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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?” I asked sleepily.

“Fune desu—boat.”

“Chikai desuka?—Is it close?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No!”

“We’ll pump first, Nick. Let’s go!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No pains?”

“No. No pain.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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