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.