Chapter XII: Part 12

At 1900 we entered Wreck Bay. Coming up to the anchorage, we pulled in our log line and discovered that there were barnacles on it. If so many had attached themselves to us in two weeks, how many, we wondered, must have signed on with those ships that have drifted two or three months between Panama and the Galápagos!

Within half an hour we had been boarded and cleared by very efficient officers, and I had brought the log up to date and summarized the passage.

We had eagerly looked forward to our visit to the Galápagos, having read everything we could about the islands, from Darwin on. We had been intrigued by the accounts of the weird geological formations, of unique and strangely fearless animal life, of rugged individuals who had pioneered here. But too often the accounts that one reads are of a bygone era and do not accurately describe islands as they exist today. Now we would have a chance to see for ourselves.

Puerto Chico, the settlement of some 200 people at Wreck Bay, is the port of entry. It is a naval base (navy: 1 launch), and the center of population for all the Galápagos—an island group inhabited by fewer than 2,000 people. Water is the limiting factor, and only four of the islands provide enough water to sustain permanent colonies. The names of the various islands can be most confusing, as each boasts of at least two—Spanish and English—and usually more. Santa Cruz, for example, is also known as Chavez, but the English gave it the sturdy name of Indefatigable—a name which the people there obviously find tiresome, as it is never used (except in articles in the _National Geographic_).

We spent only a couple of days at Puerto Chico, long enough to get our breath, stretch our legs, and deliver a letter. The latter job took all one day. While in the Canal Zone we had been entrusted with a message to Mrs. Karin Cobos, who had come over as a child in a Norwegian colonizing expedition which eventually petered out. She had married and remained in the islands and was now, we were told, living “up in the hills.” Ted, Nick, and Barbara expressed their willingness to look her up.

They started walking early in the morning up the fine, broad road which leads from Puerto Chico to Progreso, a tiny settlement five miles up the mountain. This fine road lasted for two miles. Beyond that it was still under construction. Each working day the road is pushed forward a foot or so, and there is universal confidence in the islands that someday, within the lifetime of many now alive (the younger ones), a fine highway will run all the way to Progreso and a jeep will be imported to use it.

Just beyond the end of the completed section the party left the parched, sandy, cactus-strewn slopes and began to climb into the hills where low-lying clouds were constantly dropping moisture. The cleared track soon degenerated into a muddy path, but there were still plenty of rocks so that the travelers could step from one to another and so hope to keep their shoes reasonably clean. As they plodded on, however, the drizzle changed to a downpour, the rocks and lava hunks became fewer and the mud thicker. Soon the path was merely a trace winding through dense undergrowth and knee-deep in mud. Long before the gang reached Progreso, they were unrecognizable and hoping only to keep the mud out of their hair.

In Progreso, which is a cluster of tiny houses scattered about in a (muddy) clearing, they learned that (a) Karin Cobos—well known, of course, throughout the islands—lived somewhere up beyond the village, indicated by a vast and indeterminate sweep of the arm, and (b) not a soul in Progreso spoke a word of English.

They were ushered to the Catholic priest, a Franciscan, whose rope belt dangled behind him tied in two neat knots, as if he wanted to be sure not to forget some important commissions. They spoke to him in English, French, fumbling German, and fluent Japanese (courtesy of Nick), and he answered in Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, and—presumably—Latin. Anyway, he _did_ understand their mission, and made a sortie through the village to return with Chico, a lad who would serve as guide and who was “bueno muchacho.”

Meanwhile they relaxed on the veranda of the priest’s house and sampled some very uplifting brandy and cups of Galápagos coffee—native grown and very strong and good, which is made by adding hot milk ad lib to thick coffee essence. There was also a basketful of fresh rolls, which made a great hit, being the first fresh bread they had eaten since Panama.

At last, in spite of the priest’s dubious warnings that the journey ahead would be “malo _malo_,” they pushed on, with their young guide loping barefooted ahead. They were confident that the going couldn’t possibly get worse—but they were soon disabused. As they struggled on, Barbara confesses to having cheered herself up with fantasies of their reception:

I conjured up the picture of a large and gracious hacienda with a big
living room and deep, comfortable couches and cold drinks and
efficient servants who would lead us off to bathe and provide us with
clean dressing gowns while other servants, somewhere in the back of
the house, set to work washing and pressing our miserable clothes. And
then, after a civilized lunch of crisp, fresh salad and perhaps more
hot rolls with our hostess, we would be sent back down the mountain on
horses so we could keep clean and neat all the way home.

Barbara felt she had some foundation for her daydreams, for we had all read accounts of Karin Cobos, written by successive yachtsmen. We knew she had married the son of the most prosperous plantation owner of the Galápagos, who had later been killed by his own peons, and we had read descriptions of their huge ranch house, their riding horses, and the ease and luxurious living with which the family Cobos were surrounded.

At last Chico stopped and pointed across the valley to the ridge of the next hill, seemingly miles away.

“La casita de la Señora Cobos!” he announced proudly.

They saw a lonely, bleak shoebox sitting foursquare against the skyline, and between them and it a sea of water in which cattle splashed up to their bellies. Obviously, to get to the “casita” they were going to have to swim.

At last they reached the house, wrung out their pants, peeled off their sodden shoes and socks, and were ushered in. Karin turned out to be a dark-haired and dark-eyed Norwegian woman, who looked a handsome thirty-five, but must have been in her fifties—Robinson, for instance, visited here and was smitten by her in 1926. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see them, but accepted her letter graciously and read it at once, while her guests cleaned themselves up, using a pitcher of water and a wash basin. Then they sat down to a plentiful lunch of rice, fried eggs, plantain, and more of that strong, good Galápagos coffee.

Karin spoke surprisingly good English and was happy to talk about former yachtsmen she had met, but not about her life on the island. Barbara gathered that she had divorced her Ecuadorian plantation-owning husband and moved high into the hills, where hers was the only house for miles in any direction. Apparently she liked it that way, and certainly it lessened her former loss of cattle by theft. She made her living by exporting beef to the mainland (Ecuador), where her oldest daughter was at present at college.

This was our first encounter with the rugged and independent breed which is the Galápagos pioneer—but we were to meet quite a few more when we got to Santa Cruz.

The trip down the mountain was considerably faster, though no less sticky, but with the advantage that conditions got progressively better. In Progreso, they dropped off their guide with a gift of some cheese and a couple of cans of V-8 (all they had left), and staggered into Puerto Chico just at dark. Mission accomplished.

When I checked out with the San Cristobal authorities, I was handed a bill for $10 U.S.A. (American money specifically demanded—they did not want Ecuadorian.) The special assessment was for “entering at an extraordinary hour”—namely, 6:00 P.M. local time. When I protested, the port captain shrugged and said, “It’s the law.” I had a strong hunch that had we entered at 10:00 A.M., another law—fresh from the port captain’s desk—would have charged us $10—American—for entering “in the forenoon.” I got part of my money’s worth by delivering an oration of a few well-chosen words. Part of my behavior was normal irritation, but part of it was an act: I hoped that by a vigorous protest and a threat to report the matter to Officials in High Places I could at least keep the shakedown market stable, so that the next yachtsman wouldn’t be faced with a bill for $20—U.S.A.

We left Wreck Bay by the light of a brilliant full moon at 0200, hoping to cover the 50 miles to Santa María (also known as Charles and as Floreana) before dark. By suppertime we were anchored in 4½ fathoms in Post Office Bay, renowned, obviously, for its post office—but one that is a bit different from most and with a special history. Since the days of the whaling ships, a barrel has been maintained here on the beach, where ships outbound for two or three years could deposit letters to be picked up by other ships on their way home.

In recent years this tradition had been carried on by passing yachts, with the help of the sole white family on the island, the Witmers. Mrs. Witmer collects the letters that have been deposited, cancels them with an official rubber stamp marked “Post Office Bay,” and leaves them to be picked up by the next yacht. We had heard that mainland postal services all over the world honor this cancellation.

We had been given a number of letters and packages for the Witmers and were told that they would sight us at once from their “plantation of sorts” in the hills and would come down to the beach to receive us. When no one appeared throughout the next day, we decided that they might be down at their “seaside cottage,” around the island at Black Beach, and in the afternoon we climbed several miles up into the hills, following an old trail and hoping it would lead us to one establishment or another. There are only two or three families living on Santa María, as the population is stringently limited by that vital element—water. The one permanent spring—a slow drip from the rocks—provides an assured source of water sufficient to maintain a very limited group.

Our hike was very different in character from the soggy expedition to Karin’s. Santa María is not high enough to catch much rain. The terrain is rough and sandy, covered with low brush and with frequent volcanic outcroppings. Near the beach at Post Office Bay are evidences of an early attempt at colonization, in the form of neatly laid-out foundation stones and possibly old corrals of lava rock, but the experiment failed before it had progressed very far due to the lack of water. Beyond the abortive settlement a couple of trails had been cut through the scrubby undergrowth and we set off hopefully, but one after another they petered out into goat tracks and then into nothing. At last we gave it up and returned to the beach.

We dropped our own mail into the white post office-barrel, which has been kept painted and in good repair by the crew of Irving Johnson’s brigantine _Yankee_, and added a small signboard with the name _Phoenix_ to the other names which had been recorded through the years. In the process we disturbed a big and lazy seal sleeping in the sun nearby. He was not afraid of us, merely indignant at our disturbing his nap, but when poked with a stick he obliged by cavorting clumsily down the beach with Ted and Jessica in excited pursuit.

Our next call was at Academy Bay, on the south shore of Santa Cruz, 40 miles to the north. Following the directions we had been given back in Balboa, we anchored just off the stone house on the point, which we knew belonged to Carl and Marga Angermeyer. We put out a stern anchor to prevent too much swinging and here we stayed for eight days—among the most enjoyable days of our entire voyage. The settlers we met in Santa Cruz came nearer to fitting our ideas of true pioneers than any other group we had seen. No easy tropical paradise for them—no bananas and breadfruit dropping from the trees, no coconuts. Life is lived very close to the subsistence level and everything has to be done the hard way. Their salt is collected from saltpans; fats and cooking oils must be rendered from giant green turtles that the men go out to catch; bread is “sourdough,” and at each baking time a bit must be kept back as a starter for the next batch; coffee is grown in the hills and prepared by the individual housewife as needed.

Those delicate souls whose coffee must be just so would be interested in the virtuosity required to get a good cup of coffee in the Galápagos. First, you get the beans from where they are grown in the mountains, a round trip which takes a full day. Let them dry for a few days. Then shell and pound them until the hulls are free. Separate beans from chaff—a tedious process unless you do it outdoors in a strong breeze—and roast over a kerosene fire at low heat, stirring constantly for a long time, until properly brown. Grind through the coffee mill. Then make your coffee—and by now you’ll be ready for it.

The principal problem is water, for although there is sufficient rainfall in the hills, the ground is porous, and the water percolates through. At sea level rain is rare, and every drop must be caught and treasured, so that the first step in constructing a new house is to build the cistern, and the second is to erect a properly guttered roof above it. Walls, floor, and any desirable divisions into rooms can come later. Washing and cooking are always done in brackish water collected from shallow wells. In times of drought this is also drinking water. To us, it tasted impossibly salty, but we were assured that one could get used to it.

Of course, there are no doctors here, and no dentists; and certainly nothing resembling a corner drugstore. Whatever supplies must come from outside arrive by yacht, or by infrequent supply ship from Ecuador. On this ship they send out their only cash crop, and it is a skimpy one: fish which they have caught and salted down. The boat also brings their mail—when the captain thinks of it. On his most recent trip, just before we arrived, he had forgotten to pick up the sacks of mail waiting on the dock at Guayaquil, and seemed to think it a great joke. Also, Marga showed us a 100-pound sack, filled with sand, which had been delivered in lieu of the sugar they had ordered. The captain disclaimed any knowledge of the substitution and since there was no way of tracing the theft there was nothing to be done about it—except go without sugar and hope for better luck next time.

There is a strange dichotomy on Santa Cruz: those who have settled at sea level and those who live on the mountain. Only a narrow, rugged trail, impassable in the rainy season, connects the two settlements, and it takes four hours of hard climbing to reach the first of the houses “on the hill.”

The people here live a very isolated and completely agricultural life. They grow vegetables and raise cattle, trading their produce for sea-food products, or for a little cash, with the colony along the shore. Each week, Alf Kastdalen, only son of the most enterprising of the Norwegian settlers in the hills, comes down to shore with a train of burros and distributes the sacks of potatoes, the carrots and onions, bananas, and freshly killed meat for which he took orders the week before. On the return trip the burros carry an equal weight of supplies—anything from sacks of flour to rolls of barbed wire—which must be ordered from Ecuador, stored in a locked shed near the landing, and packed up the hill little by little as needed.

Because we hoped to get some fresh vegetables to take with us, Barbara and I took a trip up to visit the Kastdalens, who have been on Santa Cruz for twenty-three years, having come with one of the first resettlement groups from Norway. The trail into the hills ran for six miles almost straight up and could have been quite as bad as the one on San Cristóbal, except that it was not raining. We took about four hours for the ascent, trudging behind and beside Alf’s string of six tiny burros who were well loaded with supplies. On a later trip these same burros hauled up our small kerosene refrigerator, which we had mistakenly bought in Sydney. As I had feared, it turned out to be useless on the boat, smoking even in a quiet anchorage, but worked fine when absolutely stable. Now the Kastdalens, for the first time, could enjoy the luxury of iced drinks.

We spent the night at the Kastdalens’, where we enjoyed good conversation and a meal of wild pig (plentiful in the hills, along with wild cattle), potatoes, avocados, fried plantain—and plenty of fresh milk, butter, and home-baked bread. It was an amazing contrast to the scanty fare of the equally hospitable Angermeyers on the shore, but in talking with the elder Kastdalen women we realized that they felt keenly their isolation from friends in Academy Bay. Mrs. Kastdalen asked wistfully for news of Marga Angermeyer, whom she had not seen for over a year—the last time being on the occasion of a wedding on Santa María of the Witmers’ son. This event had been a gala affair, attended by almost every European on the islands, all of whom seemed to feel as close to one another’s affairs as if they had been members of a single family.

A few days later Ted and Jessica also made a trip into the hills, this time as the guests of another Norwegian family, the Hornemans. Old Mr. Horneman seemed a gentle and scholarly sort, not at all the type to wrest a living from a complete wilderness, yet it was he who was the first settler on Santa Cruz; with his own hands he had built the solid house, raised on stilts, in which his wife and his teen-age son and daughter lived; and by his own efforts he had reclaimed and fenced in and cultivated many acres of land. He had captured and redomesticated cattle gone wild, and bred a new stock. Now, after many arduous years, he was taken with a very unusual hobby: using selected gourds of the proper shape, he sketched in, painted and decorated remarkably accurate globes of the world.

The Hornemans’ two children, Friedel and Siegvart, were mature beyond their years in responsibilities, but they had a joyous enthusiasm for life and a thirst for knowledge that was challenging. Both of them spoke five languages: English—which was the lingua franca among the European settlers; Spanish—the language of Ecuador; and German and French, in addition to their own Norwegian. Siegvart explained the French as follows: “Mamma and Mrs. Angermeyer used to speak French when they didn’t want us children to know what they were talking about, so of course we learned French!”

Friedel also made a remark which impressed Ted and Jessica deeply. “I had ice cream once,” she told them, obviously savoring the memory. “During the war, when there were Americans on Baltra, they took me to visit the camp one day and I had ice cream!”

“We rode in a truck too,” Siegvart added.

The American Army, during the war, had had a base on Baltra, a small island just to the north, which guarded the Pacific approaches to the Panama Canal. After their departure, the buildings and supplies left behind had gradually found their way to the islands and to Ecuador. Salvaged items are, of course, very important in the Galápagos, and near the Angermeyers’ house, down on the coast, I saw the remains of Joe Pachernegg’s yacht, _Sunrise_, wrecked on the west side of Santa Cruz and brought over piece by piece.

Two yachts called at Academy Bay during our stay—a rather unusual concentration of visitors. The first was _Cle du Sol_, a French yacht, which had the distinction of having a grand piano in the one large cabin, around which the boat had evidently been built; and the day before we left, an American motor yacht, the 110-foot _Valinda_, out of Los Angeles, pulled in. We met the owner of _Valinda_, who planned to return soon to the States and arranged to rendezvous with him at James Bay, on uninhabited James Island, on the morning of February 16. He promised to pick up any mail we had ready and give quick delivery back to California, a wonderful opportunity to get messages home a couple of months earlier than we had expected.

On the day before our departure we had a community party ashore, and with the help of the men rigged up a 12-volt generator, with a 110-volt converter, so that we could give a slide show. This was our farewell gesture to the people of the Galápagos, for although we planned to see more of the islands as we cruised to the north, Academy Bay was the last human outpost.

16 BACK TO HAWAII

“How come change ya mind?”

From Academy Bay, on February 13, we made a short hop around to the east side of Santa Cruz, where we anchored for the night between two tiny islands just offshore, the Plaza Islands. It was dusk when we arrived and we lost no time in launching the dinghy, in order to take a closer look at the multitude of seals that were crowding the banks and disporting in the water. As we drew closer to shore, more and more seals slid from the rocks and swam out to circle about us, yelping excitedly as though urging us to join them. Suddenly we heard a fearful roar and turned to see a large bull seal who had reared himself out of the water. With open mouth and a truly terrifying bellow, he came charging toward our cockleshell. Giving up our vague intention of perhaps landing and kidnaping a baby seal to take along as a pet, we turned and rowed a dignified retreat. We were allowed to depart in peace, but found that any attempt to return from any angle whatsoever would be violently challenged. Reluctantly we returned to the _Phoenix_, swinging gently at anchor in our tiny cove.

All night our sleep was interrupted by the continual bleating, barking, yelping, and roaring of the dozens of seal colonies, which seemed to keep the watch in turns.

The next morning we set out at dawn and sailed on up the coast and across to Bartholomew Island, just off James. The scenery here is rugged and grand. We anchored just off a most distinctive pinnacle of black rock, several hundred feet high, and went ashore to explore a completely arid, sandy, volcanic, cactus-strewn terrain. In a cave in a nearby hill, following directions given us by the Angermeyers, we found the tin can cache in which Robinson, in 1932, and a few others since, have left messages. We entered the _Phoenix_ in the select company and, in the valley beyond, spelled out the name of our ship in rock letters, to add to the other names we found there, including _Yankee_, _Inca_, _Thunderbird_, _Arthur Rogers_, _Nellie Brush_, and _Windjammer_ (soon to be wrecked on Easter Island).

From Sullivan Bay we sailed up the coast of James and around to the lee, in order to spend the night in Buccaneer Bay before proceeding on to James Bay and our rendezvous with _Valinda_. We dropped anchor right in the middle of the bay, in seven fathoms, and Ted and I went ashore with guns to try our luck at varying the diet of canned corn beef. There was no need to hunt for goats here, as we had done on the Barrier Reef—they came to us. A large herd on the beach merely looked curiously at us as we dragged the dinghy up on the land, while on the ridge above, about 200 yards away, a herd of cattle peered down. We walked over to the goats and murdered one. They were standing in shoulder-high grass, and it wasn’t until we had made the kill that we discovered that we now had an orphan on our hands, a very young kid which nevertheless gave Ted quite a run before he was able to chase it down. We carried the carcass to the boat and tethered the baby nearby, while we completed our explorations.

Up the large gully we found plenty of iguanas, so tame they had to be shooed aside. We knew how ubiquitous these creatures were—back at Academy Bay we had once counted twenty-one, sleeping on the porch of Angermeyer’s house, while a couple more had sneaked into the living room! In the shallow caves under the banks we flushed a mother goat and twin babies, who reluctantly rose and made a token retreat until we passed. When we got back to the dinghy, where the kid was tied up, we found a large hawk had alighted on a branch just a few feet away. I picked up a rock and tossed it at him. He shrugged. I tried again, this time from a range of six feet, and hit the branch on which he was sitting. He ruffled his feathers, gazing balefully at me. Then I went up and pushed him off his perch with a stick, at which indignity he squawked angrily and flew to another tree 50 feet away.

Buccaneer Bay is the site mentioned by Heyerdahl, of _Kon-Tiki_ fame, in his monograph on the archaeology of the Galápagos, and it was our desire to get a surface collection of pottery shards to take back to the Bishop Museum in Honolulu. We got the collection, all right, and it was a fine one—but it never got out to the _Phoenix_. While we had been busy ashore, the surf had risen and was now breaking heavily. We loaded our knapsack of shards into the dinghy but left guns, goat and kid for a second trip. It was lucky we did, for our first attempt to launch the dinghy resulted in our prompt capsizing. Before we managed to get the boat and ourselves back to shore, we took a considerable beating and finally crawled up onto the sand exhausted. The knapsack full of pottery ended up on the bottom, as did my last pair of glasses—even though I had worn them on a cord around my neck in approved fashion.

The oars were eventually washed within reach and, after tying them in securely, we managed to get the boat launched. I kept it steady beyond the breakers while Ted waded out with the kid held high above his head. Before he was able to deposit it in the boat, a swell went over his head and even the baby was dunked, momentarily. However, Ted kept his feet—as well as his head—and soon we were on our way back to the _Phoenix_ where the girls and Nick had been anxiously watching our activities through binoculars. The girls promptly took charge of the soaked kid, while Ted and I, this time with Nick following in the inflatable rubber lifeboat, returned to fetch the rest of our belongings. By keeping the dinghy out beyond the surf while we loaded goat and guns into the rubber boat and hauled it out on a long line, we were able to get everything safely aboard. We examined the beach several times during the evening and again the next morning before we sailed, but the pottery—and my glasses—were not returned from the sea.

The poor baby goat did not look long for this world. She spent the night, more dead than alive, in a corner of the cockpit, wheezing and gasping painfully for air. Barbara dribbled milk, with a few drops of brandy added, between her reluctant jaws with a medicine dropper, but very little seemed to go inside. We expected every moment to be her last, but she survived the night—and the next—and the next. In fact, she not only survived, but thrived, and eventually became (Skipper’s version) a blamed nuisance as time went on, as well as (ladies’ version) a novel and joyous little companion—named Goatie-Goat—for all of us on our long trip to the Marquesas.

The kid and the cats were not our only livestock at this stage. Before leaving Academy Bay we had taken aboard a living souvenir—and a family heirloom-to-be—in the form of a young Galápagos tortoise. Jonathan Junior, named after the venerable fellow who had supposedly hobnobbed with Napoleon back on St. Helena, had become ours by virtue of barter: six packages of instant powdered milk; one can of shortening; and two bottles of hot pepper sauce, which was apparently the going rate in the Ecuadorian settlement at Academy Bay. This, of course, was a comparatively small specimen, measuring only ten inches across the shell in each direction, but we had every confidence that a few hundred years would make a noticeable difference. Incidentally, we obtained him quite legally, as we had a permit, issued in Ecuador, which gave us the right to take “two of every kind” of animal.

We had one more reluctant passenger who was stowed in the bilge. Fritz and Carmen Angermeyer had returned from a successful sea turtle hunt with enough meat to provide the entire colony on “Angermeyer Point” with several good meals. When we left, they gave us not only a sizable hunk of fresh turtle meat, but a specimen “on the hoof.” This green turtle fitted neatly beneath the floor boards in a niche near the mainmast, and there we carried him for quite a while, sloshing him down frequently with a bucket of sea water, until we all felt the need for fresh turtleburger.

We would gladly have spent much more time in these islands, but we had been at sea for three and a half years and now the end was in sight. After only one more stop—in the Marquesas—we would be closing the circle. Soon, instead of the perpetual routine of “hello—good-bye” which was one of the most difficult aspects of extended cruising, we would be meeting old friends again. In Hawaii we would be able to relax a bit and settle down for a while in familiar haunts while we overhauled our faithful _Phoenix_. After a bit of rest we would undertake the last leg, back to Hiroshima.

Only one thing remained before leaving the Galápagos—our rendezvous with _Valinda_ in James Bay. On the morning of February 16, we got underway early and rounded the point from Buccaneer Bay into James. It was empty. We crossed to the south side and anchored, going ashore during the day in two groups for exploration.

Throughout the day we kept an eye on the expanse of James Bay, expecting at any moment to see the big power yacht appear. We had a stack of letters ready to hand over and we felt more than a little put out when darkness fell and it became apparent that _Valinda_ had not kept our date. By noon the next day we reluctantly put away our envelopes full of news, and started off for the next post office on our route—3,000 miles away.

Out of fairness to her owner, this might be the place to tell what happened to _Valinda_. Months later (while leafing idly through a back issue of _Life_ magazine) we learned that _Valinda_ had been there to meet us. She had reached James Bay the night before and anchored to wait for us. Just at dawn, while we were all asleep aboard the _Phoenix_, five miles away around the point, _Valinda_ had been boarded by twenty-one escapees from the penal colony on the neighboring island, Isabela. They had mutinied the night before, raided the arsenal, stolen a couple of small boats, and by chance had come across _Valinda_ in the course of their escape flight.

The convicts forced her to sail for Ecuador, a trip of sixty-three hours under power. At Puna they took the ship’s boat and went ashore, leaving the yacht to sail north to the Canal Zone, where they gave the alarm.

No wonder they had not been there to meet us, when we arrived in the bay some four hours later! And as I read the account, even months after the fact, I wondered what would have happened if it had been the _Phoenix_ rather than _Valinda_ that had reached the rendezvous first.

Entire books have been written about voyages far shorter than ours from James Island to the Marquesas, but my own memory of the 26-day passage is of quiet seas, light breezes, and peaceful company.

Once we had rounded the north end of Isabela and put tiny Redonda Rock astern, we knew we would see no land for 3,000 miles, and the chances were remote, in those empty waters, that we would see another ship. Yet that one in a million chance did happen, at midnight on the sixth day out. Ted, on watch, saw lights and called me. We put on our masthead light and a large ship came close to hand. We exchanged signals and I flashed our identity. Then the liner, in a wonderfully thrilling gesture, turned on all its lights, including the system that outlined the name of the ship—_City of Brisbane_—in enormous glowing letters. Although we could only turn a flashlight on our sails in reply, the moment was deeply heart-warming, as two ships that passed in the night made brief contact across the dark sea.

This was the only even remotely exciting event of the trip. The weather remained constant, the trade winds steady, and my notes in the log are the briefest of our entire voyage. During our watches Ted and Jessica took turns reading Melville’s _Typee_ aloud, and we all looked forward to seeing Nuku Hiva and the beautiful Typee Valley (Taipi Vai), changed though we knew it would be. In addition, we were longing for baths in some isolated mountain stream, for we had had no fresh-water showers since leaving the Canal Zone, water in the Galápagos being far too precious for such indulgence.

By noon of March 14 we were just off the entrance to Taiohae Bay, on the south coast. We took in our log line and started the engine—which quit on us just at the entrance. With light and baffling airs coming down from the surrounding mountains, we continued in under sail alone and, at 1415, dropped anchor in eight fathoms off the settlement at the foot of the bay, with 3,193 miles logged in a refreshingly relaxed passage of twenty-six days.

Taiohae Bay is a dream anchorage. Deeply indented into the coast, cradled by high hills, it offers perfect safety, and with a sandy coast, groves of palm trees, and scattered huts, a setting of unequaled charm. Nuku Hiva itself is a perfect example of a high island in the South Seas, than which nothing is more verdantly beautiful.

The French government maintains a small office here, so we went ashore to present our credentials. All was quickly taken care of, and once we had mailed our long-delayed letters we were free to explore at will. As English-speaking visitors to the island have done for decades, we gravitated to the unofficial clubhouse of the renowned trader, Bob McKittrick, a Britisher who had jumped ship in the Marquesas some forty years before and had never left. He operates a small store, but the commodity for which his trading post is most famous is sociability. We spent many hours on Bob’s front porch, swapping yarns with other visitors or, better, listening to Bob’s own tales, of which he had an endless store.

Also on the island were Bob and Rae Suggs—archaeologists on a field trip out of Harvard, who had been working up in Taipi Vai and were now waiting for their boat to go home. Bob, who spoke Marquesan, took me on several trips into the surrounding bush, trying to buy examples of Marquesan wood carving, for which the island is justly famous. However, we found that the bitter laws of economics worked here as elsewhere. Recently a visit had been made by a ship from the U.S. Fisheries Division, and the crew had traded ship’s stores for wood carvings—at an unrealistically inflated price which they could easily afford, since the ship’s stores were paid for not by them but by the U.S. taxpayers.

Moreover, the ship had promised even more lavish “trade goods” on their next trip. As a result, all the old carvings—bowls, tikis, turtles, ornamental swords—were being saved up and new and hastily worked objects were being turned out as fast as possible to await the return of these extremely generous men off the Fisheries boat. My private pocketbook could not begin to compete.

Ted, however, had better luck. With Nick he took a trip for twelve miles over the mountains, carrying a knapsack filled with shirts and skirts. In Tai Oa, a quite unfrequented spot, they spent a day with the chief and his family and presented their gifts. Before they left, the son of the chief gave Ted a splendidly carved wooden tiki, or little man, a bit over a foot high. The wood was magnificent and the carving perfect. Ted didn’t want to take it, as he had nothing of comparable value to give, but the chief insisted, stuffing the tiki into the knapsack. In addition he gave Nick a fine carved wooden knife.

On the day before departure we planned to motor around to the adjoining valley, Taipi Vai, and spend the day in Melville’s Typee. Word of our plans spread like magic and by the time we were ready to hoist anchor we had seven or eight deck passengers, including a lovely young Marquesan woman with two small children and a six-day-old infant. Since the engine, in spite of several hours of tinkering, again quit on us, and as I didn’t want to crowd our luck by trying to sail in, we reluctantly abandoned the projected side trip. We off-loaded our passengers, and with a smile and a wave they philosophically set out along the trail which, after a good stiff walk, would eventually get them over the mountains to Taipi Vai.

We left two of our passengers in Nuku Hiva. Goatie-Goat, who had been growing rapidly and eying the charts hungrily, remained behind, the proud possession of a Marquesan family. And we bequeathed Duchess, our disdainful Spare Cat, to Bob McKittrick. During all her months at sea she had never learned to adapt to us or to boat life but she took to Bob—and his plethora of unwanted rats—at once.

We sailed on March 21. I estimated about twenty days for the trip and made Jessica a half-promise that I would have her back in Hilo for her fourteenth birthday, on April 12. I kept my promise but the trip, contrary to our expectations, was in sharp contrast to the peaceful passage to the Marquesas. The log is filled with notes on torn sails, squalls, rain, and heavy seas. We started quietly enough, but after the first week the going began to get heavy. On the seventh day we crossed the equator for the sixth time and celebrated by catching a 47-inch wahoo—a member of the mackerel family—rather an unusual event for us on the high seas, although we usually trailed a line.

Two days later we lost another rotator from our taffrail log—about half a dozen had been taken in all—and spent a couple of days without one while I fashioned a spare from bits and pieces of several sets. The new rotator, when I put it into the water, worked fine—but backwards—so that our mileage on the dial registered in reverse. Far from being discouraged, we all thought this provided an interesting challenge, and Ted worked out tables which made it possible for us to record each day’s distance even with a rotator subtracting the miles.

Day after day went by with passing squalls and heavy weather. A major part of our spare time was taken up with sail mending. The truth is that our sails had just about reached the end of the road and required constant repair.

On the seventeenth day out I noted: “For the first time in ten days, a nice day—trade wind type, fresh. An Easter present?”

The next day we set the clock on Hawaii time and the following night we saw the loom of a light to port. The following morning we sighted Hilo and headed in.

But we were not to finish the trip without a bit more work. The engine had given up entirely and now the sails all went on strike at once. First the foresail split, and while we had it down and were making repairs, a rip appeared in the main. With so much canvas spread out useless on the deck, we made little progress even before the wind dropped almost to nothing. Drifting idly in full view of our long-anticipated goal, we passed out the leather sailmaker’s palms, the thread and beeswax and sail needles. As we set to work to sew our way in, we were cheered by a brief glimpse of that majestic landmark, Mauna Kea, which appeared for a moment between the clouds. Twice a Coast Guard plane flew low over us, which Jessica interpreted as “Going back to get the leis ready!” The Skipper, however, suggested that it was more likely that they were going back to tattle about the rotten state of our sails.

And so we spent the morning shoving needles back and forth through the heavy canvas and fighting down our impatience. By noon the job was done, enough to get in. The sails were again hoisted, and the wind was up a bit. With clearing weather and an arching rainbow lying low over the cone of Mauna Kea, we entered the bay and rounded the breakwater, making a neat two knots.

Two hours later we dropped anchor just off Kaulaiaiwi Island in almost the exact spot where we had anchored when we first arrived in Hilo after our hard beat around the Kona coast. With great solemnity Jessica filled in the red ink-line that completed an erratic circle around the inflatable globe which had been given her for her birthday in Lahaina three years before. The _Phoenix_—and five of her original crew—had completed a voyage around the world—Hilo, Hawaii, to Hilo, Hawaii.

Best of all, we had got ourselves into no trouble that we couldn’t get out of by ourselves.

We shook hands rather solemnly all around, but I don’t recall any particular sense of jubilation, only a sense of deep and abiding satisfaction. As we had done in over a hundred other ports, we unlashed the dinghy and put it over the side. When entry formalities had been completed and we finally rowed over to the dock, again we found representatives of the Hiroshima Ken Society waiting to welcome us. It felt wonderfully familiar. Later we took a walk. The town looked just the same. We wandered a block or so from the dock, to the little Japanese market center where we had done much shopping before setting out. In the fishing tackle store the same reels, lines, and hooks seemed to be on display in the window; behind the counter sat the same Japanese proprietor, his grin as friendly as ever. Nothing had changed.

“You on boat?” he asked.

“Yes, on _Phoenix_.”

“Ah—_Ho-O-Maru_,” he said, giving her Japanese name.

“That’s right!” We were surprised and flattered. “So you remember us!”

“_Sure_ I remember! You came here while ago.”

“That’s right!” _Quite_ a while ago, I thought: 2 years, 10 months, and 15 days.

“Say—” the proprietor said suddenly. “You folks say you gonna sail rounda world.”

“That’s right,” I admitted, preening myself slightly.

“Okay. Why you no do it?” he said accusingly. “How come change ya mind?”

17 THE LAST LEG:
HONOLULU TO HIROSHIMA

“Of course, there were a couple of incidents.”

After a restful two weeks in Hilo, we moved on to Honolulu, stopping en route for a week in one of our favorite spots, Lahaina. Here in Maui is none of the frantic scrambling to be seen on the island of Oahu. In Honolulu new buildings are rapidly cutting off the classical sight of Diamond Head, while automobile fumes compete with the subtle fragrance of mimosa. But on Maui—at least for the moment—there is leisure for rest and contemplation.

I qualified that remark because plans are now afoot to make another Waikiki out of a stretch of beach just outside of Lahaina, so the present description may be a requiem.

We squeezed out of tiny Lahaina harbor about noon on May 1. Making the sharp right-angle turn, we broke through the surf and crept under power through the narrow channel against a head wind. It was a quick overnight trip in fresh trades to Oahu, and by midnight we were once again laying off Diamond Head, marveling at the lights and color. This time, however, we were looking ashore at familiar landmarks and could identify the myriad flashes and beams.

The next morning we entered the yacht harbor, and after a couple of temporary tie-ups were assigned to a berth, where we began leisurely preparations for our last long leg, to Hiroshima. The yacht harbor is jammed with craft, almost all of which never have—or never could—go outside. Unfortunately, most of the available harbor space on Oahu is in Pearl Harbor, and not available to private yachts.

It was our plan to leave in about a month; it was not until almost two years later that we were able to make the long haul back to Hiroshima. The _Phoenix_ was not quite idle during this period—she sailed over 6,000 miles during 83 days at sea—but our sailing was of a different nature than that of a casual family cruise and does not enter into this account. In brief, we sailed into the Bikini nuclear bomb test area, then to Kwajalein, in the Marshalls, and finally—without the Skipper and Jessica aboard—back to Honolulu. But, as I say, that is another story (told in _The Forbidden Voyage_).

On April 26, 1960, we set out again, ready in all ways for our long passage across the Pacific to Japan. The weather was fair, the trades generally moderate, and our hearts were eager to reach Hiroshima, which we think of as home. Our route lay just north of one we had taken in 1958, to the forbidden zone near Bikini, but this time we were unmolested, since the bomb tests had long since been concluded.

It was on the whole a quiet trip, although there were a couple of incidents. Also, we did a lot of experimenting with the sails, partly for the fun of it and partly because our sails were in such delicate condition that ingenious adaptations were necessary. We very soon tried the jib which Bill Huntington, of the _Golden Rule_, had given us, and it worked fine. A little later we set up for the first time a spinnaker, which we had bought secondhand in Honolulu. It also worked well, but we were spoiled by long years of lazy cruising and just didn’t have the racing man’s attitude. I’m afraid we never gave the spinnaker the attention it deserved, and when it began to demand too much attention we just took it down.

Log entries are meager during a fair-weather passage, and the entry on the tenth day stands out prominently: “PHOENIX’S SIXTH BIRTHDAY!” A couple of days later, we hit our first “bad” weather—a mild line squall. Things were so quiet, in fact, that one morning I took a nap and officially made Jessica the Captain—for a period of two hours. She promptly took over the keeping of the log book, and her entries follow:

0700 Cap’n Blob takes over command.

0730 Cook mutinies, refuses to get out of bed.

0825 Wind from more or less aft.

0845 Former Cap’n refuses to do dishes. Ruled guilty by Majority of
One, will be thrown in irons, if any available.

0900 Took morning shot. Presiding Cap’n goofed.

0931 Cap’n turns over all responsibility to Skipper, and resigns from
active (or inactive) duty. Sigh.

One more entry:

1700 DATE LINE crossed. (Beep, beep! J.)

So we lost May 11 out of our lives. That night we saw what must be a very rare sight, a “moonbow.” A full moon aft and a shower forward combined to produce this phenomenon, with actual rainbow colors quite visible.

Of course, as was the case all around the world, we had a Cat and Spare Cat on board—Nos. 34 and 35, I believe, although I’m quite sure Jessica, who kept complete pedigrees, has accurate statistics in this department. Anyway, our present Ship’s Cat was named Daimyo—so called from the early feudal Japanese lord whose distinguishing characteristic was an overbearingly haughty attitude. Daimyo had one trick, and one only, but he worked it into the ground. He had learned to ring the ship’s bell when he wanted something—and he usually wanted something. In order to get a little peace, it was necessary to muffle the bell at night. A _very_ early-morning log entry on several days indicates that I forgot—and paid the penalty by being awakened by Daimyo’s ringing for his breakfast.

On the night of our twenty-first day out we could see the navigation light on Wake to the north and began to think about edging up to the northwest, on a slant toward Japan. We did so, and a week later I made this sad note: “Good-bye, Trades!”—to which Jessica added in written baby talk: “Sank oo for free sousan’ miles!”

But we were not to reach Japan unscathed. Typhoon No. 2 (they are numbered anew each season) was churning up from the Philippines, and as we plotted its path through daily weather broadcasts we liked the situation less and less. My entry of June 1:

36 days out. About 430 miles SE of Hachijo-shima. Sudden shift of wind
to N. Present course likely to take us right _into_ Typhoon No. 2.
Decided to take down main and heave to. Only mizzen up, tiller lashed.
Breeze freshening, barometer dropping, rain ...

Squalls increasing in size and frequency. Riding well.... Winds very
strong.... Heavy confused seas.

By the next day No. 2 had passed in front of us, about a hundred miles ahead, and the weather was rapidly improving. Winds at the center of the typhoon were force 12—hurricane. Glad we weren’t in them—we had our hands quite full enough where we were.

Incidentally, leaving the mizzen up was a mistake—it was blown to ribbons, and this isn’t a figure of speech; nothing was left of it but thin strips of frayed canvas, cracking like whips in the wind.

That didn’t bother us. We were on the home stretch now and could almost smell the land. We broke out our _topsail_—Nick’s idea—rigged it upside down in place of the mizzen, and carried on. Only two thirds of the original area, and it looked rather lubberly, but the yacht club critics don’t get this far out, so it passed without comment. The important thing was, it worked.

One day after the typhoon had passed the wind was down to “light variables, with no visible progress.” This is what keeps sailing from being boring.

The next day we had a visitor: “Large whale has been playing tag with us for last half hour, swimming along just in front of our course. Saw him 40–50 times.”

And on June 8, forty-three days out, we had our last “incident”:

0955. Buzzed 3 times by U. S. Navy plane. Very low and close, once
knocking wind out of our sails.