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:
One more entry:
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:
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, Japan, Aug. 1 (UPI)—Dr. Earle L. Reynolds, an American anthropologist, who left here six years ago on a round-the-world yacht cruise....
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!