Chapter XI: Part 11

Here Ted left us temporarily to join Minnetta in Madison and enter summer school at the University of Wisconsin, where he was accepted, in spite of his unorthodox schooling, on the basis of entrance exams. Tim, too, checked out in early July to enlist in the army, while Jessica and Barbara made a semipermanent home ashore at the invitation of the Dorns. The rest of us embarked on an extensive haul-out, including the installation of a new engine, courtesy of Universal Motors, who had offered to replace our doughty kerosene-burning model with a gasoline engine of the same type, even-steven. (Why they should want an old, slightly beat-up engine which had been over 35,000 miles and across three oceans is anybody’s—or maybe only an adman’s—guess.)

Using Rowayton as a base, we worked out a schedule which would permit us to do the necessary boat work and still visit friends and relatives in the Middle West. We planned to take Nick, Mickey, and Moto with us, so they could see as much as possible of the United States. To do this, I bought a very secondhand station wagon. But when we were ready to leave for Wisconsin, we learned that Mickey and Moto had decided to remain. Only Nick elected to go with us. To me it was another indication of the chasm that was widening between the men, but we said nothing and set off with Barbara, Jessica, Nick, and myself.

Back in Connecticut after this pleasant break (the longest time I had been away from the boat since the launching), we found a number of problems awaiting us. First, I had a bill from the shipyard for $914.92, a figure which will remain engraved in my memory. I was aghast, for I knew that the dockage had been without charge, the materials at a discount, and we had done most of our own work. “Labor,” however, was still the chief item on the bill, and I was forcefully reminded of an incident I had witnessed earlier that illustrated most vividly how labor costs can mount. While installing the shaft, one of the workmen happened to touch a spot of wet green paint on the engine. He stopped work immediately, with a curse.

“That does it!” he exclaimed enigmatically, eying the green spot with disgust. Throwing down his tools, he left the boat.

Half an hour later I went from the boat into the shed and saw him still sitting there, idly rubbing his fingers with a rag, while smoking a cigarette. I said nothing, but later, while checking over the bill, I figured that that little spot of paint had cost me about $4—the cost of the time needed for the workman to recover his mental composure and restore his fingers to their former pristine condition.

Under the circumstances, I was particularly interested in an article I read about that time, by a yacht owner who had kept a record of the work done on his boat over a period of thirty years. He pointed out that, labor costs aside, _the time taken to do the same job_ had more than doubled, and as I thought of the pouting workman, lounging in the shop and contemplating a green smear on his finger, I could understand why.

Another problem was slower to become apparent, but no less real, and couldn’t be solved by paying a bill. During our absence, Mickey and Moto had become friendly with a very fine family in Rowayton, who on our return immediately extended their hospitality to us all. It was the first time in our travels that we had spent so long a time in one place and achieved such an easy intimacy with any one group, and perhaps we should have been prepared for the tragicomic consequences.

Mickey and Moto, quite unfamiliar with the camaraderie of American girls, became enamored of the daughter of the family. Jealous of each other, they promptly joined ranks against Ted on his return to the boat, while he, completely unaware of the situation, began to compete for the attentions of the young lady.

Not until the day before we sailed from Rowayton did we realize that we had been sitting on a powder keg. Ted came home from a sail with the girl, to be greeted with a torrent of loud and tearful abuse from our usually quiet Moto, who had obviously been drinking. The unleashing of this apparently long-buried hatred and resentment was an unnerving experience, since we had come to like and respect Moto very much. His very real torment was obvious, and although at this time we did not fully realize the cause, it was impossible to write it off as the empty rantings of one in his cups.

We took off the next day, September 7, with a rather subdued and introspective crew. During the next several weeks, only gradually did we fit the story together. Just how involved the various men of our crew had been we will never know, but there is no doubt that bits and pieces of a number of hearts had been left behind in Rowayton. How deeply embedded were the suspicions and bitterness only slowly came to light in experiences such as the following:

Weeks later, in the course of a violent outburst, Mickey accused me of “spying on him.” It took considerable patience and much probing to get at the origin of his belief, but eventually it was traced back to Rowayton and an incident that had occurred during our stay.

One evening, arriving late, and looking for Barbara and our hostess, I had wandered into the small sitting room reserved for television. All was darkened except for the TV screen, and I had asked, referring to the program, “What’s going on?”

Someone had answered and, not being attracted by the program, I had gone on to another part of the house. Now, weeks later, it developed that Mickey and the young lady in question had been watching TV together, and Mickey had interpreted my commonplace remark as suspicion of his actions and a desire to spy on him.

In any event, our trip up Long Island Sound, around Montauk Point, down to the entrance of the Delaware, and on through the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal into Chesapeake Bay was not noted for its jollity. Nick was moody and Ted and Mickey unusually withdrawn, but Moto was particularly pathetic. In complete contrast to his former cheerful, wryly humorous self, he sat for hours in the bow, staring moodily at the water, or wove rope into intricate designs with all the withdrawal symptoms of a paranoid. We felt that he had lost so much face by his outburst that he did not know how to get back to our former friendly relations, and we did everything we could to assure him that we wanted to let bygones be bygones. What we did not realize, yet, was that his spirit was completely broken.

This trip was an introduction to a different type of cruising, where we used the engine much of the time and measured our progress not by noon shots but by markers as frequent as street signs in a city. By night we anchored: at Reedy Point, Delaware; Sassafras River, Maryland; and finally, in Whitehall Creek, near Annapolis, where we lay just off the back yard of Bob and Billy Phelps, guiding lights of the American Yachtsmen’s Association. If anything was calculated to repair shattered morale and raise the drooping spirits of our crew, the two weeks we spent with the Phelpses was it. Their instantaneous, homely welcome, the freedom of their pleasant home, the effervescence of their two lively dogs, and the easy exchange of yachting reminiscences were all fine medicine.

During this period we made one more inland trip, to our old haunts at Yellow Springs, Ohio. Once again we had intended to take the entire group, but once again, at the last moment, plans were changed. Mickey decided he would rather go to “see friend,” who lived near Schenectady or Syracuse, or, at any rate, “somewhere in state New York.” And Nick, at the last minute, announced that he would remain on board to “write letters.” It seemed unlikely that he had enough letters to last a week, but we accepted his decision.

Our return to Yellow Springs, although hectic and far too brief, was a highlight of our stay in the States. We could recognize now how unique was the community spirit we had taken for granted during our eight years at Fels Institute and on the Antioch campus. When a public meeting was organized to welcome us “home” and permit us to meet old friends, as well as give a talk about our travels, we were very much moved.

Jessica and Joan had renewed their former friendship so completely that nothing short of a major operation could successfully separate them, so we postponed that problem by packing Joan into the station wagon with us and taking her back for a short trip on the _Phoenix_ and a week of sightseeing in and around Washington.

At Annapolis we took on fuel and supplies and I gave a slide talk to the members of the Yacht Club. It was an enjoyable stay except for one fierce day with torrential rain, and wind speeds up to 80 mph, which shattered a large window on the club veranda. At the height of the storm, poor Joan and Jessica finally had to part, and the weather provided a dramatically satisfactory background as we put Joan on the bus for Ohio, as per arrangement with her folks.

On October 9 we left Annapolis, sailing down Chesapeake Bay. It was a quiet and pleasant interlude, during which we made four stops—at Oxford, where we picked up our new genoa jib, and at Solomon’s Island, Indian Creek and Horseshoe Shoals. At Hampton, Virginia, we stopped for a slightly longer stay. Here we discovered old friends—Hugh Gloster and his family, of Hampton Institute. Hugh had been in Hiroshima as a Fulbright fellow at the university during our stay.

Also, I’m sorry to say that once again we found ourselves in an area of segregation. When we visited the local Marine Museum, I was deeply ashamed to see the look on my men’s faces when they saw “White” and “Colored” on the rest-room doors, here in my own country.

The tension caused by such incidents possibly triggered another flare-up, which developed just before our departure from Hampton. It began as a fairly routine issue between Mickey and myself over one of his derelictions but quickly developed into a confusing verbal free-for-all. It was obvious even to the most obtuse that Nick, Mickey, and Moto were badly divided. Mickey and Moto accused Nick of being “troublemaker,” while Nick retorted that they did not really care about the success of the voyage, but were always complaining—of the food, of the routines, of the Skipper. Mickey and Moto demanded that Nick be sent home, and I myself, remembering the many times he had been my outspoken critic, wondered if he might not welcome an excuse to get out. When I asked him, however, he maintained he wanted to finish the trip as planned. It was a disturbing impasse. The three seemed to be at complete loggerheads, and I could see no compromise.

At last, after a heated debate, we emerged with a temporary course of action: (a) Moto, who confessed that he had not felt well for some time, would be given a thorough medical examination at the first opportunity—and here Mickey chimed in with “Me too! I not feel so good!” (b) We would continue without any crew changes, at least as far as the Canal Zone, at which time we would have another session.

Only after the conference had broken up did I realize, with a kind of baffled double-take, that I had started out by taking Mickey to task, and ended by putting Moto on the sick list and asking Nick if he wanted to go back to Japan!

From Hampton we sailed past numerous naval ships at anchor and into Norfolk Channel. At Great Bridge we pulled alongside a dock, told the attendant to “Fill ’er up!” and then docked nearby for the night, a procedure we were to repeat a number of times. Again we were experiencing a new kind of cruising, along narrow channels, into locks, and through drawbridges where maneuvering was quite difficult for our underpowered boat. Our only safety lay in making plans well in advance, knowing the chart perfectly, and anticipating problems. Even so, we had several tense moments when a bridge seemed to lift with agonizing slowness while we were bearing down on it, urged on by the current and a following wind, with our puny reverse doing no measurable good. Also, although we followed the channel faithfully, we ran aground three times between Hampton and Morehead City, North Carolina. Each time we were able to get ourselves off without help, using sail, motor, and kedge.

Our last grounding was, humiliatingly enough, right in Morehead City, only half a mile from our destination. Going by the chart, which indicated a sufficiently deep channel up to the Yacht Club, we entered and immediately grounded. With a strong tide setting across the channel and a fresh north breeze, we were unable to budge. While we relaxed and waited for high slack, a Coast Guard vessel came alongside and offered to pull us off. I admit I was tempted.

“Well ...” I said.

“You just sign these papers in quadruplicate,” the officer said briskly, handing them to me.

“Well,” I continued, “I’ll tell you. So far we’ve never asked for help—I’d like to try to manage by ourselves.” Somehow the sight of all that paper work seemed to turn a kindly offer into a government project.

In Morehead City we tied up for two weeks at a gas dock near the center of town while we made final preparations for heading back out to sea. Also, we gladly accepted an invitation from our good friend, Dr. Warner Wells, surgeon at the University of North Carolina Medical School in Chapel Hill. I had written Warner from Hampton about our health problems, asking about a medical checkup for Moto and Mickey. For several years Warner had been on the research staff of the Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission in Hiroshima, where he had been well liked and respected by the Japanese community. He now had Japanese-speaking doctors on his staff, and I knew that Warner, if anyone, would be sympathetic with the psychology of our ailing men.

Moto and Mickey entered the university hospital, where for three days they were given an exhaustive series of examinations. The results, except for a slight vitamin C deficiency, were negative. The charges, although I had written in my letter that I would pay all fees, laboratory expenses, X rays, and the like, also were negative!

We in the family were enjoying a holiday with the lively and interesting Wells family. We would all have been perfectly content if the examinations had taken a week or more. But I had one more trip to make, back to Washington. At the request of the National Academy of Sciences, I attended meetings at which ongoing and future research programs in Hiroshima were discussed. There it was finally decided that the prospective follow-up of my studies in Hiroshima would not be “reactivated,” due to a change in research emphasis and the presence of a new director of ABCC in Hiroshima. My understanding that I would continue my research program in Hiroshima, on our return, had been very clear, and all our plans had revolved around this fact. However, I had no formal, written contract to that effect, only a gentleman’s agreement—and now, apparently, a new gentleman was in charge.

I was advised, however, to consult with the new director when we reached Hiroshima, as he would be “most sympathetic” to my plan for a continuation of my study on the effects of atomic radiation on the surviving children of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I appreciated the offer of sympathy, but I would have preferred something more definite, as I felt strongly that this promising line of research should be continued—if not by me, then by someone else.

We sailed from Morehead City on November 15, happy to be on the way once more. On a couple of mornings we had seen a light frost on deck, and the evenings had become too chilly for our blood and our wardrobes, both thinned by extended tropical living. Pulling away from the dock, we waved to the handful of friends we had made and headed out the channel, setting a course to the southeast as soon as we cleared the last buoy. By midnight we were well away from land and on our way to Jamaica, by way of the eastern Bahamas and the Windward Passage.

The two-week trip to the Bahamas was rather rugged, with a variety of weather that ranged from glassy calm to winds strong enough to cause us to heave to for half a day. The first part of the passage was mostly in southerlies, and not until the thirteenth day out did we have what might reasonably be called “trade wind” conditions. Even then, hesitating to tempt fate, I made the notation in the log in quotes.

On November 28, at 0900, we sighted Mayaguana Island, dead ahead, rounded the northwest point, and came to anchor just southwest of the lighthouse in five fathoms. We were fourteen days out of Morehead City and very glad to be back in the trades after a slow and vexatious passage. The direct distance was 763 miles, but we had logged over 1,000 due to the large percentage of adverse winds.

We spent the day—Thanksgiving—at Mayaguana. Like most of the Bahamas, it is low. The lighthouse, we learned, was automatic, with no sign of life around it. A wide sand road had been cleared through the surrounding growth of cactus and scrub trees, but our first shore party followed it for several miles without seeing any sign of habitation. They returned—having left me aboard to do some necessary work on the engine—with their arms full of booty: yellow fan coral, marble-white brain coral, a round fisherman’s float of blue-green glass, and numerous shells to add to Barbara’s collection, which she had persistently been building throughout our trip, in spite of our disinterest, gibes, and—when an occasional uncleaned shell smelled to high heaven—active protest. This time, however, no one said anything unkind, for we remembered that it was Thanksgiving and wanted our cook to be in a good mood.

She was. Relying entirely on canned goods, we had quite a feast, including shrimp cocktail, glazed ham, asparagus tips, potatoes (both mashed and sweet)—and, for dessert, mince pie! The prize dish, however, was neither the pie nor the ham, but a loaf of honest-to-goodness home-baked wholewheat bread which Barbara somehow managed to whip up in, of all things, a pressure cooker.

The next day Barbara and I went ashore to explore in the other direction, this time with more success. After following the road for four miles or more, we reached a small settlement—ten or twelve boxlike houses built of whitened coral stone, each with a wooden door and two wood-shuttered windows painted in blue, green or pink. The place looked deserted, but we could hear the voices of children at play and finally found a group of them. They stared at us for a moment with awe and then went tearing for the houses, yelling the news at top voice: “Ooooooh—white mon! Oooo—white mon!”

We gathered that Mayaguana was not a tourist island!

We were very hot and thirsty, but although there were some coconut trees growing in most of the dooryards, and all of them loaded with good drinking nuts, we had no coin of the realm and had not even thought to bring cigarettes or a candy bar. Several women came out to look at us and smile shyly, but no refreshment was offered and, as we had no bargaining power, we had to make the long walk back without refueling. How nostalgically we recalled the islands of the South Seas, where native hospitality had provided cool coconuts, open, ready and waiting, by the time the stranger had arrived!

In the afternoon we weighed anchor and set out for Great Inagua, some 70 miles to the south, arriving in Mathew Town late the following morning. It was Saturday, and the mail-and-supply boat had just arrived, so there was a considerable stir in the village. Five of us rowed ashore and spent several hours wandering around. As on most British islands, the buildings on Great Inagua were neat and freshly painted. The streets, paved with crushed white coral, were well laid out and carefully tended.

We found the one store overflowing with people who had just received their monthly pay checks from the town’s No. 1 employer, Morton’s Salt Company. We took our turn in line, and at last were permitted to purchase seven tomatoes and one (1) loaf of bread, both items having just arrived from Nassau.

On the way back to the dock we called—by request—at the office of the sole government official on the island, and forked out $8 (American money was graciously accepted) for “harbor and landing fees.” Clutching our unexpectedly costly purchases, we rowed back out to the _Phoenix_, and left for Jamaica the next morning.

The four-day trip, which took us through the Windward Passage between Cuba and Haiti, was uneventful from a sailing point of view, but climactic in terms of our crew relationships. Only a brief entry in my log refers to the incident:

Mickey refused to obey order to steer by standing in cockpit while
boat was passing, so relieved him of duty.

The actual happening was somewhat less dry. In the afternoon while Mickey was on watch and I was below, I could hear a boat’s engines. I went up, and found Mickey lounging on the starboard side of the cockpit, steering with his foot. Overhauling us rapidly from astern was a motor vessel, probably a coastal trader, somewhat larger than we were. I spoke to Mickey.

“There’s a boat coming,” I said, indicating aft. He paid no attention, and did not move. “Mickey, stand up and steer.”

No movement. I repeated the order. Mickey said, without moving, “Why?”

I answered, “Because it’s dangerous and also it doesn’t look good.” No move. “Are you going to stand up and steer?”

“This is a yacht and I don’t have to.”

“Are you going to stand up and steer?”

“No.”

I stepped into the cockpit. “I will take the tiller.” Mickey left the cockpit, as I began to steer. The boat passed us close to port. I said, “Mickey, you are through.”

He went below. In a short while Nick appeared. “What is trouble?” he asked.

I explained the circumstances. “Unless Mickey is willing to apologize and make some effort to cooperate from now on, he is through,” I added.

This time I felt, and the family agreed with me, that the time had come for a showdown. Mickey knew how earnestly we hoped to finish the voyage with our original crew, but we felt that, more and more, he was taking advantage of this knowledge, confident that we would condone anything rather than break up the crew. Usually, however, his behavior took a more subtle form, such as shirking in his work, coming up late for “all hands on deck,” calling his relief watch five minutes early, and so on. He had seldom been, like Nick, openly in opposition, but on the other hand, I knew where I stood with Nick, although I didn’t welcome his spots of defiance. At least they cleared the air.

For the first time in our entire relationship we determined that Mickey must admit his error, apologize, and make some gesture of reconciliation. (In private I decided that even a very small gesture would suffice—but I, too, had my face to save.)

We completed the trip to Jamaica, with Mickey relieved of duty. By noon on the fourth day out we were off Kingston harbor but, rather than enter the busy harbor, we decided to pull in to the docks at Port Royal. We were still well out when a launch approached and we were boarded by officials who efficiently went about clearing us while we were still on the way in. By midafternoon we were safely tied up, had been cleared and given such a cordial welcome that we never did get around to moving the _Phoenix_ over to Kingston.

But casting a shadow over the friendly ministrations of Sir Anthony and Lady Jenkinson, who were living aboard their yacht _Fairweather_ while operating the hospitable Port Royal Beach Club, was the uncomfortable knowledge that the “clearinghouse session,” which I had put off until we reached port, would have to be held that night, and would be definitive. We all dreaded it, but unless Mickey was willing to meet me halfway, admit his error, and make a genuine promise to mend his increasingly insolent ways, we would have to part company. I said as much to Nick, who was doing what he could as go-between, but Nick brought word that Mickey would not apologize, that he considered it an “insult” for me to tell him what to do.

The meeting that night was brief and bitter. I stated my position, in clear and simple words. Mickey stood firm. I told him that in that case I would have to send him back to Japan.

He said, “Good!”

As had been the case in Hawaii, it was the other two who went to bat for Mickey. Their argument was that Mickey’s defection was harmless and that, since we were so near the end of our trip anyway, we should simply ignore the whole thing. I refused, saying it was neither safe nor prudent to continue with someone in whom I could have no confidence and who continued openly to defy me. As we talked, it developed that Mickey had given Moto a completely inaccurate version of the episode: (1) I had made an unreasonable demand; (2) he _had_ complied with my order, but I had sent him below anyway, for some unknown reason.

There was only one flaw in Mickey’s account: Jessica, who had been in her cabin below, had heard the whole incident and remembered it perfectly.

I could only repeat that, under the circumstances, I had no other choice than to send Mickey home, by the first available ship.

There was a dead pause. Moto then said, in a low voice, that he would go, too, if Mickey went; then Nick, not looking at me, said he also would have to go. I said I was sorry that was their decision, but that I would make the arrangements. I left the boat and went ashore.

I walked aimlessly in the dark, in the vacant lot by the docks, trembling with frustration and disappointment. In a few minutes I saw dark forms approaching. It was the family, and I called out in blind anger, “I suppose you’re going to desert me too?”

They came over. “We just wanted to tell you,” Barbara said quietly, slipping her hand into mine, “that you were right and we’re with you all the way.”

“There was nothing else you _could_ do,” said Ted, who had always been our mediator and balance wheel. “You’ve always put the safety of the voyage first and you mustn’t be influenced now by that dream of finishing the trip with the same crew. Even if we did give in, and take the boys back, it would be a kind of lie to pretend we had succeeded in finishing the trip as friends.”

“We’ll get along all right,” said Jessica. “I can take a watch.”

With tears in my eyes, I embraced them all.

The next morning, while I was making ready to go over to Kingston with Sir Anthony to see about boat schedules for shipping the men back, Nick approached me. “Skipper,” he began hesitantly, “if you would have me, I have changed my mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want to finish voyage. I want to stay on _Phoenix_.”

“I’ll talk to the family.”

I did, and we decided to accept Nick’s offer. So Nick stayed on with us, and from that moment an entirely new relationship began. Having thrown in his lot with us, breaking completely with his mates, Nick now came over wholly to our side, giving us unswerving loyalty and warm friendship. It was an amazing transformation.

Moto’s role in the case was a strange one. We still liked him very much; we felt strongly that he didn’t _want_ to go but that some force stronger than himself compelled his action. He brooded for long hours, obviously miserable; and yet he either would not or could not revise his decision.

I learned in town that it would be almost impossible for me to send Mickey and Moto back from Kingston, as ships bound for Japan rarely called there. It would be far easier, I was told, to carry them on with us as far as the Canal Zone, where arrangements could easily be made. Mickey objected so violently to this suggestion that I told him he had full authority to go to town and make his own arrangements for the passage. He and Moto spent several days in town, but Mickey finally had to admit that my information was correct and they agreed to go on with us to the Panama Canal.

However, I made it very clear that they would travel as passengers and would have no hand in sailing the _Phoenix_. The family and Nick would handle the boat alone.

While here, it seemed wise to haul out once more, making use of the rather primitive (but cheap) marine railway in the old Naval Dockyard, instead of waiting until the Canal Zone, where prices, under American administration, were likely to be high. Sir Anthony enlisted the services of about twenty men from Port Royal to lend us a hand for a day—at 10 shillings apiece—and we all turned to on the huge cranks of the massive, hand-operated winch, taking an entire day literally to inch our thirty tons up the incline.

During our stay in Port Royal we went into the city only two or three times. There was no bus service between Kingston and Port Royal, and the tiny ferry-launch ran only one trip each way a day. The town was hot, dirty, and not too colorful. Although the Christmas season was in full swing, we found little that tempted us to buy.

Port Royal, however, we liked very much, and after a day’s work on the boat we would often take a stroll through the old town, with its ancient stone houses, narrow streets, and vital air of history. We knew that in the waters just off the dock, buried in the earthquake of 1692, lay the remains of most of the town, with its warehouses still full of booty taken by the pirates. Here, in the middle of the seventeenth century, was the city acknowledged to be the wickedest in the world.

Old Fort Charles was still active, now the training ground for the Jamaican constabulary. We recalled that Nelson was in command here briefly in 1779, and his quarterdeck, where he was wont to pace and watch for French ships, is still preserved.

At the church we had a chance to see a Jamaican wedding, which is often solemnized only after many years of preconnubial bliss and large families. As a matter of fact, the two little flower girls in flouncy white dresses, who escorted the bride with her magnificent ruffled train dragging in the dust as she came up the dirt road to the church, were daughters of the bride and groom. This state of affairs is due not to lack of morals but lack of funds, as a wedding must be celebrated in proper style. If the length of the procession that accompanied the bride was any indication of the length of the guest list, the financial outlay must have been staggering.

The party following the ceremony went on all night, just beyond the wall that separated the dockyard from the village of Port Royal, but the music, unfortunately, was not calypso or West Indian, but a particularly penetrating selection of canned American hit tunes.

We sailed for the Canal on December 18, hoping to make it in time to pick up our Christmas mail. Nick, Ted, and I shared watches, two on and four off, while Barbara and Jessica, between them, accounted for three hours during the day. The system worked very well.

Our two passengers remained below decks most of the time. Nick was patently being ostracized by them, but he refused our suggestion that he join the family at meals, stolidly eating in silence in the main cabin, ignoring and being ignored by his former companions. We all felt the strain. Since it was now too late to go back, and even surface formalities had ceased to exist, we looked forward to the time when we could part company.

On the morning of the 22nd we sighted land, very faintly, off the starboard bow. Later in the morning a number of ships passed in the early mists, all heading in the same general direction, so we knew we couldn’t be too far off course. We headed south-southeast to pick up the coast more firmly, then turned south along the coast to the harbor entrance. By midafternoon we had passed the breakwater, noting that the four buoys at the entrance, shown on our “up-to-date” chart, were not present.

Dropping anchor in the merchant anchorage near the channel, we flew our flags and awaited developments.

15 GALÁPAGOS:
HOME OF THE LAST PIONEERS

“Those delicate souls whose coffee must be just so....”

We were at anchor, awaiting further orders, by 1530. Five hours later we were still waiting. During this time, ships arrived, were boarded, cleared, and allowed to move on toward the entrance to the Canal. Several times official launches passed, the officers gazing curiously at us and sometimes waving.

Finally, just as we had decided to turn in for the night, we were boarded by a very cheerful Canal officer. He said quite frankly that the central office just hadn’t noticed us out here, and none of those going back and forth on official business had thought to report us. He didn’t look at our papers, passports, liquor, or cigarettes (all laid out for inspection) but merely told us to move over to the “East Flats” and gave us some forms to fill out. Then he shook hands briskly, got into his launch, and shot away.

We checked the chart, located East Flats, weighed anchor, and worked our way over there, across the Canal channel, dodging the harbor traffic which was moving busily even during the night. It was almost midnight when we reached the Flats, and dropped the hook. I got to work on the papers at once, but we were boarded again before I had finished. This time we had two visitors who took out the tape measure and solemnly, using flashlights, began to take measurements, inside and out, for all the world as if they were going to give our _Phoenix_ a new suit—of sails, I hoped!

Because of their industry, I now have official figures on the size of our “Engine Room”: 3 ft. × 3 ft. × 3 ft. 6 in. They told me, while working, that they had just come from an eight-hour job of checking a tanker (which they had also measured with a tape measure). Surely there must be an easier way to do these things!

We were told that I should report, in the morning, to the port captain, Immigration, and Customs. It was already well into tomorrow by this time, and when the instructions for arriving at the protected anchorage off the yacht club began to involve getting permission from the Port Captain to request permission from the yacht club, whose permission must then be reported back to the port captain, I began to get a bit fuzzy.

By the time the measurements had been completed, I had the forms properly filled out and was able to hand them over. The two officials waved us a cheerful good night and took off—on their way to another boat. Work here goes on around the clock.

The next day we put the dinghy over the side, and Barbara and I went ashore. It was a stiff 40-minute row, and the harbor was choppy, so we arrived in a rather soggy condition. However, we started our rounds of the offices while we were still drying. After getting permission, etc., we walked the mile to the Panama Canal Yacht Club, where a very friendly manager received us and said it would be quite all right to anchor off the club, but had we asked permiss— I said that we had. “Then go back and tell them it’s okay with us!”

We motored at once to the yacht club, where we found a berth in quiet and protected waters only a lifebuoy’s throw from cold drinks and good old American hamburgers!

There we remained over the holiday season. We found that arranging passage for Mickey and Moto, contrary to our expectations, was a difficult and time-consuming task. Day after day, I made the rounds of various agencies, went on board Japanese ships—of which there were many—and talked to various officials. We got nowhere. At last I contacted Governor Potter, in charge of the Zone, to whom we had a letter from friends back in Yellow Springs. He very kindly put us under the full-time protection of Jim Barrett, who immediately put into motion wheels I had been unable to budge. Very shortly we had secured two reservations on the _Eishin Maru_ due to pass through the Canal on January 6, bound for Yokohama. It was the earliest available date, but the men would have a private cabin and first-class accommodations.

During this period relations were strained on board. It was bitter for us all to face the knowledge that one of our aims—to complete the voyage with our original crew intact—had failed. But, as Ted so logically remarked: “Suppose we did complete the trip with all the men. If you ignored all the troubles, evaded all the issues, and kept secret all the fights, just so we could boast we had completed the voyage with the same seven people—just what would we have proved?”

I located a nice hotel in Cristobal for Mickey and Moto and was willing to underwrite their expenses while they were waiting for their boat, but the Canal Zone officials had other ideas: the men must stay on the _Phoenix_ until transferred to the _Eishin Maru_.

Christmas was quietly observed by the family, with none of the gaiety of previous years. However, we did have our Christmas mail, which had been piling up for us on the other side of the Isthmus, and we had a most interesting introduction to the Canal when we went across by train—“Span a Continent, Atlantic to Pacific, in One Afternoon!” Skirting the Canal and Gatun Lake, we could catch glimpses of great steamships which seemed to be moving sedately through the jungle. Occasionally, as the track ran closer to the Canal, we saw them pausing at one of the locks, to be raised or lowered, or wandering as if along an inland stream, looking as lost as if they had been cast up from the Flood.

Back in Cristobal—the narrow American strip which borders the sprawling Panamanian city of Colón—we went ahead with arrangements for making transit of the Canal as soon as Mickey and Moto were on their way. On the day after Christmas I went “across the tracks” to Colón, to order a new foresail from a sailmaker whose address I had been given. It was depressing to walk through the narrow, dirty streets, which contrasted so markedly with the solid buildings and clean, broad streets on the American side. Only the children were out as I wandered through the seemingly deserted town; the elders presumably were still recovering from Christmas. In the alleys, as I passed, little boys were futilely snapping silent cap pistols guaranteed only yesterday to give forever five thousand bangs a day; while little girls were mourning over the cracked heads of their unbreakable plastic dolls.

On January 6, early in the morning, the _Eishin Maru_ arrived and Mickey and Moto transferred themselves and their belongings under the eye of the authorities. The log makes the final entry:

Jan. 6, 1958. Mickey Suemitsu and Moto Fushima sailed today for Japan,
on _Eishin Maru_. All family agreed Mickey must go, but feel sorry
Moto went along. However, for months he has been in very poor spirits
and losing weight, though thorough medical examination shows nothing
wrong, so perhaps all for best.

Now only five in party.

On January 9 we made our transit of the Canal. We were told we would need extra “linesmen” aboard—either hired or volunteered—and Jim Barrett, who with his family had given us help and friendship far beyond the call of duty, promptly offered to take a day off and lend us a hand.

In addition, the pilot himself, when he reported aboard in the drizzly predawn darkness, brought along a companion, an apprentice pilot getting his first experience of taking a yacht through the locks. The weather was rainy and windy—the worst we had had since our arrival. At 0600 we got away from the anchorage and headed for Gatun Locks in a driving rain.

Well padded with fenders, and with one line forward and two aft, we entered the first lock, slipping in just behind the freighter _Santa Olivia_. We had elected to go through by tying alongside the walls, rather than tying to another boat or being held by lines in the middle of the lock. The walls stretched high above our heads. It was much the worst lock, but even so, when the water started pouring in, I was surprised at the turbulence. With a man on each line, we strained to keep our position. Suddenly a heavy surge hit us, and with a loud popping sound the two after lines snapped. Out of control, the ship plunged almost across the chamber, with only the forward line still holding.

At once our pilot, Captain Torstenson, blew a whistle and the incoming flow of water stopped. We hauled ourselves back toward the starboard wall by our remaining line, fending off as we came in, and leaving a slight mark where our bowsprit ground a light patch in the slimy discoloration of the lock wall. Fresh lines were broken out and made fast, and we tried it again, this time with the water coming in at a more sedate rate. The lift proceeded without further incident, and soon we were floating on a level with the men who had peered down on us a few minutes before. A great chain was dropped across the lock behind us, the heavy double gates ahead swung open, and we proceeded cautiously behind _Santa Olivia_ into Lock No. Two. Each succeeding lift became easier, but because of our lack of power, the closest attention was required throughout the transit.

From the third lock we emerged into Gatun Lake, and a completely new type of sailing—in a fresh-water lake 90 feet above sea level where our course, marked by buoys at regular intervals, led past the skeleton tops of long-submerged trees and the peaks of hills which had learned to be islands. _Santa Olivia_ moved rapidly out of sight, and many other vessels passed us going in both directions during the day. All the way across the lake we had unsettled weather, but the wind was fair, so I suggested using the sails to help out in the open areas. Captain Torstenson was a power man, however, and vetoed the idea. He seemed to be in no hurry. In fact, he and his assistant, Captain Fetherston, were both amiable, easygoing chaps who seemed to consider this job as a sort of picnic. They regaled us with lively stories of the Canal and its operations, and their relaxed attitude was infectious. We all took it easy and enjoyed the trip.

Our only other tense spot was at the second, and last, Miraflores lock, where the current is fast. Here we had to be out and away under full power even before the gates were fully opened, in order to beat the surge of the incoming sea.

By 1830 we were anchored off Balboa Yacht Club. The pilots and Jim left to catch transportation back to Cristobal and the rest of us settled down to savor the knowledge that we were once again in the Pacific—our own ocean.

The next morning we went ashore to check in at the Balboa Yacht Club and once again were accorded a friendly welcome and taken in tow by one of the old-timers. Our ten days in Balboa were taken up with preparations for the 6,000 miles of Pacific which lay between us and the Hawaiian Islands. We planned to make two stops, in the Galápagos and in the Marquesas, but in neither of these places could we expect to get supplies or provisions, so it was necessary to be completely self-sufficient for an indefinite number of months. Like Cristobal, on the Atlantic side, Balboa is attractive, self-contained, and completely American, catering only to government employees. We were distressed to learn that, contrary to advance information, we were not permitted to shop at the American commissaries in the Canal Zone and as for “free port” shops, such as those we had found so tempting in St. Thomas, they don’t exist here.

Adjoining Balboa is Panama City, capital of Panama, sprawling, colorful, and very Latin. Lovely old cathedrals front on verdant squares; wide main streets peter out into winding, thin alleys; Moorish-type architecture and free-flowing, highly expressive Spanish reminded us constantly that Panama has been and will remain far more simpatico to Latin ways than to the often-irritating American influences which exist in the Zone. While we were there, there was considerable grumbling, especially among the university students, at the control of the Canal by the United States; and there was a constant agitation for a greater share of the profits. It was easy to see that here, in times to come, will be one of our country’s trouble spots, and it is not impossible that the time will come when the Panama Canal, along with the Suez and others, will have to be internationalized.

Our most difficult job here was getting permission to enter the Galápagos, which belong to Ecuador. Marie and Jerry Trowbridge, on _White Seal_, had been quoted a dollar a foot and had reluctantly decided to skip those islands. We knew, however, that there was no hard and fast rule for getting a permit, or the amount of the fee, so we again pulled rank and asked Governor Potter to put in a word for us. He kindly contacted the Ecuadorian Ambassador and we obtained permission with remarkable ease, at a very modest fee.

While we were getting ready for sea, a number of visitors called because they had “heard we were going to the Galápagos.” Each would start out by extolling one particular island in the group, and when we had been sold would casually remark, “I wonder if you’d be willing to drop off a few things for us”—packages, letters, foodstuffs—even a sizable wood-and-coal stove, which we had to lash on deck. We were happy to take all we could carry, because we knew that the passing yachtsman was a major factor in supplying the pioneers on these isolated islands. Also, on the advice of old-timers, we took reading matter for the islanders—books, magazines, and newspapers—as much as we could collect.

We sailed on January 18, bound for Wreck Bay, San Cristóbal, the port of entry for the Galápagos. The islands are on the equator, about 860 miles southwest of Panama, and we were warned to expect a slow passage. Yachts have taken as long as three months for the trip and some have managed to miss the islands completely. This had, in fact, happened to the Carrs, on _Havfruen_, who had preceded us by a couple of months and had also been carrying a respectable load of supplies for the colonies. They had carried on to the Marquesas, where they had unloaded their cargo to be shipped to Tahiti. From there, eventually, it would have to travel up to Hawaii, over to California, and back down to the Panama Canal, there to await another yacht bound for the Galápagos and willing to take on the mission of good will. The entire circuit would take upward of a year and we could only hope that none of the cargo had been perishable!

We had no intention of missing the islands, no matter how long it took us, and to our delight we started out as if we were going to make a record passage. On the second day out, we made a noon-to-noon run of 197 miles, better than eight knots, which we knew was accurate because we could check our position with Malpelo Island. This delightful state of affairs was soon over, however. We ran into the area of light southerlies, where we had to work our way alternately west and southeast, slowly making good our course. My log on the ninth day out is representative:

Midnight. Very quiet. Moon just down. Two knots, course west. Many
dolphin about, snorting and leaping. Phosphorescence all around.

We weren’t worried about our slow progress. The peace on board was so wonderful that I personally felt a two-month passage would have given me just that much more time to soak it in. We three men continued our two-hours-on-four-off system, with the girls sharing three daylight hours, thus shifting the watch each night. Nick ate his meals with us, sat with us in the cockpit, joined in our discussions, entered fully into our family life. It was a happy ship.

On the tenth day out Ted and I tackled a navigation problem that had been baffling us for several days. Obviously we weren’t making all the distance we were sailing. In the past two days, for instance, we were 62 miles short of the spot where we estimated we should be. We knew there was an adverse current in this region, but the loss seemed excessive. Ted and I set to work studying charts and books, and found a clue in a footnote of our _Ocean Passages_. It mentions “The Holy Child Current, which runs from January to March, but is not equally definite in all years.” It certainly seemed to be definite this year, and our position on the chart was right on the dotted line that represented this inconstant current, called “El Niño” in the pilot books.

The weather was generally fair and the seas light, but we had one sudden blow which caught Barbara on the tiller. I had hesitated to give her a night watch, knowing it would not result, as she fondly hoped, in giving me more rest. Actually I had learned to snatch needed sleep at any hour, day or night, and in fact slept more soundly during the day, when the others were awake, than I did at night. But she wanted to try it, so we compromised, and I gave her an hour after supper, from 1900 to 2000, so that she could learn to judge weather conditions after dark.

It was during one of these evening watches that she gave me a call: “Squall coming!” She was absolutely right. It hit us at once, the wind changing in an instant from south to west, accompanied by heavy rain. We took down staysail and genoa and tacked to the south under mizzen, main, and foresail. For the first time Barbara had the experience of keeping the tiller during the passage of a “front” and was very proud, afterward, of “her squall.”

Two days later, another incident was worth recording:

Jan. 29. Terrific bubbling all about, like a giant kettle. Can hear it
quite easily—like crossing Amazon Bight, but in Amazon bubbling was
bigger and color brown.

On this same day I had the bad luck to break my reading glasses, the spares—having already lost the originals over the side—and faced the poor prospect of a long passage, with plenty of time for reading, and broken lenses. However, I patched them together with transparent tape, and became quite adept at reading through the chinks in the patches.

On February 1 we knew from the number of birds about that we were close to land. Our morning shots seemed to indicate that we were south of the island, so we edged a bit to the north. At 1123 Ted sighted land through the haze off the starboard bow, and soon we were rounding the southwest corner of San Cristóbal, keeping well out because of swells and the onshore current. We passed Freshwater Falls, on the south side of the island, where the old-time sailing ships were wont to water. On an exposed shore, with heavy surf and a square-rigger to handle, this must have been a feat that demanded real seamanship, not to mention plenty of nerve.