Chapter II: Part 2

Our crew selected, there remained the matter of obtaining the consent of their families, which proved not too difficult; and of acquiring Japanese passports and American visas, which turned out to be very difficult indeed. We finally got them, but it took several weeks of correspondence, several trips to Kobe, and several times the amount of patience I normally possess.

During this summer we had still another problem to contend with, and it was one we couldn’t do much about. This was the weather. In three years in Japan, only one typhoon had come close enough to Hiroshima to cause any real concern. However, in the summer of 1954, after the _Phoenix_ took to the water, no less than four typhoons paid us an unwelcome visit.

Typhoon June, the third of the unwonted—and unwanted—series, was the worst of the lot. At the advice of the Coast Guard we took refuge in a sheltered cove behind the island of Eta Jima. On the way we tried out our newly rigged mainsail and, for the first time, had the experience of heeling. As we tilted in the breeze, Barbara, who had been making lemonade in the galley, began to pick up broken glass and lemon peel, while Jessica, a bit shaken, took refuge in the cockpit. “I don’t like it,” she said. “I’d rather live in a house where things don’t fall around!”

That night, however, she slept unconcernedly through the worst of the blow, and by the next day was ready to brag of her experiences and feel more than a little superior to her shorebound friends.

For the rest of us, however, the night of Typhoon June is one that will not soon be forgotten. Around midnight, with the center of the typhoon less than twenty miles away, the wind shifted abruptly. We were no longer in the lee of the mountainous island, but much more exposed, and the waves in this little bay built up to enormous heights. Suddenly Nick, on anchor watch, let out a shout in frantic Japanese. I rushed on deck, and though I couldn’t understand Nick, could see at once what had happened. Our anchor chain had snapped. Endless minutes passed, as we drifted inexorably toward the nearby shore, while we struggled to get the spare anchor over the side. Only a few feet short of grounding, the anchor caught—and held.

Two souvenirs remain of that wild initiation night: the broken link of our brand-new half-inch anchor chain and a sheet from our recording barograph, which charts the pattern of Typhoon June. The line of barometric pressure descended sharply until, at the passage of the eye of the typhoon, the ship was bucking so wildly that the ink was spilled out of the pen, and the record stopped.

We also gained some valuable information and experience from this episode. First, we began to appreciate the difficulties in communication that were to plague us in time to come. Regardless of how well the men improved their English, and I my Japanese, in a crisis they lapsed into “man’s talk”—rapid, peremptory vernacular—which conveyed nothing but a sense of extreme urgency. The normal, formal Japanese language, which we knew a bit, was gone with the wind.

Beyond this I learned the absolute necessity for anticipation if this voyage was to be a success. At all times we must expect the worst, and try to be ready for it. Had the second anchor been ready for instant use, precious minutes would have been saved. On the credit side, I profited, because never again were we caught without ready anchors.

Typhoon No. 4, Marie, caused no great damage in our area, but roared past us and northward to Hokkaido, where she overturned a seagoing ferry with the loss of over a thousand lives. Locally, however, she did play havoc with the tides, and drowned out the machinery in the local shipyard, so we had to postpone our haul-out, for bottom painting, more than two weeks—another unavoidable delay.

However, by September, in spite of typhoons, troubles, and tape (red), we were far enough along to be thinking about a date for our departure. We still lacked such extras as electricity, running water, gimbaled stove, radiotelephone, and a host of minor items, but we ignored these and concentrated on the absolute necessities. Provisioning, of course, led the list, and Barbara took the brunt of this terrible task. Now that she had a better knowledge of the crew’s daily food consumption, she doubled her original estimates of rice, fruits, and canned foods, and then doubled the amount again as a safety factor. The total was prodigious. Day after day, carrying yardlong lists, she set out in a taxi-jeep, to return in the evening with a mountain of supplies to be hauled aboard and stowed.

Ted, meanwhile, when I informed him that he had been promoted to chief navigator on the defection of Takemura, redoubled his studies. With a textbook and the help of a navigation officer friend, Ted gained a competent grasp of at least the theoretical aspects of his assignment. However, when we worked out our practice sextant shots, we often found the _Phoenix_ not in Hiroshima harbor but somewhere up the slope of Fujiyama.

Jessica, too, had been given an official role, that of ship’s historian. She took her assignment seriously and, from the day we moved aboard, she kept a daily record of our activities—as she saw them (a _very_ important qualification). I might add that this diary was continued without a break for the next six years, and by the time we had completed our voyage around the world she had filled seven large ledgers with about 200,000 words. Unprompted and uncensored, Jessica’s Journal provides a detailed, refreshing, and sometimes chastening picture of our rather unconventional family life.

Time had now become an important element in our plans, for it was late in the season. After many conferences with family and crew, after a careful (and prayerful!) study of the North Pacific Pilot Charts, and after consultation with the Japanese Coast Guard, we finally decided that November was the very latest date we could leave Japan and still have a good chance of a successful crossing to Honolulu, over 4,000 miles to the east. This would put us at the tag end of the typhoon season and, we hoped, ahead of the worst of the winter storms which roar down out of the far north Pacific.

We decided upon Honolulu as our first landfall, because it was an American port, where we could have the _Phoenix_ registered as an American ship and could obtain certain supplies and equipment lacking in Japan.

The numerous unavoidable delays had made it impossible to fit in the shakedown cruise in the open ocean, which we had planned, but by leaving Hiroshima early in October we could have a short cruise up the Inland Sea and give ourselves and the boat at least a smooth-water test. We could then complete our fitting-out at a northern port, make any adjustments that seemed necessary, and still depart by the appointed date. It was not an ideal plan, perhaps, but it was the best we could do. For a number of cogent reasons, mainly financial, it was impossible to lay over until next June, the optimum month for crossing the North Pacific under sail.

Our departure was set for October 4, and throughout the day gifts poured aboard: flowers, candy, fruit, rice cakes, a painting of the _Phoenix_, a new heaving line, a can of metal paint, a gallon of used oil (“to pour on troubled waters”), and most formidable of all, a magnificent Japanese doll for Jessica, complete in a fragile glass case. This present brought Jessica exquisite joy and the captain exquisite pain, for he knew tears would flow when he had to jettison the case over the side—in anticipation of the inevitable.

We grew more and more harassed as we found our last-minute preparations and stowing of supplies continually interrupted by the need for greeting another well-wisher, making a short statement to yet another gentleman of the press, or posing on deck for one more group picture. To load last-minute supplies, we had come alongside the dock. All our friends, many of whom had never been aboard, now wanted a tour of the ship. They charitably assured us that they didn’t in the least mind if everything was a mess, and asked us literally hundreds of well-meaning questions, to most of which we didn’t know the answers. “How long will the trip to Honolulu take?” “Won’t you be bored?” “But isn’t it _dangerous_?” “How will the children go to school?”—all very good questions.

But the one most frequently asked, and the one we were least able to answer, was “But won’t you be seasick?” All we could reply was that we never had been—which was perfectly true. On board the _President Wilson_, en route to Japan—our only other experience on the high seas—none of us had been in the least sick. Of course, this wasn’t _quite_ the same thing.

Shadows were already long when we left the dock, with all the ceremony of tossing bright paper tape, singing “Auld Lang Syne”—in Japanese—and shedding copious tears. The tears, I might add, were all in the eyes of those who saw us off. We ourselves were much too busy to have time for sorrow or regret—then—but to our hundreds of friends the whole venture was nothing less than a gallant form of suicide—for which no one has a more subtle appreciation than the Japanese.

A fleet of snipes and sailing dinghies from the Yacht Club accompanied us halfway across Hiroshima Bay, while a plane circled overhead to drop a tiny silk parachute carrying a hand-lettered scroll of good wishes and prayers for our safe return. One by one, our escorts waved and turned back until at last we were on our own.

Our first day’s destination was not far—the shrine of Miya Jima, just across the water from where the _Phoenix_ had been hatched. There, while Barbara started supper and the men tried to find places to stow the piled-up gifts, I made my first entry in our nice new logbook:

Dropped anchor at Miya Jima Guchi harbor, opposite the shrine.
Itsukushima is one of the famed “Three Most Beautiful Places in
Japan.” All secure by 1900. Big spaghetti dinner to celebrate—too busy
at noon to eat. Decks in good shape, but considerable of a shambles
below—2 tons of last-minute ballast, now on floor of main cabin—169
iron pigs.

Many last-minute gifts—even a stack of old newspapers for Mi-ke. Poor
Mi-ke—her box was forced to give way, in its nook under the starboard
water tank, to a pile of iron pigs. The box is now in the aisle of the
main cabin, where she is doing her business in the middle of traffic.
Doesn’t seem to worry her too much.

That night, while the rest of the crew slept, I went on deck. Across the bay the shrine gleamed faintly in the moonlight. The _Phoenix_ stirred gently in the swells from a distant ferryboat. Above were the heavy masts, the intricate web of sturdy rigging, the white sails, furled now but ready to be raised at our command. We had our boat, and though she had not yet proved herself at sea, I knew she would, and proudly. This was not entirely a matter of wishful thinking. During her construction, a number of experts had looked her over, and their reactions had been unanimously favorable. But even without their praise I had faith in the _Phoenix_.

About the human beings aboard I was not so sanguine. None of us had ever been to sea in a small boat. The Japanese boys were good sailors of snipes in the Inland Sea, and I had done some sailing in an 18-footer, but this was a far cry from cruising outside.

And the family. How would the children take the trip? Would they be able to adjust to discomfort and occasional hardship? How much would they miss the companionship of others their own age? What of their schooling? We were taking along plenty of textbooks and teaching materials for both of them, and Barbara, who had been a teacher, would handle their lessons, but would this be sufficient?

And what of Barbara? We had made a contract with each other—for better, for worse—but was a situation like this anticipated in the contract? Suddenly I felt a surge of deep respect and admiration for her, as it came to me with full force that I was going because I wanted to go, but _she_ was going only because I was, offering me a rare and precious loyalty.

Our Japanese crew—what of them? How would they wear? How would two groups of diverse backgrounds get along, in weeks at sea under confining conditions? So far the men had shown themselves to be fine companions and hard workers. Moreover, on that wild night when Typhoon June almost had us on the rocks, they had proved themselves courageous and resourceful. Would these qualities last during the long grind?

Finally, the captain. Could _he_ take it? And could his companions take _him_? Could he curb his temper, learn to control his impatience? I deeply felt my inadequacies, my faults, and especially my lack of experience. Whenever one of the family called me “Skipper,” as they had begun to do, I felt uneasy and self-conscious. One of the biggest unknowns was the ability of this so-called Skipper.

Beset with doubts I finally turned in.

The next day we slept late, and did not get underway until midmorning. The doubts and introspection of the previous night were swept away in the sparkling breeze. We had made our choice, we were on our way, we would do our best. From now on, all thoughts and energies would be directed toward making a successful voyage.

Slowly we drifted past the shrine, so that the men could say their farewells to the goddess, which they did, standing in a row on the foredeck with caps in hand and heads bowed. Suddenly I realized that there was still another possibly divisive factor—one I had not thought of: differences in religion.

We continued up the strait and drew abreast the Yotsuda shipyard. We broke out the foghorn, Mickey blew lustily, and the entire shipyard crew—all four of them—came down to the shore while Yotsuda-san ran up the Japanese flag, and we dipped our American colors in a return salute. Just four months ago the _Phoenix_ had been launched from here.

The next several days were idyllic. The fall weather was perfect, the breeze light but fair, the scenery unsurpassed. We found out now that cruising may take a lot of work ashore, but that cruising is also sailing, and this is the reward.

And we were beginning to learn our boat. From the log of October 8, which was also Ted’s sixteenth birthday:

Good sailing practice today—many tacks, brisk breeze, getting smarter
and smarter in handling her. If only the time element didn’t enter
into the picture! But each day that passes puts us later and later in
the season. Four days out and still not in Onomichi—only 72 miles (by
land) from Hiroshima.

That night we dropped anchor in the beautiful harbor of Mitarai. Fishing boats were close about us and one of them, as it happened, was a bit too close, since we rammed him slightly while maneuvering for a berth. In the log, I virtuously recorded that the accident was a combination of poor judgment on my part and a shifting wind that pushed us down on the larger boat before we could stop our way.

From this we learned something about the momentum of our thirty tons and of the inability of our small engine to handle the boat properly in reverse. Later we called on the captain to apologize, and to have the damage assessed. It came to 556 yen, about $1.50 American. Accidents come cheaper in Japan!

During our trial run up the Inland Sea we made quite a few changes and improvements. We put downhauls all around, so we could get the sails down even in a gale. We rerigged our mainsail peak, painted and stowed most of the ballast, set up a third anchor aft, and got things more shipshape below decks.

We practiced, too, in the open areas, tacking over and over, learning to jibe smoothly, and establishing routines for various maneuvers. We loosed the dinghy, and practiced rounding up to it. When the breeze freshened, and we had our first taste of really brisk sailing, we found we could make seven knots with ease, using only the four lowers; moreover, the boat had a very easy motion.

We reached Takamatsu, at the upper end of the Inland Sea, on the morning of October 13. This would be our base for the final stages of fitting-out before the long ocean crossing to Hawaii. A Coast Guard boat came well out to meet us and escorted us to the Prefectural Docks, where a crowd was waiting, and we went through the usual gamut of questions.

The following morning we accepted the kind invitation of the Takamatsu Yacht Club to use their private dock, where we remained for a very busy two weeks.

Takamatsu is a pleasant city, and at this season was gay and bustling in preparation for the Hachiman Festival. In the evenings, after a day of hard work, we usually wandered into the city where the open-front shops remained ready for business. We would stop to watch groups of strolling actors, or try out our Japanese in the process of making a purchase, or enjoy a nightcap of soba—Japanese noodles—in a tiny booth before returning to the boat.

During the days, however, we worked, and worked hard. Ted and Jessica finished the job of painting countless iron pigs, and emerged at the end of each day with a new layer of orange paint. In the course of this job Ted uncovered a hitherto unsuspected talent: that of raconteur extraordinary. Time passed quickly as Ted gave the iron pigs personalities and guided them through a series of imaginary escapades in the course of getting their faces painted. As we watched the young ones at work we could sense a growing solidarity and identification with the voyage.

We made a number of changes in the rigging, based on our brief experience in the Inland Sea. We unstepped the topmast, suspecting—quite correctly—that we wouldn’t need it in winter in the North Pacific. We made stormcovers for all the hatches and portholes—hoping we would never have occasion to use them. Also, we installed additional pinrails on either side of the mainmast, having quickly learned that our one bank of pinrails was inadequate.

On one day only, October 18, I exercised my prerogative of declaring a holiday. By coincidence, it also happened to be my birthday. We took this occasion to visit Kotohira, where Kompira-san, the god of the sea and patron of Japanese seamen, holds sway. We toiled up the thousand steps to the shrine and paused at the summit to admire the magnificent view, while Nick, Mickey and Moto went inside to pay their respects to the priests and to inform them of our plans.

When they emerged they were smiling broadly. Kompira-san, they had been assured, viewed their venture with favor and predicted a successful outcome _if_—and this, to us, seemed to be the joker—we promised to revisit the shrine at the conclusion of our trip. It seemed to me that a sort of Delphic aura surrounded this promise, but the boys seemed satisfied, and we were only too happy to agree.

After this single day of relaxation we began our final preparations in earnest. One by one jobs and purchases were checked off, from a list which originally contained several thousand items. On the day before our departure Barbara’s most recent provisioning efforts were delivered to the dock: a box of apples packed in bran; 100 pounds of potatoes; 70 pounds of onions; 40 of sweet potatoes, 5 of carrots, 6 of green beans; and some two dozen heads of cabbage. All that day, Barbara and Jessica sorted out vegetables, setting aside the doubtful ones for early eating, while the rest were packed in wooden crates and lashed to the cabintop.

Also on that day they coated and packed some thirty dozen eggs with oleo. That night we had scrambled eggs for supper.

That evening Nick and Mickey stayed in the forecastle writing stacks of last-minute notes, while Barbara, Jessica, and Moto went out to dinner with new-found Japanese friends. Only Ted—and already I was coming to depend upon him more and more—seemed to share a realization of the enormity of the step we were undertaking. Of his own accord he turned down the dinner invitation and remained to help make a final inventory.

Together we made one more check of the entire list of Things to Do and Get. The water supply had been topped up—300 gallons in five unconnected tanks. Canned food for twelve weeks at normal consumption had been divided into separate duffle sacks, a week’s rations to a sack, and stowed beneath the floor of the ladies’ cabin. The fresh produce was aboard and stowed securely. For ship lights, stove, and engine we had 120 gallons of kerosene.

There were ample replacements for all expendable and vulnerable items, from flashlight batteries to sail needles, and safety equipment was complete from flares to heliograph.

In the navigation department we had six compasses aboard (master, steering, inside telltale, lifeboat, and two spares); four watches and a chronometer (rated); three barometers and a barograph; a sextant; anemometer; inclinometer (never used); thermometers of various kinds; a complete set of signal flags; several pairs of binoculars; and, of course, the necessary navigation books, sailing directions and charts, and the 1954 nautical almanac which Takemura had left with us at his departure.

We had a spare battery radio, with batteries, wrapped in a moistureproof package, and an emergency fresh-water still. We had adequate sail repair equipment and materials, tools of every description, and a quantity of spare lumber, in case fairly extended additions or repairs proved necessary at sea.

Our medicine chest, a gift from the doctors at the Casualty Commission in Hiroshima, was unusually complete, from antibiotics to scalpels. Barbara had taken a survey course in emergency medicine under our good friend Dr. George Hazlehurst. She had passed the final examination with honors by successfully injecting a grapefruit and suturing a sausage. As Ted wryly observed, if anything went wrong with grapefruits or sausages, we were all prepared.

As for education and entertainment, we were supplied and oversupplied. In addition to textbooks, we had a complete set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, the Book of Knowledge, and some three hundred additional books. We had decks of cards, and kits for checkers, chess, and backgammon; and sets of Mahjong and Scrabble for family games. We had a handcranking phonograph and a wide selection of records. Ted’s grandmother, Minnetta Leonard, had even sent him a plastic ukulele, evidently in the fond hope that he would be prepared for the beach at Waikiki.

In everything except that important commodity, deep-sea experience, I felt we were ready. If we were fools to embark without that vital item, at least we were fools who were operating within a framework of adequate preparation and common sense.

As to the mental preparation of the ship’s company, that was difficult to assay. Barbara had taken over without demur whatever tasks were assigned to her, and Jessica wrote faithfully in her diary, but neither of them asked questions or appeared to be overly concerned. Whether due to an inability to imagine what deep-sea life would be like or utter confidence in the Skipper, it seemed to put an extra burden on me.

As for the three Japanese men, they were, during the preparation and the trip through the Inland Sea, completely unconcerned in certain areas, and very active in others. Although well-educated men, they seemed quite content with manual skills: carpentry, painting, sail handling, and deck seamanship. They appeared to have no interest in the sailing plans, navigational methods, or the operation of the radio or auxiliary engine. Also, as far as I could detect, they didn’t seem to be worried.

On the morning of October 26, the Rev. Raymond Christopher, a British missionary, visited us and held a short service aboard, asking a blessing on our journey. His solemn words sent a sudden chill through us and more than any other event made us realize some of the implications of our departure.

That evening we sailed from Takamatsu.

Our leave-taking was strongly reminiscent of Hiroshima: crowds, press, last-minute gifts, bilingual confusion, tears. But there was one vital exception: we knew that this time we were heading not for the quiet waters of the Inland Sea but for the Hawaiian Islands, across more than 4,000 miles of open ocean.

The day was hectic, culminating in a formal send-off, for radio and national TV, presided over by the governor of Kagawa Prefecture. The circumstances surrounding our departure are shown in the log:

Final preparations completed, immigration cleared, and check made with
Coast Guard; decided to leave on afternoon of Oct. 26. News of Typhoon
18 (now making up near Philippines) was received, and decision made to
proceed until more details available. Decided to try to get through
Naruto Straits if possible, rather than go all the way around Awaji
Shima.

Also I notified the U.S. Navy in Yokosuka of the date and time of our departure, our approximate route, and the estimated length of our trip (45 days, based on an assumed distance, by sailing route, of 4,500 miles, and an average of 100 miles per day). I informed them, as I had the local Coast Guard, that we had no facilities for sending radio messages, only for receiving. We did, however, have a small hand-operated emergency set (Gibson Girl) on which we could send an automatic SOS at limited range, but this would be used only in direst emergency.

We crossed Harima Nada during the night and reached Naruto Straits the following afternoon. The narrow passage to the open ocean looked formidable. Even without binoculars we could see a white wall of foam as the tide fought its way through, at a peak speed of 11 knots. The rips were between 6 and 9 feet in height. Even as we watched, a large ship battered its way through but another, which had not been so lucky, could be seen stranded on rocks in mid-channel.

We decided in any event not to attempt the straits at night, but to check with the local fishermen and get their opinion. If they agreed it was feasible for our boat, we would try the passage at slack tide the next morning. So we crossed to Marugame, where we anchored, while the Japanese men rowed ashore to talk to the inhabitants. From them we received a golden nugget of advice: “When the fishing boats go through, you go through.”

After the others had gone to bed, Ted and I reviewed the strategy for perhaps the hundredth time. It was very simple—in theory. We would head east as fast as was consistent with safety, to get beyond the area of the late-season typhoons as soon as possible. We would sail as far south as we could, though still keeping within range of the prevailing westerlies and the eastward-flowing Japanese current. In this way we would get the benefit of warmer weather and less severe storms.

In handling the boat we would try to keep a good margin of safety, never overpressing, and we would reduce sail at night during unsettled weather, until we knew our ship and had gained experience and confidence in our abilities.

When we finally reached a position north of the Hawaiian Islands, we would turn south, using the engine if necessary to help us through the band of Horse Latitudes and into the northeast trades. We would try to raise the island of Molokai, the long island in the center of the group, and proceed to Honolulu.

This, in brief, was our plan.

There was only one way to find out whether it would work.

3 FROM JAPAN
TO HONOLULU

“The long shakedown ... a seven-week course in How to Sail.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?” I asked sleepily.

“Fune desu—boat.”

“Chikai desuka?—Is it close?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No!”

“We’ll pump first, Nick. Let’s go!”

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

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

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