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:
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!