United States; and there was a constant agitation for a greater share of the profits. It was easy to see that here, in times to come, will be one of our country’s trouble spots, and it is not impossible that the time will come when the Panama Canal, along with the Suez and others, will have to be internationalized.

Our most difficult job here was getting permission to enter the Galápagos, which belong to Ecuador. Marie and Jerry Trowbridge, on White Seal, had been quoted a dollar a foot and had reluctantly decided to skip those islands. We knew, however, that there was no hard and fast rule for getting a permit, or the amount of the fee, so we again pulled rank and asked Governor Potter to put in a word for us. He kindly contacted the Ecuadorian Ambassador and we obtained permission with remarkable ease, at a very modest fee.

While we were getting ready for sea, a number of visitors called because they had “heard we were going to the Galápagos.” Each would start out by extolling one particular island in the group, and when we had been sold would casually remark, “I wonder if you’d be willing to drop off a few things for us”—packages, letters, foodstuffs—even a sizable wood-and-coal stove, which we had to lash on deck. We were happy to take all we could carry, because we knew that the passing yachtsman was a major factor in supplying the pioneers on these isolated islands. Also, on the advice of old-timers, we took reading matter for the islanders—books, magazines, and newspapers—as much as we could collect.

We sailed on January 18, bound for Wreck Bay, San Cristóbal, the port of entry for the Galápagos. The islands are on the equator, about 860 miles southwest of Panama, and we were warned to expect a slow passage. Yachts have taken as long as three months for the trip and some have managed to miss the islands completely. This had, in fact, happened to the Carrs, on Havfruen, who had preceded us by a couple of months and had also been carrying a respectable load of supplies for the colonies. They had carried on to the Marquesas, where they had unloaded their cargo to be shipped to Tahiti. From there, eventually, it would have to travel up to Hawaii, over to California, and back down to the Panama Canal, there to await another yacht bound for the Galápagos and willing to take on the mission of good will. The entire circuit would take upward of a year and we could only hope that none of the cargo had been perishable!

We had no intention of missing the islands, no matter how long it took us, and to our delight we started out as if we were going to make a record passage. On the second day out, we made a noon-to-noon run of 197 miles, better than eight knots, which we knew was accurate because we could check our position with Malpelo Island. This delightful state of affairs was soon over, however. We ran into the area of light southerlies, where we had to work our way alternately west and southeast, slowly making good our course. My log on the ninth day out is representative:

Midnight. Very quiet. Moon just down. Two knots, course west. Many dolphin about, snorting and leaping. Phosphorescence all around.

We weren’t worried about our slow progress. The peace on board was so wonderful that I personally felt a two-month passage would have given me just that much more time to soak it in. We three men continued our two-hours-on-four-off system, with the girls sharing three daylight hours, thus shifting the watch each night. Nick ate his meals with us, sat with us in the cockpit, joined in our discussions, entered fully into our family life. It was a happy ship.

On the tenth day out Ted and I tackled a navigation problem that had been baffling us for several days. Obviously we weren’t making all the distance we were sailing. In the past two days, for instance, we were 62 miles short of the spot where we estimated we should be. We knew there was an adverse current in this region, but the loss seemed excessive. Ted and I set to work studying charts and books, and found a clue in a footnote of our Ocean Passages. It mentions “The Holy Child Current, which runs from January to March, but is not equally definite in all years.” It certainly seemed to be definite this year, and our position on the chart was right on the dotted line that represented this inconstant current, called “El Niño” in the pilot books.

The weather was generally fair and the seas light, but we had one sudden blow which caught Barbara on the tiller. I had hesitated to give her a night watch, knowing it would not result, as she fondly hoped, in giving me more rest. Actually I had learned to snatch needed sleep at any hour, day or night, and in fact slept more soundly during the day, when the others were awake, than I did at night. But she wanted to try it, so we compromised, and I gave her an hour after supper, from 1900 to 2000, so that she could learn to judge weather conditions after dark.

It was during one of these evening watches that she gave me a call: “Squall coming!” She was absolutely right. It hit us at once, the wind changing in an instant from south to west, accompanied by heavy rain. We took down staysail and genoa and tacked to the south under mizzen, main, and foresail. For the first time Barbara had the experience of keeping the tiller during the passage of a “front” and was very proud, afterward, of “her squall.”

Two days later, another incident was worth recording:

Jan. 29. Terrific bubbling all about, like a giant kettle. Can hear it quite easily—like crossing Amazon Bight, but in Amazon bubbling was bigger and color brown.

On this same day I had the bad luck to break my reading glasses, the spares—having already lost the originals over the side—and faced the poor prospect of a long passage, with plenty of time for reading, and broken lenses. However, I patched them together with transparent tape, and became quite adept at reading through the chinks in the patches.

On February 1 we knew from the number of birds about that we were close to land. Our morning shots seemed to indicate that we were south of the island, so we edged a bit to the north. At 1123 Ted sighted land through the haze off the starboard bow, and soon we were rounding the southwest corner of San Cristóbal, keeping well out because of swells and the onshore current. We passed Freshwater Falls, on the south side of the island, where the old-time sailing ships were wont to water. On an exposed shore, with heavy surf and a square-rigger to handle, this must have been a feat that demanded real seamanship, not to mention plenty of nerve.

At 1900 we entered Wreck Bay. Coming up to the anchorage, we pulled in our log line and discovered that there were barnacles on it. If so many had attached themselves to us in two weeks, how many, we wondered, must have signed on with those ships that have drifted two or three months between Panama and the Galápagos!

Within half an hour we had been boarded and cleared by very efficient officers, and I had brought the log up to date and summarized the passage.

We had eagerly looked forward to our visit to the Galápagos, having read everything we could about the islands, from Darwin on. We had been intrigued by the accounts of the weird geological formations, of unique and strangely fearless animal life, of rugged individuals who had pioneered here. But too often the accounts that one reads are of a bygone era and do not accurately describe islands as they exist today. Now we would have a chance to see for ourselves.

Puerto Chico, the settlement of some 200 people at Wreck Bay, is the port of entry. It is a naval base (navy: 1 launch), and the center of population for all the Galápagos—an island group inhabited by fewer than 2,000 people. Water is the limiting factor, and only four of the islands provide enough water to sustain permanent colonies. The names of the various islands can be most confusing, as each boasts of at least two—Spanish and English—and usually more. Santa Cruz, for example, is also known as Chavez, but the English gave it the sturdy name of Indefatigable—a name which the people there obviously find tiresome, as it is never used (except in articles in the National Geographic).

We spent only a couple of days at Puerto Chico, long enough to get our breath, stretch our legs, and deliver a letter. The latter job took all one day. While in the Canal Zone we had been entrusted with a message to Mrs. Karin Cobos, who had come over as a child in a Norwegian colonizing expedition which eventually petered out. She had married and remained in the islands and was now, we were told, living “up in the hills.” Ted, Nick, and Barbara expressed their willingness to look her up.

They started walking early in the morning up the fine, broad road which leads from Puerto Chico to Progreso, a tiny settlement five miles up the mountain. This fine road lasted for two miles. Beyond that it was still under construction. Each working day the road is pushed forward a foot or so, and there is universal confidence in the islands that someday, within the lifetime of many now alive (the younger ones), a fine highway will run all the way to Progreso and a jeep will be imported to use it.

Just beyond the end of the completed section the party left the parched, sandy, cactus-strewn slopes and began to climb into the hills where low-lying clouds were constantly dropping moisture. The cleared track soon degenerated into a muddy path, but there were still plenty of rocks so that the travelers could step from one to another and so hope to keep their shoes reasonably clean. As they plodded on, however, the drizzle changed to a downpour, the rocks and lava hunks became fewer and the mud thicker. Soon the path was merely a trace winding through dense undergrowth and knee-deep in mud. Long before the gang reached Progreso, they were unrecognizable and hoping only to keep the mud out of their hair.

In Progreso, which is a cluster of tiny houses scattered about in a (muddy) clearing, they learned that (a) Karin Cobos—well known, of course, throughout the islands—lived somewhere up beyond the village, indicated by a vast and indeterminate sweep of the arm, and (b) not a soul in Progreso spoke a word of English.

They were ushered to the Catholic priest, a Franciscan, whose rope belt dangled behind him tied in two neat knots, as if he wanted to be sure not to forget some important commissions. They spoke to him in English, French, fumbling German, and fluent Japanese (courtesy of Nick), and he answered in Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, and—presumably—Latin. Anyway, he did understand their mission, and made a sortie through the village to return with Chico, a lad who would serve as guide and who was “bueno muchacho.”

Meanwhile they relaxed on the veranda of the priest’s house and sampled some very uplifting brandy and cups of Galápagos coffee—native grown and very strong and good, which is made by adding hot milk ad lib to thick coffee essence. There was also a basketful of fresh rolls, which made a great hit, being the first fresh bread they had eaten since Panama.

At last, in spite of the priest’s dubious warnings that the journey ahead would be “malo malo,” they pushed on, with their young guide loping barefooted ahead. They were confident that the going couldn’t possibly get worse—but they were soon disabused. As they struggled on, Barbara confesses to having cheered herself up with fantasies of their reception:

I conjured up the picture of a large and gracious hacienda with a big living room and deep, comfortable couches and cold drinks and efficient servants who would lead us off to bathe and provide us with clean dressing gowns while other servants, somewhere in the back of the house, set to work washing and pressing our miserable clothes. And then, after a civilized lunch of crisp, fresh salad and perhaps more hot rolls with our hostess, we would be sent back down the mountain on horses so we could keep clean and neat all the way home.

Barbara felt she had some foundation for her daydreams, for we had all read accounts of Karin Cobos, written by successive yachtsmen. We knew she had married the son of the most prosperous plantation owner of the Galápagos, who had later been killed by his own peons, and we had read descriptions of their huge ranch house, their riding horses, and the ease and luxurious living with which the family Cobos were surrounded.

At last Chico stopped and pointed across the valley to the ridge of the next hill, seemingly miles away.

“La casita de la Señora Cobos!” he announced proudly.

They saw a lonely, bleak shoebox sitting foursquare against the skyline, and between them and it a sea of water in which cattle splashed up to their bellies. Obviously, to get to the “casita” they were going to have to swim.

At last they reached the house, wrung out their pants, peeled off their sodden shoes and socks, and were ushered in. Karin turned out to be a dark-haired and dark-eyed Norwegian woman, who looked a handsome thirty-five, but must have been in her fifties—Robinson, for instance, visited here and was smitten by her in 1926. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see them, but accepted her letter graciously and read it at once, while her guests cleaned themselves up, using a pitcher of water and a wash basin. Then they sat down to a plentiful lunch of rice, fried eggs, plantain, and more of that strong, good Galápagos coffee.

Karin spoke surprisingly good English and was happy to talk about former yachtsmen she had met, but not about her life on the island. Barbara gathered that she had divorced her Ecuadorian plantation-owning husband and moved high into the hills, where hers was the only house for miles in any direction. Apparently she liked it that way, and certainly it lessened her former loss of cattle by theft. She made her living by exporting beef to the mainland (Ecuador), where her oldest daughter was at present at college.

This was our first encounter with the rugged and independent breed which is the Galápagos pioneer—but we were to meet quite a few more when we got to Santa Cruz.

The trip down the mountain was considerably faster, though no less sticky, but with the advantage that conditions got progressively better. In Progreso, they dropped off their guide with a gift of some cheese and a couple of cans of V-8 (all they had left), and staggered into Puerto Chico just at dark. Mission accomplished.

When I checked out with the San Cristobal authorities, I was handed a bill for $10 U.S.A. (American money specifically demanded—they did not want Ecuadorian.) The special assessment was for “entering at an extraordinary hour”—namely, 6:00 P.M. local time. When I protested, the port captain shrugged and said, “It’s the law.” I had a strong hunch that had we entered at 10:00 A.M., another law—fresh from the port captain’s desk—would have charged us $10—American—for entering “in the forenoon.” I got part of my money’s worth by delivering an oration of a few well-chosen words. Part of my behavior was normal irritation, but part of it was an act: I hoped that by a vigorous protest and a threat to report the matter to Officials in High Places I could at least keep the shakedown market stable, so that the next yachtsman wouldn’t be faced with a bill for $20—U.S.A.

We left Wreck Bay by the light of a brilliant full moon at 0200, hoping to cover the 50 miles to Santa María (also known as Charles and as Floreana) before dark. By suppertime we were anchored in 4½ fathoms in Post Office Bay, renowned, obviously, for its post office—but one that is a bit different from most and with a special history. Since the days of the whaling ships, a barrel has been maintained here on the beach, where ships outbound for two or three years could deposit letters to be picked up by other ships on their way home.

In recent years this tradition had been carried on by passing yachts, with the help of the sole white family on the island, the Witmers. Mrs. Witmer collects the letters that have been deposited, cancels them with an official rubber stamp marked “Post Office Bay,” and leaves them to be picked up by the next yacht. We had heard that mainland postal services all over the world honor this cancellation.

We had been given a number of letters and packages for the Witmers and were told that they would sight us at once from their “plantation of sorts” in the hills and would come down to the beach to receive us. When no one appeared throughout the next day, we decided that they might be down at their “seaside cottage,” around the island at Black Beach, and in the afternoon we climbed several miles up into the hills, following an old trail and hoping it would lead us to one establishment or another. There are only two or three families living on Santa María, as the population is stringently limited by that vital element—water. The one permanent spring—a slow drip from the rocks—provides an assured source of water sufficient to maintain a very limited group.

Our hike was very different in character from the soggy expedition to Karin’s. Santa María is not high enough to catch much rain. The terrain is rough and sandy, covered with low brush and with frequent volcanic outcroppings. Near the beach at Post Office Bay are evidences of an early attempt at colonization, in the form of neatly laid-out foundation stones and possibly old corrals of lava rock, but the experiment failed before it had progressed very far due to the lack of water. Beyond the abortive settlement a couple of trails had been cut through the scrubby undergrowth and we set off hopefully, but one after another they petered out into goat tracks and then into nothing. At last we gave it up and returned to the beach.

We dropped our own mail into the white post office-barrel, which has been kept painted and in good repair by the crew of Irving Johnson’s brigantine Yankee, and added a small signboard with the name Phoenix to the other names which had been recorded through the years. In the process we disturbed a big and lazy seal sleeping in the sun nearby. He was not afraid of us, merely indignant at our disturbing his nap, but when poked with a stick he obliged by cavorting clumsily down the beach with Ted and Jessica in excited pursuit.

Our next call was at Academy Bay, on the south shore of Santa Cruz, 40 miles to the north. Following the directions we had been given back in Balboa, we anchored just off the stone house on the point, which we knew belonged to Carl and Marga Angermeyer. We put out a stern anchor to prevent too much swinging and here we stayed for eight days—among the most enjoyable days of our entire voyage. The settlers we met in Santa Cruz came nearer to fitting our ideas of true pioneers than any other group we had seen. No easy tropical paradise for them—no bananas and breadfruit dropping from the trees, no coconuts. Life is lived very close to the subsistence level and everything has to be done the hard way. Their salt is collected from saltpans; fats and cooking oils must be rendered from giant green turtles that the men go out to catch; bread is “sourdough,” and at each baking time a bit must be kept back as a starter for the next batch; coffee is grown in the hills and prepared by the individual housewife as needed.

Those delicate souls whose coffee must be just so would be interested in the virtuosity required to get a good cup of coffee in the Galápagos. First, you get the beans from where they are grown in the mountains, a round trip which takes a full day. Let them dry for a few days. Then shell and pound them until the hulls are free. Separate beans from chaff—a tedious process unless you do it outdoors in a strong breeze—and roast over a kerosene fire at low heat, stirring constantly for a long time, until properly brown. Grind through the coffee mill. Then make your coffee—and by now you’ll be ready for it.

The principal problem is water, for although there is sufficient rainfall in the hills, the ground is porous, and the water percolates through. At sea level rain is rare, and every drop must be caught and treasured, so that the first step in constructing a new house is to build the cistern, and the second is to erect a properly guttered roof above it. Walls, floor, and any desirable divisions into rooms can come later. Washing and cooking are always done in brackish water collected from shallow wells. In times of drought this is also drinking water. To us, it tasted impossibly salty, but we were assured that one could get used to it.

Of course, there are no doctors here, and no dentists; and certainly nothing resembling a corner drugstore. Whatever supplies must come from outside arrive by yacht, or by infrequent supply ship from Ecuador. On this ship they send out their only cash crop, and it is a skimpy one: fish which they have caught and salted down. The boat also brings their mail—when the captain thinks of it. On his most recent trip, just before we arrived, he had forgotten to pick up the sacks of mail waiting on the dock at Guayaquil, and seemed to think it a great joke. Also, Marga showed us a 100-pound sack, filled with sand, which had been delivered in lieu of the sugar they had ordered. The captain disclaimed any knowledge of the substitution and since there was no way of tracing the theft there was nothing to be done about it—except go without sugar and hope for better luck next time.

There is a strange dichotomy on Santa Cruz: those who have settled at sea level and those who live on the mountain. Only a narrow, rugged trail, impassable in the rainy season, connects the two settlements, and it takes four hours of hard climbing to reach the first of the houses “on the hill.”

The people here live a very isolated and completely agricultural life. They grow vegetables and raise cattle, trading their produce for sea-food products, or for a little cash, with the colony along the shore. Each week, Alf Kastdalen, only son of the most enterprising of the Norwegian settlers in the hills, comes down to shore with a train of burros and distributes the sacks of potatoes, the carrots and onions, bananas, and freshly killed meat for which he took orders the week before. On the return trip the burros carry an equal weight of supplies—anything from sacks of flour to rolls of barbed wire—which must be ordered from Ecuador, stored in a locked shed near the landing, and packed up the hill little by little as needed.

Because we hoped to get some fresh vegetables to take with us, Barbara and I took a trip up to visit the Kastdalens, who have been on Santa Cruz for twenty-three years, having come with one of the first resettlement groups from Norway. The trail into the hills ran for six miles almost straight up and could have been quite as bad as the one on San Cristóbal, except that it was not raining. We took about four hours for the ascent, trudging behind and beside Alf’s string of six tiny burros who were well loaded with supplies. On a later trip these same burros hauled up our small kerosene refrigerator, which we had mistakenly bought in Sydney. As I had feared, it turned out to be useless on the boat, smoking even in a quiet anchorage, but worked fine when absolutely stable. Now the Kastdalens, for the first time, could enjoy the luxury of iced drinks.

We spent the night at the Kastdalens’, where we enjoyed good conversation and a meal of wild pig (plentiful in the hills, along with wild cattle), potatoes, avocados, fried plantain—and plenty of fresh milk, butter, and home-baked bread. It was an amazing contrast to the scanty fare of the equally hospitable Angermeyers on the shore, but in talking with the elder Kastdalen women we realized that they felt keenly their isolation from friends in Academy Bay. Mrs. Kastdalen asked wistfully for news of Marga Angermeyer, whom she had not seen for over a year—the last time being on the occasion of a wedding on Santa María of the Witmers’ son. This event had been a gala affair, attended by almost every European on the islands, all of whom seemed to feel as close to one another’s affairs as if they had been members of a single family.

A few days later Ted and Jessica also made a trip into the hills, this time as the guests of another Norwegian family, the Hornemans. Old Mr. Horneman seemed a gentle and scholarly sort, not at all the type to wrest a living from a complete wilderness, yet it was he who was the first settler on Santa Cruz; with his own hands he had built the solid house, raised on stilts, in which his wife and his teen-age son and daughter lived; and by his own efforts he had reclaimed and fenced in and cultivated many acres of land. He had captured and redomesticated cattle gone wild, and bred a new stock. Now, after many arduous years, he was taken with a very unusual hobby: using selected gourds of the proper shape, he sketched in, painted and decorated remarkably accurate globes of the world.

The Hornemans’ two children, Friedel and Siegvart, were mature beyond their years in responsibilities, but they had a joyous enthusiasm for life and a thirst for knowledge that was challenging. Both of them spoke five languages: English—which was the lingua franca among the European settlers; Spanish—the language of Ecuador; and German and French, in addition to their own Norwegian. Siegvart explained the French as follows: “Mamma and Mrs. Angermeyer used to speak French when they didn’t want us children to know what they were talking about, so of course we learned French!”

Friedel also made a remark which impressed Ted and Jessica deeply. “I had ice cream once,” she told them, obviously savoring the memory. “During the war, when there were Americans on Baltra, they took me to visit the camp one day and I had ice cream!”

“We rode in a truck too,” Siegvart added.

The American Army, during the war, had had a base on Baltra, a small island just to the north, which guarded the Pacific approaches to the Panama Canal. After their departure, the buildings and supplies left behind had gradually found their way to the islands and to Ecuador. Salvaged items are, of course, very important in the Galápagos, and near the Angermeyers’ house, down on the coast, I saw the remains of Joe Pachernegg’s yacht, Sunrise, wrecked on the west side of Santa Cruz and brought over piece by piece.

Two yachts called at Academy Bay during our stay—a rather unusual concentration of visitors. The first was Cle du Sol, a French yacht, which had the distinction of having a grand piano in the one large cabin, around which the boat had evidently been built; and the day before we left, an American motor yacht, the 110-foot Valinda, out of Los Angeles, pulled in. We met the owner of Valinda, who planned to return soon to the States and arranged to rendezvous with him at James Bay, on uninhabited James Island, on the morning of February 16. He promised to pick up any mail we had ready and give quick delivery back to California, a wonderful opportunity to get messages home a couple of months earlier than we had expected.

On the day before our departure we had a community party ashore, and with the help of the men rigged up a 12-volt generator, with a 110-volt converter, so that we could give a slide show. This was our farewell gesture to the people of the Galápagos, for although we planned to see more of the islands as we cruised to the north, Academy Bay was the last human outpost.

16      BACK TO HAWAII

“How come change ya mind?”

From Academy Bay, on February 13, we made a short hop around to the east side of Santa Cruz, where we anchored for the night between two tiny islands just offshore, the Plaza Islands. It was dusk when we arrived and we lost no time in launching the dinghy, in order to take a closer look at the multitude of seals that were crowding the banks and disporting in the water. As we drew closer to shore, more and more seals slid from the rocks and swam out to circle about us, yelping excitedly as though urging us to join them. Suddenly we heard a fearful roar and turned to see a large bull seal who had reared himself out of the water. With open mouth and a truly terrifying bellow, he came charging toward our cockleshell. Giving up our vague intention of perhaps landing and kidnaping a baby seal to take along as a pet, we turned and rowed a dignified retreat. We were allowed to depart in peace, but found that any attempt to return from any angle whatsoever would be violently challenged. Reluctantly we returned to the Phoenix, swinging gently at anchor in our tiny cove.

All night our sleep was interrupted by the continual bleating, barking, yelping, and roaring of the dozens of seal colonies, which seemed to keep the watch in turns.

The next morning we set out at dawn and sailed on up the coast and across to Bartholomew Island, just off James. The scenery here is rugged and grand. We anchored just off a most distinctive pinnacle of black rock, several hundred feet high, and went ashore to explore a completely arid, sandy, volcanic, cactus-strewn terrain. In a cave in a nearby hill, following directions given us by the Angermeyers, we found the tin can cache in which Robinson, in 1932, and a few others since, have left messages. We entered the Phoenix in the select company and, in the valley beyond, spelled out the name of our ship in rock letters, to add to the other names we found there, including Yankee, Inca, Thunderbird, Arthur Rogers, Nellie Brush, and Windjammer (soon to be wrecked on Easter Island).

From Sullivan Bay we sailed up the coast of James and around to the lee, in order to spend the night in Buccaneer Bay before proceeding on to James Bay and our rendezvous with Valinda. We dropped anchor right in the middle of the bay, in seven fathoms, and Ted and I went ashore with guns to try our luck at varying the diet of canned corn beef. There was no need to hunt for goats here, as we had done on the Barrier Reef—they came to us. A large herd on the beach merely looked curiously at us as we dragged the dinghy up on the land, while on the ridge above, about 200 yards away, a herd of cattle peered down. We walked over to the goats and murdered one. They were standing in shoulder-high grass, and it wasn’t until we had made the kill that we discovered that we now had an orphan on our hands, a very young kid which nevertheless gave Ted quite a run before he was able to chase it down. We carried the carcass to the boat and tethered the baby nearby, while we completed our explorations.

Up the large gully we found plenty of iguanas, so tame they had to be shooed aside. We knew how ubiquitous these creatures were—back at Academy Bay we had once counted twenty-one, sleeping on the porch of Angermeyer’s house, while a couple more had sneaked into the living room! In the shallow caves under the banks we flushed a mother goat and twin babies, who reluctantly rose and made a token retreat until we passed. When we got back to the dinghy, where the kid was tied up, we found a large hawk had alighted on a branch just a few feet away. I picked up a rock and tossed it at him. He shrugged. I tried again, this time from a range of six feet, and hit the branch on which he was sitting. He ruffled his feathers, gazing balefully at me. Then I went up and pushed him off his perch with a stick, at which indignity he squawked angrily and flew to another tree 50 feet away.

Buccaneer Bay is the site mentioned by Heyerdahl, of Kon-Tiki fame, in his monograph on the archaeology of the Galápagos, and it was our desire to get a surface collection of pottery shards to take back to the Bishop Museum in Honolulu. We got the collection, all right, and it was a fine one—but it never got out to the Phoenix. While we had been busy ashore, the surf had risen and was now breaking heavily. We loaded our knapsack of shards into the dinghy but left guns, goat and kid for a second trip. It was lucky we did, for our first attempt to launch the dinghy resulted in our prompt capsizing. Before we managed to get the boat and ourselves back to shore, we took a considerable beating and finally crawled up onto the sand exhausted. The knapsack full of pottery ended up on the bottom, as did my last pair of glasses—even though I had worn them on a cord around my neck in approved fashion.

The oars were eventually washed within reach and, after tying them in securely, we managed to get the boat launched. I kept it steady beyond the breakers while Ted waded out with the kid held high above his head. Before he was able to deposit it in the boat, a swell went over his head and even the baby was dunked, momentarily. However, Ted kept his feet—as well as his head—and soon we were on our way back to the Phoenix where the girls and Nick had been anxiously watching our activities through binoculars. The girls promptly took charge of the soaked kid, while Ted and I, this time with Nick following in the inflatable rubber lifeboat, returned to fetch the rest of our belongings. By keeping the dinghy out beyond the surf while we loaded goat and guns into the rubber boat and hauled it out on a long line, we were able to get everything safely aboard. We examined the beach several times during the evening and again the next morning before we sailed, but the pottery—and my glasses—were not returned from the sea.

The poor baby goat did not look long for this world. She spent the night, more dead than alive, in a corner of the cockpit, wheezing and gasping painfully for air. Barbara dribbled milk, with a few drops of brandy added, between her reluctant jaws with a medicine dropper, but very little seemed to go inside. We expected every moment to be her last, but she survived the night—and the next—and the next. In fact, she not only survived, but thrived, and eventually became (Skipper’s version) a blamed nuisance as time went on, as well as (ladies’ version) a novel and joyous little companion—named Goatie-Goat—for all of us on our long trip to the Marquesas.

The kid and the cats were not our only livestock at this stage. Before leaving Academy Bay we had taken aboard a living souvenir—and a family heirloom-to-be—in the form of a young Galápagos tortoise. Jonathan Junior, named after the venerable fellow who had supposedly hobnobbed with Napoleon back on St. Helena, had become ours by virtue of barter: six packages of instant powdered milk; one can of shortening; and two bottles of hot pepper sauce, which was apparently the going rate in the Ecuadorian settlement at Academy Bay. This, of course, was a comparatively small specimen, measuring only ten inches across the shell in each direction, but we had every confidence that a few hundred years would make a noticeable difference. Incidentally, we obtained him quite legally, as we had a permit, issued in Ecuador, which gave us the right to take “two of every kind” of animal.

We had one more reluctant passenger who was stowed in the bilge. Fritz and Carmen Angermeyer had returned from a successful sea turtle hunt with enough meat to provide the entire colony on “Angermeyer Point” with several good meals. When we left, they gave us not only a sizable hunk of fresh turtle meat, but a specimen “on the hoof.” This green turtle fitted neatly beneath the floor boards in a niche near the mainmast, and there we carried him for quite a while, sloshing him down frequently with a bucket of sea water, until we all felt the need for fresh turtleburger.

We would gladly have spent much more time in these islands, but we had been at sea for three and a half years and now the end was in sight. After only one more stop—in the Marquesas—we would be closing the circle. Soon, instead of the perpetual routine of “hello—good-bye” which was one of the most difficult aspects of extended cruising, we would be meeting old friends again. In Hawaii we would be able to relax a bit and settle down for a while in familiar haunts while we overhauled our faithful Phoenix. After a bit of rest we would undertake the last leg, back to Hiroshima.

Only one thing remained before leaving the Galápagos—our rendezvous with Valinda in James Bay. On the morning of February 16, we got underway early and rounded the point from Buccaneer Bay into James. It was empty. We crossed to the south side and anchored, going ashore during the day in two groups for exploration.

Throughout the day we kept an eye on the expanse of James Bay, expecting at any moment to see the big power yacht appear. We had a stack of letters ready to hand over and we felt more than a little put out when darkness fell and it became apparent that Valinda had not kept our date. By noon the next day we reluctantly put away our envelopes full of news, and started off for the next post office on our route—3,000 miles away.

Out of fairness to her owner, this might be the place to tell what happened to Valinda. Months later (while leafing idly through a back issue of Life magazine) we learned that Valinda had been there to meet us. She had reached James Bay the night before and anchored to wait for us. Just at dawn, while we were all asleep aboard the Phoenix, five miles away around the point, Valinda had been boarded by twenty-one escapees from the penal colony on the neighboring island, Isabela. They had mutinied the night before, raided the arsenal, stolen a couple of small boats, and by chance had come across Valinda in the course of their escape flight.

The convicts forced her to sail for Ecuador, a trip of sixty-three hours under power. At Puna they took the ship’s boat and went ashore, leaving the yacht to sail north to the Canal Zone, where they gave the alarm.

No wonder they had not been there to meet us, when we arrived in the bay some four hours later! And as I read the account, even months after the fact, I wondered what would have happened if it had been the Phoenix rather than Valinda that had reached the rendezvous first.

Entire books have been written about voyages far shorter than ours from James Island to the Marquesas, but my own memory of the 26-day passage is of quiet seas, light breezes, and peaceful company.

Once we had rounded the north end of Isabela and put tiny Redonda Rock astern, we knew we would see no land for 3,000 miles, and the chances were remote, in those empty waters, that we would see another ship. Yet that one in a million chance did happen, at midnight on the sixth day out. Ted, on watch, saw lights and called me. We put on our masthead light and a large ship came close to hand. We exchanged signals and I flashed our identity. Then the liner, in a wonderfully thrilling gesture, turned on all its lights, including the system that outlined the name of the ship—City of Brisbane—in enormous glowing letters. Although we could only turn a flashlight on our sails in reply, the moment was deeply heart-warming, as two ships that passed in the night made brief contact across the dark sea.

This was the only even remotely exciting event of the trip. The weather remained constant, the trade winds steady, and my notes in the log are the briefest of our entire voyage. During our watches Ted and Jessica took turns reading Melville’s Typee aloud, and we all looked forward to seeing Nuku Hiva and the beautiful Typee Valley (Taipi Vai), changed though we knew it would be. In addition, we were longing for baths in some isolated mountain stream, for we had had no fresh-water showers since leaving the Canal Zone, water in the Galápagos being far too precious for such indulgence.

By noon of March 14 we were just off the entrance to Taiohae Bay, on the south coast. We took in our log line and started the engine—which quit on us just at the entrance. With light and baffling airs coming down from the surrounding mountains, we continued in under sail alone and, at 1415, dropped anchor in eight fathoms off the settlement at the foot of the bay, with 3,193 miles logged in a refreshingly relaxed passage of twenty-six days.

Taiohae Bay is a dream anchorage. Deeply indented into the coast, cradled by high hills, it offers perfect safety, and with a sandy coast, groves of palm trees, and scattered huts, a setting of unequaled charm. Nuku Hiva itself is a perfect example of a high island in the South Seas, than which nothing is more verdantly beautiful.

The French government maintains a small office here, so we went ashore to present our credentials. All was quickly taken care of, and once we had mailed our long-delayed letters we were free to explore at will. As English-speaking visitors to the island have done for decades, we gravitated to the unofficial clubhouse of the renowned trader, Bob McKittrick, a Britisher who had jumped ship in the Marquesas some forty years before and had never left. He operates a small store, but the commodity for which his trading post is most famous is sociability. We spent many hours on Bob’s front porch, swapping yarns with other visitors or, better, listening to Bob’s own tales, of which he had an endless store.

Also on the island were Bob and Rae Suggs—archaeologists on a field trip out of Harvard, who had been working up in Taipi Vai and were now waiting for their boat to go home. Bob, who spoke Marquesan, took me on several trips into the surrounding bush, trying to buy examples of Marquesan wood carving, for which the island is justly famous. However, we found that the bitter laws of economics worked here as elsewhere. Recently a visit had been made by a ship from the U.S. Fisheries Division, and the crew had traded ship’s stores for wood carvings—at an unrealistically inflated price which they could easily afford, since the ship’s stores were paid for not by them but by the U.S. taxpayers.

Moreover, the ship had promised even more lavish “trade goods” on their next trip. As a result, all the old carvings—bowls, tikis, turtles, ornamental swords—were being saved up and new and hastily worked objects were being turned out as fast as possible to await the return of these extremely generous men off the Fisheries boat. My private pocketbook could not begin to compete.

Ted, however, had better luck. With Nick he took a trip for twelve miles over the mountains, carrying a knapsack filled with shirts and skirts. In Tai Oa, a quite unfrequented spot, they spent a day with the chief and his family and presented their gifts. Before they left, the son of the chief gave Ted a splendidly carved wooden tiki, or little man, a bit over a foot high. The wood was magnificent and the carving perfect. Ted didn’t want to take it, as he had nothing of comparable value to give, but the chief insisted, stuffing the tiki into the knapsack. In addition he gave Nick a fine carved wooden knife.

On the day before departure we planned to motor around to the adjoining valley, Taipi Vai, and spend the day in Melville’s Typee. Word of our plans spread like magic and by the time we were ready to hoist anchor we had seven or eight deck passengers, including a lovely young Marquesan woman with two small children and a six-day-old infant. Since the engine, in spite of several hours of tinkering, again quit on us, and as I didn’t want to crowd our luck by trying to sail in, we reluctantly abandoned the projected side trip. We off-loaded our passengers, and with a smile and a wave they philosophically set out along the trail which, after a good stiff walk, would eventually get them over the mountains to Taipi Vai.

We left two of our passengers in Nuku Hiva. Goatie-Goat, who had been growing rapidly and eying the charts hungrily, remained behind, the proud possession of a Marquesan family. And we bequeathed Duchess, our disdainful Spare Cat, to Bob McKittrick. During all her months at sea she had never learned to adapt to us or to boat life but she took to Bob—and his plethora of unwanted rats—at once.

We sailed on March 21. I estimated about twenty days for the trip and made Jessica a half-promise that I would have her back in Hilo for her fourteenth birthday, on April 12. I kept my promise but the trip, contrary to our expectations, was in sharp contrast to the peaceful passage to the Marquesas. The log is filled with notes on torn sails, squalls, rain, and heavy seas. We started quietly enough, but after the first week the going began to get heavy. On the seventh day we crossed the equator for the sixth time and celebrated by catching a 47-inch wahoo—a member of the mackerel family—rather an unusual event for us on the high seas, although we usually trailed a line.

Two days later we lost another rotator from our taffrail log—about half a dozen had been taken in all—and spent a couple of days without one while I fashioned a spare from bits and pieces of several sets. The new rotator, when I put it into the water, worked fine—but backwards—so that our mileage on the dial registered in reverse. Far from being discouraged, we all thought this provided an interesting challenge, and Ted worked out tables which made it possible for us to record each day’s distance even with a rotator subtracting the miles.

Day after day went by with passing squalls and heavy weather. A major part of our spare time was taken up with sail mending. The truth is that our sails had just about reached the end of the road and required constant repair.

On the seventeenth day out I noted: “For the first time in ten days, a nice day—trade wind type, fresh. An Easter present?”

The next day we set the clock on Hawaii time and the following night we saw the loom of a light to port. The following morning we sighted Hilo and headed in.

But we were not to finish the trip without a bit more work. The engine had given up entirely and now the sails all went on strike at once. First the foresail split, and while we had it down and were making repairs, a rip appeared in the main. With so much canvas spread out useless on the deck, we made little progress even before the wind dropped almost to nothing. Drifting idly in full view of our long-anticipated goal, we passed out the leather sailmaker’s palms, the thread and beeswax and sail needles. As we set to work to sew our way in, we were cheered by a brief glimpse of that majestic landmark, Mauna Kea, which appeared for a moment between the clouds. Twice a Coast Guard plane flew low over us, which Jessica interpreted as “Going back to get the leis ready!” The Skipper, however, suggested that it was more likely that they were going back to tattle about the rotten state of our sails.

And so we spent the morning shoving needles back and forth through the heavy canvas and fighting down our impatience. By noon the job was done, enough to get in. The sails were again hoisted, and the wind was up a bit. With clearing weather and an arching rainbow lying low over the cone of Mauna Kea, we entered the bay and rounded the breakwater, making a neat two knots.

Two hours later we dropped anchor just off Kaulaiaiwi Island in almost the exact spot where we had anchored when we first arrived in Hilo after our hard beat around the Kona coast. With great solemnity Jessica filled in the red ink-line that completed an erratic circle around the inflatable globe which had been given her for her birthday in Lahaina three years before. The Phoenix—and five of her original crew—had completed a voyage around the world—Hilo, Hawaii, to Hilo, Hawaii.

Best of all, we had got ourselves into no trouble that we couldn’t get out of by ourselves.

We shook hands rather solemnly all around, but I don’t recall any particular sense of jubilation, only a sense of deep and abiding satisfaction. As we had done in over a hundred other ports, we unlashed the dinghy and put it over the side. When entry formalities had been completed and we finally rowed over to the dock, again we found representatives of the Hiroshima Ken Society waiting to welcome us. It felt wonderfully familiar. Later we took a walk. The town looked just the same. We wandered a block or so from the dock, to the little Japanese market center where we had done much shopping before setting out. In the fishing tackle store the same reels, lines, and hooks seemed to be on display in the window; behind the counter sat the same Japanese proprietor, his grin as friendly as ever. Nothing had changed.

“You on boat?” he asked.

“Yes, on Phoenix.”

“Ah—Ho-O-Maru,” he said, giving her Japanese name.

“That’s right!” We were surprised and flattered. “So you remember us!”

“Sure I remember! You came here while ago.”

“That’s right!” Quite a while ago, I thought: 2 years, 10 months, and 15 days.

“Say—” the proprietor said suddenly. “You folks say you gonna sail rounda world.”

“That’s right,” I admitted, preening myself slightly.

“Okay. Why you no do it?” he said accusingly. “How come change ya mind?”

17      THE LAST LEG:
HONOLULU TO HIROSHIMA

“Of course, there were a couple of incidents.”

After a restful two weeks in Hilo, we moved on to Honolulu, stopping en route for a week in one of our favorite spots, Lahaina. Here in Maui is none of the frantic scrambling to be seen on the island of Oahu. In Honolulu new buildings are rapidly cutting off the classical sight of Diamond Head, while automobile fumes compete with the subtle fragrance of mimosa. But on Maui—at least for the moment—there is leisure for rest and contemplation.

I qualified that remark because plans are now afoot to make another Waikiki out of a stretch of beach just outside of Lahaina, so the present description may be a requiem.

We squeezed out of tiny Lahaina harbor about noon on May 1. Making the sharp right-angle turn, we broke through the surf and crept under power through the narrow channel against a head wind. It was a quick overnight trip in fresh trades to Oahu, and by midnight we were once again laying off Diamond Head, marveling at the lights and color. This time, however, we were looking ashore at familiar landmarks and could identify the myriad flashes and beams.

The next morning we entered the yacht harbor, and after a couple of temporary tie-ups were assigned to a berth, where we began leisurely preparations for our last long leg, to Hiroshima. The yacht harbor is jammed with craft, almost all of which never have—or never could—go outside. Unfortunately, most of the available harbor space on Oahu is in Pearl Harbor, and not available to private yachts.

It was our plan to leave in about a month; it was not until almost two years later that we were able to make the long haul back to Hiroshima. The Phoenix was not quite idle during this period—she sailed over 6,000 miles during 83 days at sea—but our sailing was of a different nature than that of a casual family cruise and does not enter into this account. In brief, we sailed into the Bikini nuclear bomb test area, then to Kwajalein, in the Marshalls, and finally—without the Skipper and Jessica aboard—back to Honolulu. But, as I say, that is another story (told in The Forbidden Voyage).

On April 26, 1960, we set out again, ready in all ways for our long passage across the Pacific to Japan. The weather was fair, the trades generally moderate, and our hearts were eager to reach Hiroshima, which we think of as home. Our route lay just north of one we had taken in 1958, to the forbidden zone near Bikini, but this time we were unmolested, since the bomb tests had long since been concluded.

It was on the whole a quiet trip, although there were a couple of incidents. Also, we did a lot of experimenting with the sails, partly for the fun of it and partly because our sails were in such delicate condition that ingenious adaptations were necessary. We very soon tried the jib which Bill Huntington, of the Golden Rule, had given us, and it worked fine. A little later we set up for the first time a spinnaker, which we had bought secondhand in Honolulu. It also worked well, but we were spoiled by long years of lazy cruising and just didn’t have the racing man’s attitude. I’m afraid we never gave the spinnaker the attention it deserved, and when it began to demand too much attention we just took it down.

Log entries are meager during a fair-weather passage, and the entry on the tenth day stands out prominently: “PHOENIX’S SIXTH BIRTHDAY!” A couple of days later, we hit our first “bad” weather—a mild line squall. Things were so quiet, in fact, that one morning I took a nap and officially made Jessica the Captain—for a period of two hours. She promptly took over the keeping of the log book, and her entries follow:

0700
Cap’n Blob takes over command.
0730
Cook mutinies, refuses to get out of bed.
0825
Wind from more or less aft.
0845

Former Cap’n refuses to do dishes. Ruled guilty by Majority of One, will be thrown in irons, if any available.

0900
Took morning shot. Presiding Cap’n goofed.
0931

Cap’n turns over all responsibility to Skipper, and resigns from active (or inactive) duty. Sigh.

One more entry:

1700

DATE LINE crossed. (Beep, beep! J.)

So we lost May 11 out of our lives. That night we saw what must be a very rare sight, a “moonbow.” A full moon aft and a shower forward combined to produce this phenomenon, with actual rainbow colors quite visible.

Of course, as was the case all around the world, we had a Cat and Spare Cat on board—Nos. 34 and 35, I believe, although I’m quite sure Jessica, who kept complete pedigrees, has accurate statistics in this department. Anyway, our present Ship’s Cat was named Daimyo—so called from the early feudal Japanese lord whose distinguishing characteristic was an overbearingly haughty attitude. Daimyo had one trick, and one only, but he worked it into the ground. He had learned to ring the ship’s bell when he wanted something—and he usually wanted something. In order to get a little peace, it was necessary to muffle the bell at night. A very early-morning log entry on several days indicates that I forgot—and paid the penalty by being awakened by Daimyo’s ringing for his breakfast.

On the night of our twenty-first day out we could see the navigation light on Wake to the north and began to think about edging up to the northwest, on a slant toward Japan. We did so, and a week later I made this sad note: “Good-bye, Trades!”—to which Jessica added in written baby talk: “Sank oo for free sousan’ miles!”

But we were not to reach Japan unscathed. Typhoon No. 2 (they are numbered anew each season) was churning up from the Philippines, and as we plotted its path through daily weather broadcasts we liked the situation less and less. My entry of June 1:

36 days out. About 430 miles SE of Hachijo-shima. Sudden shift of wind to N. Present course likely to take us right into Typhoon No. 2. Decided to take down main and heave to. Only mizzen up, tiller lashed. Breeze freshening, barometer dropping, rain ...

Squalls increasing in size and frequency. Riding well.... Winds very strong.... Heavy confused seas.

By the next day No. 2 had passed in front of us, about a hundred miles ahead, and the weather was rapidly improving. Winds at the center of the typhoon were force 12—hurricane. Glad we weren’t in them—we had our hands quite full enough where we were.

Incidentally, leaving the mizzen up was a mistake—it was blown to ribbons, and this isn’t a figure of speech; nothing was left of it but thin strips of frayed canvas, cracking like whips in the wind.

That didn’t bother us. We were on the home stretch now and could almost smell the land. We broke out our topsail—Nick’s idea—rigged it upside down in place of the mizzen, and carried on. Only two thirds of the original area, and it looked rather lubberly, but the yacht club critics don’t get this far out, so it passed without comment. The important thing was, it worked.

One day after the typhoon had passed the wind was down to “light variables, with no visible progress.” This is what keeps sailing from being boring.

The next day we had a visitor: “Large whale has been playing tag with us for last half hour, swimming along just in front of our course. Saw him 40–50 times.”

And on June 8, forty-three days out, we had our last “incident”:

0955. Buzzed 3 times by U. S. Navy plane. Very low and close, once knocking wind out of our sails.

No comment. Wait, I do have a comment. You have been at sea in a small boat for over six weeks. During that time you have seen nothing but the sea and the sky. Suddenly you hear a distant ominous roar, mounting in volume. You look aft, and see a dark projectile overtaking you at fantastic speed. It roars past you in a horrible crescendo of sound, seeming to miss the mainmast by inches. The sails flap in the turbulence caused by the sudden passing. The crew, startled out of their somnolence, rush on deck. Before you can explain, they see for themselves: again the plane dives at you, this time from forward. Almost touching the waves, it passes just to starboard, lower than the mast, banks sharply, and returns for a third pass, the closest of all. Then it rises and rapidly dwindles to a speck and disappears to the northwest. You have just been “buzzed” and your peaceful voyage is over. You are back among men.

That afternoon we sighted land to starboard, long, low, and hazy. That night we saw Nojima light, and by the next day we had felt our way through a dense fog into Yokohama harbor. The weather reports were warning of the imminent arrival of Typhoon No. 3. We decided to ride this one out at anchor.

The fog lifted as we entered the harbor and we were met by a boatload of Japanese reporters, so many we could hardly get them all on board. We stopped near the outer breakwater in order to give them pictures and stories. I was still ruffled by the buzzing incident, but I said nothing about it, knowing it might be played up disproportionately. However, later I wrote the navy in Yokosuka, asking them what gave with buzzing small ships like that. Of course, I got no answer, but several months later, while talking to an ex-navy man, he told me that it was “standard procedure” to use small fishing boats as targets for buzzing practice. This time definitely No Comment!

Our stay in Yokohama was extended one week beyond our planned schedule, for reasons which I will merely enumerate: (a) Typhoon No. 3. (b) Typhoon No. 4, which we rode out at an anchorage near the yacht club (we drew too much water to go into the club anchorage). For thirty-six hours we couldn’t get off the boat. (c) A berth up the river, where we promptly grounded and lay on our side for six hours at low tide. (d) A new berth at Dock 9, under construction, complete with dynamite blasts at irregular and nerve-shattering intervals. (e) Broken bowsprit, after being rammed by harbor boat, while we were sitting at the dock minding our own business. Consequence—had to make a new bowsprit—quite a job.

However, we finally got away, after signing a waiver of liability and obtaining a Permit to Cruise, which permitted us to poke our bow into any place we wanted to.

We left Yokohama on June 23. I don’t know if any other foreign yacht has ever made the coastal passage from Yokohama to Hiroshima or thereabouts; I’ve never heard of any. However, for the convenience of yachtsmen who might come this way, I list briefly the thirteen ports we touched at, in the course of our 700-mile trip covering nineteen sailing days:

Hashirimizu, Self-Defense Force anchorage.

Aburatsubo, wonderfully hidden little spot.

Shimoda, big port, tied alongside Coast Guard boat.

Omae-zaki, small village, with breakwater.

Toba, town, tied alongside Coast Guard boat.

Katsuura, summer resort, good anchorage, many spas.

Wakayama, big city, much water activity, yacht club.

Sumoto, on Awaji Island, fishing village, small.

Takamatsu, on Shikoku, which you know.

Kinoura, bay, village.

Kurohama, lovely bay, small village, beautiful spot.

Eta-uchi, near Hiroshima, where we rode out Typhoon June in 1954.

The Japanese maritime agencies were very kind to us all the way down. Obviously we were expected wherever we went, the word being passed along in advance. We rounded Shionomisaki, the “Cape Horn” of Honshu, on July 11, without incident, and headed northward toward the Inland Sea.

This time, however, we did not tackle Naruto Straits, but sailed on past Kobe and Osaka, then westward to Takamatsu.

At Awaji-shima, we paused for a day or so in the tiny fishing harbor of Sumoto, while I took a flying trip (courtesy Japan Air Lines) back to Tokyo, to participate in a very popular nationally televised show, called “I Know a Secret.” I was the Secret of the Week—for about thirty seconds. The expert panel guessed my identity without asking a question, so we spent the rest of the time chatting about our trip around the world, using big maps which had been prepared at the studio in advance. Then back to Sumoto and on into the Inland Sea.

In Takamatsu, where we of course had many friends, we were given a berth at the Coast Guard docks. The yacht club gave us a fine party, at which we were presented with a lovely plaque. Also, as we had promised long before, we paid a return visit to Kompira-san. Following the custom, we took along tangible evidence of the dangers of the sea from which we had escaped, and added our old broken bowsprit—suitably decorated and identified—to the temple museum.

At this time we were approached by the Committee of Welcome from Hiroshima, who asked us to give them the date and time of our arrival in Hiroshima. I was a bit nonplused at first and then thought that, if the Johnsons in Yankee could set up a schedule of this nature, so could I. I told them we would be in Hiroshima between 1400 and 1500 on the afternoon of July 30. Now all we had to do was get there on time.

After five days in Takamatsu we sailed through Naka Passage, of Kurushima Straits, hitting it (by design) just as the tide turned fair. At any other time we wouldn’t be able to get through. Now we were back in familiar waters, and our last two anchorages—Kurohama and Eta-uchi—were old friends.

All in all, it was a rather enjoyable trip down, but I had my fingers crossed, especially after committing ourselves as to an arrival date. I tried not to let down my guard, lest some yacht-hating demon deal me a nasty blow—and one almost did. Almost the last entry in the log says:

1122 Petrolene, Monrovia, a big oil tanker, changed course abruptly to SB at No. 1 Buoy, cut across the ship channel, and almost ran us down. Had to change course 90° to avoid collision. Vented my spleen by blowing my horn vigorously—which was answered by happy waving from up above, on the bridge.

On the morning of June 30, 1960, after a night in our old typhoon refuge of Eta-uchi, we set out for Hiroshima, giving ourselves plenty of time. Within an hour the first snipe from the Hiroshima Yacht Club had reached us and soon we were the middle of a flotilla. At exactly 1425 we tied up at our old dock in Ujina, the port of Hiroshima. The UPI reported:

HIROSHIMA WELCOMES REYNOLDS

Hiroshima, Japan, Aug. 1 (UPI)—Dr. Earle L. Reynolds, an American anthropologist, who left here six years ago on a round-the-world yacht cruise....

BIG EVENT

The yacht returned Saturday with Dr. Reynolds and the same crew that left Hiroshima’s Ujina port six years ago. His return was a big event here.

To welcome the “homecoming” of the American, more than 30 yachts of the Hiroshima University and a score of motorboats sailed out of the harbor to meet the Phoenix and escorted it to the pier.

To add color to the welcome there was a display of fireworks and multicolored balloons.

On the pier Dr. Reynolds was greeted by a crowd of Hiroshima citizens. Later he was honored at a welcome back party at the Hiroshima Maritime Safety Board.

I don’t recall any score of motorboats, and you know about the crew situation—but there really was quite a bustle, and we couldn’t have asked for a happier homecoming because that’s what it was to us—we had come home to Hiroshima.

The next day there was a formal welcoming banquet, with Governor Ohara, the honorary president of the Phoenix Supporters’ Association, as toastmaster. We were given a very beautiful cup—a mounted replica of the world, in gleaming black, with our track picked out in golden thread and the details of our voyage inscribed in Japanese on the base.

For those who like figures, here they are: we visited 122 ports, spent 649 days at sea, and sailed 54,359 sea miles (about 62,500 land miles) to make good a direct track of 45,516 sea miles (about 52,300 land miles). We had been away for 5 years, 9 months, and 26 days.

One might think that was enough, but soon after that we sailed to Russia ... but that’s still another story!

INDEX

Aburatsubo, Japan, 302

Academy Bay, Santa Cruz, 281, 283–85, 286, 287, 289

Aitutaki, 104
Albatrosses, 116–17
American Yachtsmen’s Association, 66, 254
Angermeyer, Carmen, 289
Angermeyer, Carl, 281, 287
Angermeyer, Fritz, 289
Angermeyer, Marga, 281, 282, 283, 285, 287
Annapolis, 255
Antigua, 240
Antioch College, 2, 254
Appavou, M., 198
Arafura Sea, 155
Argod, Robert, 84
Arthur Rogers (ship), 287
Aru (island), 156
Ascension, 228–29
Atherton tablelands (Australia), 144

Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission, 3, 5, 35, 134, 257, 258

Auckland, New Zealand, 119, 120–25, 128
Australia, 100, 130–32, 133–46
Avarua, Cook Islands, 101
Awaji-shima, 302
Bahamas, 258–59
Balboa, Canal Zone, 272
Balboa Yacht Club, 272
Bali, 161, 164–68, 169–77
Baltra (island), 284
Bandung Strait, 166
Barbados, 229, 235, 236–37
Barranjoey Light, 130
Barrett, Jim, 269, 270, 272
Bartholomew Island, 287
Bartlett, Chris, 189–90
Bartlett, Mrs. Chris, 193
Batavia, 180
Bathurst Island, 156
Bay of Islands, 118
Belcourt, Christian, 194
Belém, Brazil, 221, 229, 230, 232–35
Benoa, Bali, 164, 166, 167, 174
Bewick Island, 147
Big Joe, 96–97, 98
Bikini nuclear bomb test area, 298
Black Beach, Santa María, 280
Blackfish, 76
Blassingame, Lurton, 248
Bonaparte, Napoleon, see Napoleon
Bora Bora, 87, 94–99, 107, 141
Brazil, 221–22, 225, 229–35

British Commonwealth Occupation Forces salvage depot, 11, 78

British Samoa, 109
Brotherson, Charles, 93, 94
Browning, quoted, 3
Buccaneer Bay, 288, 289
Cairns, Australia, 141–46
Callander, Peter, 128, 129–30
Canal Zone, 265–66, 267–73, 290
Cape Agulhas, 215
Cape of Good Hope, 214
Cape Peninsula, 215
Cape Solomon, 237

Cape Town, South Africa, 148, 149, 214, 215–23, 225

Cape York peninsula, 151
Carpentaria Light Boat, 155
Carr family, 273
Carstarphen family, 242
Catley, Vice-Commodore, 126
Ceram (island), 156
Champion, Buz, 93
Champion, June, 93
Charles (island), 279
Charlotte Amalie, St Thomas, 242–43
Chavez (island), 276
Chesapeake Bay, 254, 255
Chico (guide), 277–79
Christchurch, New Zealand, 126
Christmas Island, 201
Christopher, Rev. Raymond, 36
City Island, 250
City of Brisbane (ship), 291
Clark, Joan, 244, 254
Cle du Sol (yacht), 284
Clunies-Ross family, 189, 191–92
Cobos, Mrs. Karin, 276–79
Cocos Islands, see Keeling-Cocos Islands
Collins, Al, 70
Collins, Verity, 70
Colón, Panama, 269–70
Columbus, Christopher, 54
Connecticut, 250–51
Cook, Captain James, 71, 129, 146, 147
Cook Islands, 83, 100–3
Cook Strait, 125, 126, 128
Cooktown, Australia, 146–47
Cora (ship), 154
Cristobal, Canal Zone, 269
Daimyo (cat), 299
Damar (island), 156
Darwin, Charles, 276
Davis, Clare, 134, 138–40, 143–44
De Plessis, Mr., 219–20
Den Pasar, Bali, 167, 169, 171
Diamond Head, 59, 297
Diamond Rock, 237
Dicker, Mr., 161, 164
Direction Island, 189, 191, 192
Dominica, 238–40
Dorn family, 250–51
Drum (African magazine), 218
Duchess (cat), 293
Durban, South Africa, 204–5, 208, 212–13, 214
East Flats, 267
East Kauai Hiroshima Ken Association, 69
East River, 250
Easter Island, 287
Ecuador, 273, 279, 282, 284, 289, 290
Eisenhower, Dwight D., 249–50
Eishin Maru (ship), 269, 270
Ellis Channel, 149
English Harbor, Antigua, 240–41
Eta Jima (island), 26
Eta-uchi, Japan, 302, 303, 304
Exton, Carol, 134
Fairweather (yacht), 262
Falla, Dr., 127
Fare, Huahiné, 87–88, 93
Fels Research Institute, 2, 254
Fernando de Noronha, 230
Fetherston, Captain, 271
Fiji Islands, 109, 111–14, 115, 119
Five Mile River, 251

Flattypus (dinghy), 136, 139, 158, 159, 164, 218, 226

Fleur d’Océan (ship), 84
Floreana (island), 279
Foley, Larry, 236–37, 240
Fort, Mr., 105
Fort de France, Martinique, 237, 238
Fortaleza, Brazil, 230–32
Freshwater Falls, 275

Fushima, Motosada (Moto), 25, 34, 41, 48, 50, 51, 53, 59, 64, 65, 66, 68, 69, 71, 75, 78, 79, 83, 95, 103, 104, 112–13, 117, 121, 142, 148, 160, 164, 180, 202, 203, 204, 208–11, 213, 216, 217, 223, 230, 232, 233, 248, 251, 252–57, 262–64, 268–70

Galápagos, 272, 273, 275–85, 290, 291
Gatun Lake, 269, 271
Geering, Bill, 200–1
Gempylus, 77–78, 127
Georgetown, Ascension, 229
Glass, Cap’n, 71
Gloster, Hugh, 255
Golden Rule (ship), 298
Grand Slam (cruiser), 250
Great Amazon Bight, 235

Great Barrier Reef, 134, 137, 138, 140, 147–150

Great Bridge, 256
Great Inagua, 260
Great Palm Island, 140–41
Guadeloupe, 240
Haapu, Huahiné, 89–93
Hachijo-shima, 41, 44–45
Haleakala (volcano), 70
Hampton, Virginia, 255–56
Hannah Island, 147
Harford, Sir James, 227
Harford, Lady, 227
Harima Nada, 37
Harris, Marjorie, 176–77, 180, 181
Harris, Mike, 177, 180, 181
Harris, Susan, 177, 181, 183
Hashirimizu, Japan, 302
Hatoyama, Mr., 67
Havfruen (ship), 273
Hawaii National Park, 72
Hawaii Yacht Club, 66, 67

Hawaiian Islands, 57, 61–73, 290, 294–96, 297–98

Hazlehurst, Dr. George, 35
Heyerdahl, 288
Hilo, Hawaii, 71–73, 293–96, 297

Hiroshima, Japan, 2, 3, 22, 23, 25, 26, 28, 64, 249, 258, 298, 302–4

Hiroshima Ken Society, 64, 67, 71, 295

Hiroshima University Yacht Club, 5, 15, 30, 304

Hiroshima Wan, 3
Hluhluwe Game Reserve, 213
Hobson’s Choice (Hobby; cat), 223, 225
Hokkaido, Japan, 27
Hollywood (freighter), 190
Holy Child Current, 274
Home Island, 189, 192

Honolulu, Hawaii, 23, 28, 38, 50, 53, 57–59, 61–68, 70, 113, 288, 297–98

Horneman family, 283–84
Horseshoe Shoals, 255
Huahiné, 87–93
Hudson River, 248
Huntington, Bill, 298
Inca (ship), 287
Indefatigable (island), 276
Indian Creek, 255
Indian Ocean, 182, 183, 190, 201
Indonesia, 134, 135–36, 165, 170, 176, 180–83

Inland Sea of Japan, 1, 2, 3, 28, 31, 32, 34, 36, 39, 63, 302, 303

Inspire (trawler), 102
Isabela (ship), 290, 291
Islands Under the Wind, 83, 93
Itsukushima, 30
“Jacob’s Ladder” (St. Helena), 228
Jakarta, Indonesia, 135, 158, 176–80, 181–83
Jamaica, 258, 262–65
Jamestown, St. Helena, 226–28
Japerica Island, 232
James Bay, 285, 290
James Island, 285, 287, 291
Japan, see names of cities and towns
Japanese current, 38
Java, 135, 171, 177, 181
Java Sea, 177
Jeanne Mathilde (yacht), 199
Jenkinson, Sir Anthony, 262, 263, 264
Jenkinson, Lady, 262
Johannesburg, South Africa, 208
Johnson, Irving, 281, 303
Joyita (ship), 110, 115–16, 119
Kartakusuma, Dr. Angsar Muhamad M., 175–76
Kastdalen family, 282–83
Katsuura, Japan, 302
Kauai, 68–69
Kauai Yacht Club, 69
Kaulaiaiwi Island, 295
Kawau Island, 119
Kawau Yacht Club, 119
Kealakekua Bay, Hawaii, 71
Keegan family, 192

Keeling-Cocos Islands, 183–85, 188, 189, 191, 195, 201

Kii Suido, 39
King, “Rex,” 200
Kingsley family (Timor), 160–61, 163
Kingston, Jamaica, 262–64
Kinoura, Japan, 302
Kobe, Japan, 23, 25, 302
Kompira-san, 34, 303
Kongstank (tanker), 215
Kon-Tiki, 77, 288
Koro Sea, 111
Kotohira, Japan, 34
Krakatoa (volcano), 183
Kruger National Park, 207, 213
Kupang, Timor, 156, 157–65
Kure, Japan, 11, 23, 78, 134
Kurohama, Japan, 302, 303
Kurushima Straits, 303
Kwajalein, 298
Lahaina, Hawaii, 71, 297
Lardi, Mr., 190
Lauli’i, Samoa, 105–8
Lawler, Jim, 120

Leonard, Minnetta, 36, 169, 171, 174–77, 180, 181, 224, 251

Lidgard, Irene, 119
Lidgard, Roy, 119
Life magazine, 290
Linderman (island), 140
Lion, the, 215
Little Bear (ship), 93
Lizard Island, 147
Lombok Strait, 166, 177
Long Bay (St. Thomas), 242
Long Island Sound, 250, 253
Longwood, St. Helena, 228
Lord Howe Island, 130, 135
Lourenço Marques, 208
Lowe, Governor, 104
Madagascar, 203
Madison, Wisconsin, 251
Makapuu Light, 59
Malpelo Island, 274
Manuia (cat), 155, 178, 187, 202, 223–24
Marie Thérèse II (yacht), 200
Marlborough, Duke of, 118
Marquesas, 272, 273, 289, 290, 291–93
Marshall Islands, 298
Martinique, 237
Marugame, 38
Matahiva, 78
Mathew Town, Great Inagua, 260
Mathurin, Rodrigues, 194, 196
Maui, 70
Mauna Kea, 294, 295
Mauritius, 194–202
Mauritius (supply ship), 195, 196, 197
Mayaguana Island, 258–60
Mayflower (ship), 54
McKittrick, Bob, 292, 293
McQueen, Bill, 126
Melbourne, Australia, 134
Melville, Herman, 291
Melville Island, 156
Mickey, see Suemitsu, Mitsugi
Middle Island, 139
Midway Island, 52

Mikami, Niichi (Nick), 5, 6, 15, 17, 23–24, 25, 26, 34, 41, 45, 46, 49, 50, 52, 53, 59, 65, 66, 69, 75, 77, 79, 83, 87, 90, 92, 95, 100–1, 103, 104, 112–13, 117, 120–21, 142, 145, 160, 180, 187, 202, 204, 205, 208–11, 213, 216, 223, 231, 232, 233, 248, 251, 254–56, 261–65, 274, 276, 277, 288, 293, 300

Mi-ke (cat), 18, 30, 42, 48, 54, 58, 62, 85, 127, 155

Misol (island), 156
Mississippi, 218
Mitarai, Japan, 32
Miya Jima (island), 1, 5, 30
Miyake-shima, 45
Moitessier, Bernard, 200
Molokai Channel, 59
Moller, Christine, 212
Moller, Lindsay, 211, 213
Moller, Vicky, 212
Mollihawk (yacht), 241
Moto, see Fushima, Motosada
Molokai, 38, 57, 59
Montauk Point, 253
Montserrat, 240
Moody Reef, 149
Mooréa (island), 86–87
Morehead City, North Carolina, 256–58
Mosher, Phil, 104
Nagasaki, Japan, 3, 258
Naka Passage, 303
Napoleon, 226, 228, 289
Napoopoo, Hawaii, 71
Naruto Straits, 37, 39
National Academy of Sciences, 2, 257
Nawiliwili, Kauai, 69
Ndonoe, Mr., 159–60, 164, 165
Nellie Brush (ship), 287
Nelson, Art, 68
Nelson, Horatio, 240, 241, 265
Nevill, G., 102
New Guinea, 156
New South Wales, Australia, 138
New York City, New York, 243, 247–50
New Zealand, 100, 111, 117–28
Ngaroma (ship), 120
Nicholson family, 241
Nick, see Mikami, Niichi
“Night Beat” (TV program), 248–50
Night Island, 147
Nippon Maru (ship), 42
Niuafoo (island), 110
Nojima light, 301
Norfolk Channel, 256
North Head, 130
North Keeling Island, 187
Nuku Hiva, 291, 292, 293
Oahu, 70
Ohara, Governor, 65, 304
Ohara Company, 23
Omae-zaki, Japan, 302
Osaka, Japan, 23, 302
Oxford, 255
Pachernegg, Joe, 284
Packer, Mr., 133
Pago Pago, 104–5, 109–10
Paipai Pass, 94
Panama, 272
Panama Canal, 265–66, 267–73, 284
Panama Canal Yacht Club, 268
Panama City, Panama, 272
Papeete, Tahiti, 73, 80, 81–86, 95, 96 98
Papetoai Bay, Mooréa, 86
Pará River, 230, 232, 233
Paton, Alan, 220
Pearl Harbor, 59, 298
Pele (volcanic goddess), 72
Percy Islands, 139
Pern, St. de Jean, 202, 203–4
Petite, Mlle., 237–38
Phelps, Bill, 254
Phelps, Bob, 254
Philip, Prince, 227
Philippines, 165
Philipsburg, St. Martin, 241

Phoenix, the

- building of, 4–16
- designing of, 3–4
- launching of, 1–2, 14–15, 17–19
- naming of, 12–13

Pidgeon, 148
Pine Inlet, 139
Plaza Islands, 286
Pooley, Alan, 70
Port Louis, Mauritius, 197, 198, 200
Port Mathurin, Rodrigues, 194, 196
Port Royal, Jamaica, 262, 264–65
Port Royal Beach Club, 262
Portsmouth, Dominica, 239
Post Office Bay (Santa María), 279–80
Potter, Governor, 269, 273
Pretoria, South Africa, 208, 213
President Wilson (ship), 29
Progreso (Galápagos), 276–77, 279
Puckapunyal, Australia, 134
Puerto Chico (Galápagos), 276, 279
Puna, Ecuador, 290
Queensland, Australia, 140
Raïatéa, 87, 93, 94, 96
Rarotonga, Cook Island, 83, 100–3, 106
Redonda Rock, 291
Reedy Point, Delaware, 254

Reynolds, Barbara (wife), 2, 12, 15–18, 20, 22, 24, 26, 30, 31, 34–36, 40, 42–43, 47–49, 51–55, 61–63, 67, 68, 70–73, 77, 78, 80, 82, 89, 91, 96, 97, 102–9, 113, 117, 122, 128, 132, 134–37, 139, 140, 146–48, 152, 157–59, 161–62, 165–66, 169–71, 174–77, 180, 181, 183–87, 195, 196, 198, 199, 202, 205–6, 208, 213, 214, 216, 222–24, 225–27, 233–39, 241, 242, 244–46, 248–51, 253, 259, 263, 265, 268, 274–79, 283, 288–89

Reynolds, Jessica (daughter), 2, 3, 8, 16, 17, 18, 20, 22, 24–25, 26, 28, 29, 33, 34, 36, 42, 43, 48, 49, 54–55, 67, 70, 71, 76, 77, 78, 87, 90, 94, 96, 97, 105–08, 112, 113, 116, 122, 124, 127, 131, 134–35, 138–39, 142, 148, 150, 152, 153, 155–59, 161, 166, 173–78, 180, 181, 183, 187, 190, 194, 199, 201, 202, 209, 212, 213, 216, 222–24, 225–28, 233–34, 239, 240–41, 243–44, 248, 251, 255, 262–63, 265, 281, 283–84, 288, 291, 293–95, 298, 299

Reynolds, Ted (son), 2, 3, 15, 17, 20, 21, 24–25, 27–28, 32, 33, 35–36, 38, 41, 43, 45, 51, 59, 68, 70–72, 74, 75, 79, 87, 89, 101, 105, 117–18, 124, 126, 127, 128, 130, 132, 134, 145–48, 154, 158–59, 161–63, 166, 171, 174, 177, 179, 181–84, 187, 194, 196, 199, 213, 214, 224, 226, 233, 235, 238, 239, 248, 251, 252–54, 263, 265, 269, 274–76, 281, 283–84, 287, 288, 291, 293, 294

Reynolds, Tim (son), 3, 15, 248, 251
Robinson, William, 83–84, 278, 287
Rodrigues, 184, 188, 193, 194–97, 201
Roseau, Dominica, 238–39
Rosebank (Quarantine Station), 247–48
Rouchecouste, Claude, 194, 196
Rouchecouste, Mme. Claude, 194, 196
Rousset, Jacques, 199–200
Rowayton, Connecticut, 251, 252–53
Royal Cape Yacht Club, 216, 218
Royal Port Nicholson Yacht Club, 126
Royal Suva Yacht Club, 111, 112
Rushcutter’s Bay, 132, 133
Russell, New Zealand, 118–20
Russia, 305
St. Helena, 224, 226–28, 289
St. James Bay (St. Helena), 226
St. Lucia, 237
St. Martin, 241
St. Thomas, 242–43
Saint-Pierre (Martinique), 237
Sakala, 156
Salinas, Brazil, 232, 236
Samoa, 83, 104–9
San Cristóbal, Galápagos, 273, 275, 279
Sanford, Francis, 94
Sanford, Lysa, 94–95, 98
Santa Cruz (island), 276, 279, 281–83, 286
Santa María (island), 279–80, 283
Santa Olivia (freighter), 270, 271
São Paulo, Brazil, 221
Sargasso Sea, 244
Sassafras River, Maryland, 254
Saturday Evening Post, 139
Scotland Light, 246
Sermata (island), 156
Seven Seas Cruising Association, 66, 242
Shellback (ship), 242
Sherwood, Bill, 115, 117–18, 119
Shionomisaki, 302
Signal Hill (St. Helena), 228
Sinclair, Bill, 213
Slocum, Joshua, 2, 143, 147, 149, 235
Society Islands, 45, 94, 97, 106
Solomon Island, 255
South Africa, 202, 207–24
South Island, 123, 126, 128
South Point, 71
Spray (ship), 2, 147, 149
Sprite Island Yacht Club, 250
Staten Island, 246
Statue of Liberty, 248
Stuyvesant Yacht Club, 250

Suemitsu, Mitsugi (Mickey), 25, 32, 34, 47–48, 50–53, 58, 59, 65, 66, 67, 69, 75, 78, 79, 83, 95, 103, 104, 111, 112–13, 115, 117, 121, 128–29, 144–45, 156, 160, 180, 188, 202, 204, 208–11, 216, 223, 224, 232, 233, 248, 251–57, 260–64, 268–70

Suggs, Bob, 292
Suggs, Rae, 292
Sukarno, Achmed, 182
Sullivan Bay, 287
Sulu (ship), 214–15
Sumoto, Japan, 302, 303
Sunda Strait, 183
Sunrise (yacht), 285
Suva, Fiji Islands, 110, 111–13
Suwandi, Igusti Rai, 171–73, 175
Svaap (ship), 83
Sydney, Australia, 115, 129–32, 133–37
Sydney Telegraph, 133
Table Mountain, 215, 216
Tahaa, 87, 93–94
Tahaa reef, 94
Tahiti, 72, 78–80, 81–86, 106
Tahiti (ketch), 81
Tai Oa, Marquesas, 293
Taiohae, 291–92
Taipi Vai, Marquesas, 291, 292, 293
Takamatsu, Japan, 33, 36, 302, 303

Takemura, Mr., 5, 6, 7, 15, 17–18, 23–24, 25, 27, 35, 41, 63

Tanimbar (island), 156
Tanjung Priok, 180
Tasman Sea, 125, 128–31
Tau Island, 104
Te Vega (schooner), 81
Telok Bay, 156
Tetiaroa, 78, 79
Thunderbird (ship), 287
Thursday Island, 146, 149, 151–54
Timor (island), 136, 157–63
“Tin Can Island,” 110
Toba, Japan, 302
Tokyo, Japan, 303
Tomkies, Commodore, 126
Torres Strait, 151
Torstenson, Captain, 271
Townsville, Australia, 140
Trowbridge, Jerry, 272
Trowbridge, Marie, 272
Twelve Apostles, The, 215
Typee (Melville), 291
Typhoons, 26–27, 37, 300, 301
Ujina, Japan, 304
Uturoa, 93, 141
Valinda (yacht), 285, 287, 290
Venus Point light, 79
Virgin Islands, 242–43
Viti Levu, 111
Wailangi Lala Island light, 110–11
Waitaki (freighter), 130
Wakayama, Japan, 302
Wake Island, 299
Washington, D. C., 255, 257
Watson Bay, 131
Watubela (island), 156
Weary Bay, 128
Wellington, New Zealand, 115, 126–28
Wells, Dr. Warner, 257
West Island, 189, 190–91
West Kauai Hiroshima Ken Association, 69
White, Claude, 139
White, Percy, 139
White Seal (ship), 273
Whitehall Creek, 254
Whittle, Jean, 212
Whittle, Jimmy, 212
Wightman, Frank, 230
Windjammer (ship), 287
Windward Passage, 258, 260
Wingate, John, 249
Witmer family, 280, 283
Wreck Bay, 273, 275, 276, 279
Wylo (ship), 230
Yamada, Mr., 12–13
Yankee (brigantine), 281, 287, 303
Yasuda, Mr., 5, 6, 7–8, 14–15
Yellow Springs, Ohio, 234, 269
Yokohama, Japan, 23, 301–02

Yotsuda, Mr., 1–2, 5–9, 11, 13–14, 15, 19, 21, 32, 68–70

Zululand, 213

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Page | Changed from | Changed to
292 | of the bay, with 3,193 logged in a refreshingly relaxed passage | of the bay, with 3,193 miles logged in a refreshingly relaxed passage

- Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.

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Table of Contents

- ALL IN THE SAME BOAT An American Family’s Adventures on a Voyage around the World in the Yacht Phoenix

- INTRODUCTION
- CONTENTS
- ILLUSTRATIONS
- 1 THE RISE OF THE PHOENIX
- 2 PREPARATIONS FOR A VOYAGE
- 3 FROM JAPAN TO HONOLULU

- 4 ON TO THE SOUTH PACIFIC: FROM HAWAII TO TAHITI

- 5 TAHITI AND THE ISLANDS UNDER THE WIND

- 6 WESTWARD THROUGH THE SOUTH SEAS: RAROTONGA, SAMOA, FIJI

- 7 DOWN UNDER: NEW ZEALAND AND AUSTRALIA
- 8 —AND BACK UP: THE GREAT BARRIER REEF
- 9 INTO INDONESIA: THURSDAY ISLAND TO BALI
- 10 BALI, JAVA, THE KEELING-COCOS
- 11 ACROSS THE INDIAN OCEAN: COCOS TO DURBAN
- 12 SOUTH AFRICA: BEAUTIFUL, UNHAPPY LAND

- 13 ACROSS THE ATLANTIC THE LONG WAY: CAPE TOWN TO NEW YORK CITY

- 14 EVERY KIND OF CRUISING: NEW YORK TO PANAMA, BY THE CORKSCREW ROUTE

- 15 GALÁPAGOS: HOME OF THE LAST PIONEERS
- 16 BACK TO HAWAII
- 17 THE LAST LEG: HONOLULU TO HIROSHIMA
- INDEX
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE