In the morning we entered Honolulu Harbor under power and were directed to Pier 7, in the heart of the city. Quite a crowd had collected and what with officials, newsmen, radio and television operators, dockworkers, yachtsmen, and curious strangers, we found the confusion intimidating after forty-seven days of isolation.
Even before the lines were made fast, reporters were shouting questions, a television crew had asked us please to go out and come in again for the benefit of their cameras (we didn’t), and our good friends the Bushnells—who had spotted us from their home on the heights and rushed down with fragrant leis—were breaking the news that Barbara’s mother had flown in from Wisconsin only a day or two before and was awaiting our arrival.
As the Phoenix nudged the dock, an imposing individual cleared a space around him and prepared to board. Our first American visitor. I remembered my manners—we were back in the States, where one doesn’t bow, but shakes hands. I extended mine. He promptly put his briefcase into it, stepped aboard, and ordered all hands below. At once. No accepting of leis. No conversation with well-wishers on the dock.
The reporters howled; the bystanders jeered; and Barbara, in the midst of eager arrangements for getting in touch with her mother, had to be dragged down the companionway. We went below.
Our first visitor did not announce his function, but we soon gathered that he was the port doctor. We rather wondered why we could not at least have spoken to the people on the pier. What obscure disease can be transmitted by voice?
As the doctor left, Immigration arrived. We were delighted to produce the hard-won passports and U.S. visas for the Japanese men. Next in line was an agricultural inspector who apologetically threw overboard a couple of tired potatoes. We didn’t want them anyway.
A truck arrived, with the ominous lettering “Animal Quarantine” on it, and Mi-ke was snatched from Jessica’s arms and whisked away to a cell. We could have her back in four months we were told—and, no—the time spent at sea could not be applied on the quarantine period! It was evident that whatever terrible germs might find their way into Honolulu they wouldn’t include rabies. As an anthropologist, my own feeling was that these precautions, while commendable, were a bit late, since a far worse disease, the white man, had long ago taken a firm grip on the islands.
At last the officials moved on and we were free to come and go—but not before the location of the Customs Office had been pointed out to me, with instructions to report there as soon as possible. We had just been introduced to a new aspect of cruising: the inevitable bout with officialdom, just when you are longing to get ashore after weeks at sea. Necessary, perhaps, but infinitely frustrating.
Taking a deep breath we went up to join our patient friends—and ran into the second land-based hazard of cruising: reporters. Frankly, I was a little surprised to find the press in Honolulu so interested in our arrival. After all, boats by the hundreds come in here and they have to sail a good long way to get to the islands, no matter which land they set out from. Then why all the excitement about us?
I answered questions from reporters with half of my mind and tried to carry on a conversation with friends with the other. All of us gathered together when told to and smiled when asked and waved upon request—and breathed a sigh of relief when at last the reporters and photographers left.
Hours later, on my way back from the Customs Office, I bought a paper whose headlines screamed: Lost Yacht Arrives! What a coincidence, I thought. Another yacht—and on the same day! Only after I looked at the accompanying picture did I realize that the “lost yacht” referred to was the Phoenix!
This news took a bit of digesting. Gradually, as our friends filled us in, we learned that for more than a week we had been the subject of a running story started, perhaps, when friends who were expecting us had called the Honolulu Coast Guard to ask for news.
“Yacht Phoenix?” The C.G. had no information. “Coming from Japan? Never heard of her, but we’ll see what we can find out.”
A query was sent to the Japanese Coast Guard who, checking back, noted that a heavy storm had lashed Japan shortly after we sailed. Further research dug up an early news story indicating our original intention to sail up the coast before heading out to sea. A belated search of coastal waters turned up no wreckage of the Phoenix, no coastal station reported having seen her after her departure from Takamatsu.—Reluctantly, Japanese officials notified the U.S.C.G., “No trace of yacht Phoenix”—and the panic was on.
Conflicting reports began to crop up and were given international publicity. One, from an “authoritative source,” said we had “undoubtedly gone down with all hands”—a nicely flavored nautical phrase. Barbara’s mother, approached for comment, expressed confidence that all was well. A “Japanese naval expert” (our old friend Takemura?) was next quoted as saying that our ship was “built for the Inland Sea and would never withstand the rough waters of the North Pacific,” while another “expert” was found to maintain that a sturdier, better-built boat had never existed. “They’re safe”—“They’re lost”—“Hope dims”—“Hope revived”—headlines argued back and forth.
One article, the most bizarre of the lot, reported that a radio communication from the Phoenix had been received in Hiroshima to the effect that we were safe and would reach Hawaii “in a few days.” Eventually we tracked this down. A message had been received—of a sort: Moto’s mother had visited a shrine, where she had received assurance from On High that all was well with the Phoenix. She had passed the word along to the anxious relatives of the other men, the word had spread, and the newspapers got hold of the story. When the overseas news service picked it up, however, they failed to recognize that a “message” could be heavenly as well as electronic. In their own version, they presupposed a radio contact without bothering to inquire whether we actually had a radio transmitter aboard.
When we protested the inaccuracy—and the cruelty to anxious friends and relatives—of such irresponsible reporting, a newspaper acquaintance shrugged off our indignation.
“It’s just formula stuff,” he assured us. “Yacht sails—yacht has trouble—yacht does (or doesn’t) arrive. Sometime during the trip there has to be a crisis—a big storm—a man overboard—or just, as in your case, no word at all. That’s always good for at least a couple of ‘overdue’ or ‘lost’ stories. If the boat is really lost, the accuracy of the press is upheld. If it turns up—so much the better, because everyone feels good and we can do follow-up stories, general rejoicing, and big headlines.”
“Like ‘Lost Yacht Arrives’?”
He shrugged. “Anyway, it sells papers.” And then he added, a bit defensively, “Our paper hasn’t any objection to reporting the truth—so long as it doesn’t interfere with our circulation.”
In our case the news value was enhanced by the interracial character of our crew and the tremendous interest in the Phoenix which was felt not only in Japan but throughout the substantial Japanese-American community of the Hawaiian Islands. The two Japanese-language newspapers gave the story a big play. The Japanese Consul General paid his respects within hours of our arrival. The Hiroshima Ken Society (composed of hundreds of first-generation immigrants from Hiroshima Prefecture) scheduled a Welcome Banquet in honor of our men. And a cable from Japan informed us that a “Yacht Phoenix Supporters’ Association” had been organized, with Governor Ohara of Hiroshima Province as President.
This unexpected interest and publicity impressed us forcefully with the fact that our voyage was no longer a private affair. Whatever we did or said would be magnified by the press, both in Japan and locally. This put the problem of Mickey in a different light. Our instinct against washing one’s dirty linen in public had kept us from saying anything to press or public about Mickey’s failure, but the problem still had to be faced among ourselves.
My own feeling was that we should send him back to Japan, and the family felt the same. We had proved we could manage without him during the worst that we were likely to encounter in the way of weather and it seemed foolish to carry as supercargo someone who might at any time become a liability.
To my surprise, when I mentioned the subject to Moto and Nick, I found them unalterably opposed. My point of view was the narrow one of the skipper of a boat trying to make a successful circumnavigation; but my men were no longer thinking merely as yachtsmen. They had been greeted as representatives of Japan and they felt the responsibility keenly. A loss of “face” was involved. If one of them were to be sent back, the failure would reflect upon them all. In fact, there was the definite implication that if one went they would all feel obliged to go.
As is usually the case, no decision could be entirely satisfactory. If I kept Mickey, I felt he would be a constant threat to our success—not just from the standpoint of a weak stomach but because of his personality. Nick and Moto, however, were emphatically positive that he would turn out all right. We talked it over at tedious length and finally decided to keep Mickey—on sufferance—at least for a while.
After several days at the commercial dock, we were given permission to move to the Ala Wai Yacht Harbor, near Waikiki. Here we quickly made the acquaintance of fellow yachtsmen and, for the first time, had the real joy of visiting other yachts, of inviting friends aboard for coffee and yarns, and of hearing at first hand the experiences and opinions of men—and women—who had sailed all over the Pacific. We learned that the trip from California to Honolulu, or from Honolulu down to Tahiti, is considered the “milk run” by local seagoing yachtsmen. They had a certain respect for our Japan to Honolulu crossing, however, and we were human enough to be gratified.
Our Phoenix, with her rugged build, heavy masts, and massive tiller, looked a bit crude among the chrome and varnish of her sleek neighbors but, as Moto said in a series of articles he was writing for a Japanese-language paper, “Our boat is the roughest looking boat in the yacht harbor, but one of the most respected.”
All seven of us were made honorary members of the Hawaii Yacht Club, which Barbara and I later joined officially. Earlier, while still in Japan, I had joined the American Yachtsmen’s Association, which gave us outstanding help throughout our entire voyage. Soon we added still another burgee—that of the Seven Seas Cruising Association, composed of cruising yachtsmen who live aboard their craft and keep in touch with one another by means of a monthly bulletin to which all the S.S.C.A. “Commodores” contribute.
Every day brought visitors to the Phoenix. Some of them, naturally, were friends of ours, or friends of friends, but so many were people of Japanese ancestry who bowed and chatted in their native tongue with Nick, Mickey, and Moto that I sometimes wondered whether we weren’t still tied up to the dock in Hiroshima.
“I thought you said you didn’t know anyone in Honolulu,” I remarked to Moto, after several days had passed with no slackening in the steady stream of callers.
“Yes!” Moto agreed happily. “We don’t! But Hawaii people very kind, very friend.”
Indeed they were “very friend.” Day after day shiny black limousines drew up at the docks and discharged Japanese-speaking callers bringing gifts: clothes, cartons of cigarettes, baskets of fruit, flowers, cakes, Japanese delicacies of all kinds—and invitations without number.
Thus began a period during which we were treated to a hospitality such as few tourists, I am sure, have ever experienced. Our own list of haole (white) friends grew rapidly and we had no lack of invitations, which we could accept without qualms, knowing that our Japanese companions also were having a fine time. Only three or four times did our paths cross: once when we were all invited to a most enjoyable family dinner with the Japanese Consul General, Mr. Hatoyama, his charming wife, and three of their ten children; once when I was speaker at a Hawaii Yacht Club dinner; and once for a never-to-be-forgotten “Welcome Party” given by the Hiroshima Ken Society. All the guests were male (except Barbara and Jessica), and the food, utensils, and speeches were entirely Japanese. Mickey had apparently been elected spokesman for the Phoenix crew and he made a stirring speech, complete with gestures and bravado. For the first time we experienced the rafter-raising Japanese cheer, a chorus shouted at top voice from over two hundred enthusiastic throats: “Banzai!... Banzai!... Banzai!” and we were proud that our Japanese companions should be so honored.
In spite of an active social life and my own commitment for a series of three articles about our trip, we managed to make time for a great deal of work on the boat. In addition to drydocking and doing a routine overhaul, we put in a number of improvements based on our hard-earned knowledge of what was needed most. With the proceeds from my articles, I was able to install a 12-volt electrical system, which only those who have returned, however briefly, to the onerous, overheated, and smelly age of kerosene can appreciate. Not only did this remove the necessity for reaching for one’s flashlight before trying to move about at night, but it made it possible for each of us to enjoy the infinite luxury of reading in our bunks. It was an improvement, too, from the standpoint of safety, for it became a simple matter to flick on masthead light or sidelights at the first sign of an approaching ship. I also installed a Navy surplus radiotelephone which, although we had no intention of using it routinely, was a comforting thing to have around.
Changes were made in the galley, too. Previously, Barbara had had to wire her pots to the stove—a tricky and sometimes dangerous maneuver in rough weather. Now we set up the stove in gimbals so it would always remain level—a sometimes fantastic sight at sea when it often appears as if the pots on the stove are the only things tilting and that liquid must remain in them by some kind of magic. We put in sink pumps for both fresh and salt water—the latter, as Moto described it, connecting us to “the biggest water tank in the world.” And we put in two more bilge pumps, one off the engine and one which went out to the turn of the bilge and also served to empty the sink. These changes, naturally, had the enthusiastic endorsement of the cook as well as of Ted, whose galley boy work was thereby considerably lightened.
Shortly after our arrival a Mr. Yotsuda from the northern island of Kauai, had flown over to welcome us. He was a brother of the Yotsuda-san in Japan who had built the Phoenix and he had extracted a promise from us that we would visit a little “The Garden Isle” before we sailed for the South Seas.
By March Art Nelson, the local sailmaker, had completed the genoa jib I had ordered for the fair-weather trade-wind sailing we hopefully anticipated and, with all the rest of the work done, we felt we were in fair shape for sea. It seemed high time to keep our promise to Mr. Yotsuda and give the Phoenix (and crew) a chance to try her wings again.
Early in March we set sail for Kauai, a hundred miles to the northwest. The trip, which we had hoped would be short, routine, and enjoyable, turned out to be otherwise. The channel was rough, the wind was fickle, we were soft—and it took three days. On the last evening a stiff breeze sprang up that threatened to pile us onto the unknown lee shores of Kauai. Ted and I had an uneasy time of it until we sighted land, but it was too late to go in, so, once again, we tacked back and forth all night. What with keeping an eye on the lights and rousing the men every couple of hours to come about, we got little sleep as we waited for daylight to arrive so that we could round the breakwater and enter the beautifully protected bay of Nawiliwili. Happily exhausted, we dropped the hook a few hundred feet from shore and crawled into our bunks.
Within five minutes we had visitors—the East Kauai Hiroshima Ken Association, led by Mr. Yotsuda, who had a full program lined up for us. Under his direction we turned on the engine and motored into the dock where a place of honor had been reserved. On shore, a caravan of cars was waiting and in no time we were on our way.
That day we saw all the points of natural beauty or historic interest on the east side of the island—and they are many. A full day ended with a formal banquet and many speeches.
It was after midnight before we were returned to the boat. At seven the next morning we were aroused by more visitors—this time, the West Kauai Hiroshima Ken Association who did the honors for the other side of the island, including the banquet—and the speeches! If, that night, we were all a little sleepy, there was general agreement that it had been well worth it!
We also received an invitation from the Kauai Yacht Club, but because of club policy it was extended only to the haole members of our group. This gave rise to a situation we had discussed at some length: the probability that in the course of our world cruise we would run into discrimination. It was distressing, however, that it had arisen first in the friendly Hawaiian Islands—and particularly that it should be a yacht club which excluded certain yachtsmen on the basis of race.
The family’s first inclination was to decline but Nick, Mickey, and Moto were more realistic. As they pointed out, they had already received more invitations than they could accept, many of which did not include us. The most sensible course, they seemed to feel, was for all of us to take things as they came and enjoy whatever hospitality appealed to us. We accepted the invitation, therefore, and tried, by our attitude and conversation, to sow what seeds of tolerance we could.
While we were in Kauai, Mr. Yotsuda continued to consider himself our official host. “Did brother build you a good boat?” he asked, one day. “Is there anything you would like to change?”
I assured him that we were well satisfied with his brother’s work, but we would like to extend the stern sprit someday, in order to set up a permanent backstay for the mizzen. The next day Mr. Yotsuda appeared at dockside with his own tools and stayed until the job was done. Boatbuilding, it appears, runs in the family, and the Phoenix had become a family affair.
After two pleasant weeks we headed back to Oahu and Honolulu. As it happened, the return trip was rougher, if possible, and took a day longer than the passage up. Our initiation into trade-wind island hopping had been unfortunate, and I could see signs of disillusionment and rebellion among the women—particularly when we had to spend two days within sight of Honolulu, beating our way in. It was a hard lesson in the vicissitudes of sailing upwind and I discovered that Barbara and Jessica had a tendency—regrettable in those who must depend on the wind—to chafe a bit when land was in sight.
We spent only a few days on Oahu, during which time we loaded aboard canned goods in case lots for an estimated six months. Then, bidding farewell to the many friends we had made, and with promises to return “in a few years,” we moved on to Maui. With us we took, as guest “hitchsailor,” Alan Pooley, the son of Wisconsin friends, who provided welcome companionship to Ted.
In Maui the Japanese community again took us to its heart but this time they had to compete with the hospitality of Al and Verity Collins, known throughout the cruising world as hosts to visiting yachtsmen. Did we want some laundry done? Bring it on up to the house and dump it in the machine. Hot baths? Come on over—any time! Shopping to do? Here’s Al, at the dockside with his car, ready to take you anywhere you want to go.
The climax of our stay on Maui was the two-day trip into Haleakala, the world’s largest extinct volcano crater. With us went our young guest, Alan, enjoying his last adventure before returning to the mainland, despite the minor inconvenience of a broken arm, obtained by falling down our forward hatch. (This was the first accident aboard and we sincerely hoped it would be the last.)
Our last memory of Lahaina is of the farewell party and hula show put on for us at dockside just before our departure. As we cast off the lines to the strains of “Little Brown Gal,” we suddenly noticed that Jessica was still sitting on the edge of the dock, her back to the Phoenix, so engrossed in the performance that she was quite unaware of our departure. Hastily I put the engine in reverse, Moto tossed a line to shore, and willing hands boosted her up over the stern sprit—together with three more cakes and another stalk of bananas in case we should get hungry on the overnight trip to the Big Island (Hawaii).
Sailing on down the Kona (leeward) coast of Big Island, we spent several days in Kealakekua Bay, where Captain Cook was killed. The bronze plaque which supposedly marks the place of his death was under a couple of feet of water, a short distance offshore. We could never have found it without the help of “Cap’n” Glass, a salty-looking old landlubber-turned-yachtsman. Even Cap’n Glass, however, could not tell us how the marker had managed to end up in such an unusual spot. Water risen? Land sunk? We’d still like to know the details.
At Napoopoo we decided to make a further test of our new equipment by beating around South Point and up to Hilo, against both wind and current. I had good reason to believe that the trip would be rugged and some instinct made me suggest that the women go across the island by bus, a trip of only a few hours, to wait for the rest of us in Hilo. Barbara acquiesced with mixed emotions. In her diary she noted: “Deserted the Phoenix. It was a queer, rootless feeling to watch her moving out of the harbor far below us while we were driven along the upper road on our way to the station wagon-cum-bus.”
Four days later in Hilo, she noted in her diary: “Our Phoenix was sighted this evening.... How wonderfully the Japanese grapevine works! Three members of the Hiroshima Ken Society were waiting at the dock when Earle and Ted rowed in to shore for the first time. Already we’re dated up for the Welcome Dinner plus a day of sightseeing around Hilo and another day touring the Volcano Area.”
We were exceptionally fortunate in visiting the Big Island during the 1955 volcanic eruptions, so that we had far more than the usual tourist excursion through Hawaii National Park. New cinder cones were being pushed up daily within easy driving distance of Hilo. In startling contrast to other countries, where volcanoes claim innumerable lives and force a mass exodus, Hawaii’s volcanic goddess, Pele, has a reputation for benevolence. One of the favorite expeditions, day or night, was to the scene of current activity. Tourists and locals alike, serenely confident, flock to watch and photograph her pyrotechnic displays or to scoop up—on a very long stick—souvenirs of molten lava.
I was absorbed, however, with preparations for our long hop to Tahiti, 2,200 miles to the south. The constant work and pressure took up so much time and energy that I almost resented the interruptions of volcanoes, hospitality, and the ubiquitous visitor with his often ludicrous questions. A couple of sailors from a naval ship wanted to know where we kept our gyrocompass—and they weren’t kidding. A Hawaiian housewife, too broad even to attempt getting down the main hatch, expressed incredulity and distress when she learned that Barbara had to get along without a washing machine. And a gang of modern teen-agers, far from envying Ted’s adventure, seemed rather to feel sorry for him because we didn’t have TV!
I was so preoccupied, in fact, that I was completely unaware of Barbara’s feelings or of the struggle she was having with herself as the date of our departure drew near. And not until several years later, after our trip had been successfully completed, did she allow me to read notations she had made in her diary at that time:
This whole period has been an emotionally confused one. Intellectually, I know that no trip to come will be as bad as the hop from Japan, but like the rat who’s been shocked too many times, I have a deep-rooted dread of starting off again. A thousand times I’ve wanted to cry out, “I can’t go on with it—I just can’t!” Yet I know I must. I can’t be the one to let Earle down—and after the trip around from Kona, when the men batched it, and have taken every occasion to tell me how important I am to their well-being and how morale suffered when I was not along.
It’s supposed to be good to be wanted, but I feel only resentment. The few wonderful, relaxing days at the Y.W.C.A. were not enough and when we moved back to the Phoenix it was with reluctance and a sense of being cheated. And yet, I wouldn’t have wanted her any more delayed, for the last day or two before they arrived was no pleasure because of my anxiety over the lack of communication.
If that trip showed the men that they needed my contribution, it also served to show me that as long as the Phoenix continues on her voyage with Earle aboard, I have no choice but to string along. Watching and wondering is much the hardest part!
On May 26, 1955, with a high barometer but amid showers and overcast sky, the Phoenix set out from Hilo on the long trip south. We felt much better equipped, both shipwise and personally, than we had been when we left Takamatsu exactly six months earlier, but I can personally vouch for it that Barbara was not the only one who had some private trepidation. One thing we were certain of, however: we could at least expect better conditions than on the North Pacific trip.
It was our plan to make as much easting as possible in the early stages of the trip, so that at the southern end, when we reached the area of the southeast trades, we could make the port of Papeete, Tahiti, without undue effort.
For the first four days the weather, as well as myself, was uncertain. The pattern is shown in the log:
During night about a dozen mild squalls passed over, with or without clouds and rain. My sleep was governed by these visitors, as we had left the four lowers up, and I half expected something to carry away. Each time a squall passed, with no sound of smashing blocks or flapping canvas, and no call for help from the man at the tiller, I sank again into an uneasy sleep. But all held, and my lost sleep was wasted, for the night passed without incident and we made good time.
Our taffrail log was misbehaving, and I broke out the spare (which I had bought from a fellow yachtsman in Honolulu). For a while, we trailed them both—to port and starboard. The Big Log doggedly and steadily recorded that we were going 3 knots while the Little Log insisted that we were making 9. Making use of a Dutchman’s log, I determined that we were making about 5 knots, and Ted and I tried to work out the mathematics that would reconcile the two.
Also, we now had two sextants, as I had picked up an extra in a secondhand shop in the islands. It seemed to work fine—at least Ted and I, each shooting the sun at the same time with a different instrument, were able to get within five miles of each other, and this was quite good enough for us.
The weather, after its bad beginning, steadily improved until by the eighth day out it was perfect. Now, however, at about 10° North Latitude, we began to run out of wind. Each day it got a little lighter. My log asks one word, “Doldrums?”
The following day we ran the engine, on a course due south, for seven hours, to help us get into the southeast trades, and by the tenth day we picked up light but steady airs from the new direction. Slowly they increased, as we worked our way south.
Our radio listening was confined to five minutes a day—from a station in Los Angeles—at which time we caught a short roundup of the news and a time signal, to check our chronometer. That was all we wanted or needed. If anything of world-shattering importance happened, we knew it would be covered in that brief newscast. The rest could wait. My log says:
So far, this trip, compared with the N. Pacific crossing, has been a quiet afternoon’s sail on the Bay, complete with sunbathing, naps, reading, games, and drinks—not, unfortunately, cold. It’s full moon now and we stayed on deck late last night in a scene of fantastic beauty.
We had moved to better locations the last-minute miscellaneous items that had crammed the life raft on departure, and now we found the raft a perfect family playpen and a fine spot for astronomy lessons from Ted. We had time, too, for family games, such as Twenty Questions or Teapot, and for conversation, that forgotten art. Unconsciously we bridged the gap of years as we shared our reading and our thoughts and kicked ideas around. There was a new sense of relaxation. Hatches and portholes were left open day after day, and meals were often served on deck. Gradually we dared to believe that perhaps deep-sea cruising didn’t have to be under conditions such as we had experienced on the Long Shakedown—given the proper latitudes and the right season of the year.
Mickey continued in good health and spirits and I began to hope that that problem, too, was a thing of the past. Occasionally, when it was the watch of one of the men, the others would join him to hold long conversations. Once the discussion became so vehement that I almost feared they would come to blows. Overcome with curiosity, I joined them in the cockpit and listened silently although I could catch nothing of the quick and colloquial man’s idiom.
They were discussing Japan, Nick explained then—whether their country’s future was a “dead end,” as one of them apparently maintained, or whether there was cause for optimism. Also, I gathered there was some divergence of opinion about the United States—or as much of it as they had seen so far. One was apparently outspoken in his enthusiasm, while the others remained noncommittal. These points of view were not identified and I could only hazard a guess on the basis of incomplete knowledge. In Japan, the inseparable comrades had been Nick and Moto, both inclined to be reserved and thoughtful. As Nick had once told me, “We are like brothers. I am sorry for Mickey. He is outside.” It seemed likely to me that the ebullient, quicksilver Mickey would have been the one to take immediately to the ease and glitter of American living, while Nick and Moto, more conservative, would tend to reserve judgment.
On the other hand, during our stay in Hawaii I had noted an increasing tendency for Mickey to replace Nick, as Moto’s friend and companion. Often the two younger men had gone off sightseeing together, while Nick remained on board alone to read, to write letters, or to listen to music. At the time we attached little importance to this and certainly, once we put to sea again, there seemed to be no real schism among the three who ate and chatted animatedly together in the cockpit or around the table in the main cabin.
Only a few incidents served to mark the passage of time. Trouble developed with the head of the topmast and one afternoon we struck it—in one hour and twenty minutes, which I thought not too bad for a first attempt at sea although, of course, we were working under favorable conditions. The iron cap at the head was completely off—faulty design on my part—and we started fixing it in a leisurely sort of way.
Another day we had our first experience of sea life on a large scale: a school of hundreds of dolphinlike creatures, which sent Jessica scurrying below for her Journal and reference books. We saw them first off the starboard beam, where they passed well forward of us and seemed to be passing on their way. Suddenly they turned en masse and headed directly for our boat. For two hours we were completely surrounded. How many there were we couldn’t determine, but they extended as far as the eye could see and we had a matchless opportunity for taking pictures and enjoying their graceful performance.
Through illustrations in Jessica’s Book of Knowledge, we identified them as blackfish, a small variety of whale. They ranged in length from 12 to 15 feet, had short snouts and round foreheads with a blowhole on top. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, expelling air with audible snorts as they surfaced, or slapping their heads on the water with a thwack before they went under again. Sometimes a platoon of three or four would curve out of the water in graceful precision, or dive in formation beneath the boat. Others seemed to make a game out of swimming back and forth just in front of the bobstay chain as it cut the water.
After more than two hours they slowly thinned out and moved on, but several times during the night the man at the tiller could recognize the distinctive whumph of a straggler, surfacing and blowing just beside the boat.
Two days later, on June 10, at 150° 20′ West Longitude, we crossed the equator at about 2100 and were, for the first time in our lives, in the Southern Hemisphere.
Had our Equator Crossing Celebration. Menu included roast chicken, cranberry sauce, brown rice, spinach, olives, pumpernickel, chicken broth, hot tea, peaches, fresh-baked “Equator” cakes. Also, there were individual place cards, paper hats, and candy favors, courtesy of Jessica. A gala time indeed, which began with a splash when hot broth spilled in Nick’s lap. But no harm done, since we had plenty of broth.
As far as the operation of the boat was concerned, we were proceeding smoothly. We had finally settled our two immediate problems, the log—we now used the Small Log with a correction factor—and the topmast, which we had repaired and restepped. Now, for the first time, we carried our full canvas: main, mizzen, foresail, genoa jib, mizzen staysail, topsail, and top jib. I wished there were some way we could take a picture, as we had never seen ourselves fully decked out.
On this trip we trailed a fishing line but only occasionally did we catch an addition to the menu. Near the equator, however, the man on midnight watch pulled in a long, thin, toothed fish, which looked like nothing we had ever seen before. It definitely did not look edible. In the morning I hunted in vain through my book on Deep Sea Fishes. Suddenly Barbara had an inspiration.
“I’m sure I’ve seen a picture of that fish somewhere!” she insisted. She ran her eye along the titles of the books in our shelves and pulled out Kon-Tiki.
“There it is!” she announced. She pointed triumphantly to a photograph of the gempylus, or snake mackerel, which had found its way aboard the raft at about the same latitude. Our visitor was its twin brother—snakelike body, vicious needle-sharp teeth in an undershot jaw, saucer eyes, and all. Kon-tiki’s gempylus, we read, had been the first specimen ever found alive, so we recognized our catch as something a bit out of the ordinary. Sacrificing all the spare alcohol on board (methylated spirits, rubbing alcohol from the medicine chest, and just a splash or two of gin), we popped our trophy into a spare five-gallon can and covered him with spirits. I didn’t know exactly what we were going to do with him, but he seemed too unusual to discard.
About this time we made a discovery which was to have far-reaching consequences. Crawling around on the deck we found a number of glossy, hard-shelled, beetle-like insects. The first one or two I captured and placed in a glass jar, thinking them isolated specimens of an insect found hundreds of miles from the nearest land. As more turned up, however, I reconsidered. Had they actually boarded us on the high seas or were they stowaways? And, if the latter, where had they hidden, and what damage might they be expected to do? Eventually we were to find out, with distressing consequences.
On June 18 in anticipation of our arrival in Tahiti—and in honor of Father’s Day—Barbara and Jessica presented me with a French flag they had made. Like our international signal flags, it was concocted from flag material I had bought in a job lot from my old standby back in Kure, Japan: the BCOF salvage depot. This lot—one of my “sight unseen” bargains—consisted of a couple of bushels of assorted ensigns, in conditions ranging from brand-new to moth-eaten. Among them were flags for Russia and Red China, each about the size of a badminton court, and all of them made in Sydney, Australia—a circumstance which we found mildly curious.
We were now about 12° South and had to be careful to give Matahiva, to the east, a wide berth. We passed it in the night, and set a course to clear Tetiaroa, north of Tahiti. Now that we were approaching our landfall, the problem of communications again became crucial. Although Mickey and Moto were improving rapidly in their ability to understand English, occasional incidents served to remind me that much of our speech was restricted to highly selective bands, like a radiotelephone.
For example, if I wanted the figures from the log, it was necessary to tune in to the proper wave length: “What is the log?” If I forgot and, poking my head up through the hatch, inquired breezily “What are we making?” I would be greeted by a polite but blank stare. The same applied to any of the other dozens of circumlocutions which I might use with Ted: “How’re we doing?” or “Has our speed picked up (or dropped)?” or even “What’s the log say?”
All of our ship work operated through such narrow, but clear channels. We communicated in a kind of basic English. Instead of saying, “Hand me the painter,” I would say, “Give me the small boat rope.” We didn’t strike sails, we took them down; we didn’t make fast, we tied.
Sometimes situations arose for which no channel of communication existed, and at such times problems arose. Take the following incident from the log:
We are approaching Tahiti now. Therefore, some time ago I made a little speech to the crew, emphasizing that I wanted particular care to be taken in making good the compass course assigned, in reading and reporting the data from the log, etc. The purpose, of course, I explained, was so that we would have a reliable dead-reckoning position, if the weather closed in on us, and it became impossible to take sights as we approached land.
It seemed to me that this was well understood by the men. On the morning of the 17th, as we worked on our dead-reckoning position, Ted and I noted that our speed had dropped off sharply between midnight, when I went off watch, and 0600, when I next checked the log—dropped, in fact, from the steady 6–7 knots we had been making to a little over 4.
I asked Nick, “Everything all right last night?” “Sure, okay!” (That international word!) “Was the wind the same, all night?” Nick consulted with Moto and Mickey. “Yes.” “Same as now?” “Yes.”
I went back to our figures, but they still didn’t jibe; I tried again. “Are you sure you gave me correct log figures?” Another conference. “Yes, okay.” Then either the log was defective or we must have lost speed during the night, because now we were again running between 6 and 7 knots.
There was a long conference this time. Finally Nick said, “Mickey says log no good his watch.” “Why not?” “Fish line tangle with log line—long time to fix—Mickey thinks log no good then?” “I think—maybe not,” I said, and retired to my cabin to cool down.
We passed Tetiaroa in the darkness on the night of June 19 and estimated that we should see Venus Point light before daylight. At 0500 we picked up the flashes dead ahead and set our clocks—and our spirits—on Tahiti time.
As dawn broadened into day we could see the peaks of the magnificent island take form, their green serrated ridges touched with yellow in the early morning sun. As we approached Papeete, a rainbow arched over the town, giving us an auspicious welcome. We worked our way through the pass and a pilot boat, whose assistance is obligatory in these islands, came out to meet us and guide us to our berth. The pilot—quite naturally—spoke French, putting the burden of reply on Barbara, who, groping wildly for the appropriate foreign language, came up with only Japanese! Her confusion was only temporary, however, and soon we were able to inform the pilot that our top speed was a possible three knots. This was too slow to suit our escort (too slow, here in the South Seas?), so we were put on a tow and hustled into the harbor.
There, at 1000 on June 20, twenty-seven days and 2,500 miles out of Hilo, we dropped anchor in the harbor of Papeete—the first port of our trip that was truly foreign to us all.