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.