Chapter III: Part 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No pains?”

“No. No pain.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4 ON TO THE SOUTH PACIFIC:
FROM HAWAII TO TAHITI

“Banzai!... Banzai!... Banzai!”

In the morning we entered Honolulu Harbor under power and were directed to Pier 7, in the heart of the city. Quite a crowd had collected and what with officials, newsmen, radio and television operators, dockworkers, yachtsmen, and curious strangers, we found the confusion intimidating after forty-seven days of isolation.

Even before the lines were made fast, reporters were shouting questions, a television crew had asked us please to go out and come in again for the benefit of their cameras (we didn’t), and our good friends the Bushnells—who had spotted us from their home on the heights and rushed down with fragrant leis—were breaking the news that Barbara’s mother had flown in from Wisconsin only a day or two before and was awaiting our arrival.

As the _Phoenix_ nudged the dock, an imposing individual cleared a space around him and prepared to board. Our first American visitor. I remembered my manners—we were back in the States, where one doesn’t bow, but shakes hands. I extended mine. He promptly put his briefcase into it, stepped aboard, and ordered all hands below. At once. No accepting of leis. No conversation with well-wishers on the dock.

The reporters howled; the bystanders jeered; and Barbara, in the midst of eager arrangements for getting in touch with her mother, had to be dragged down the companionway. We went below.

Our first visitor did not announce his function, but we soon gathered that he was the port doctor. We rather wondered why we could not at least have spoken to the people on the pier. What obscure disease can be transmitted by voice?

As the doctor left, Immigration arrived. We were delighted to produce the hard-won passports and U.S. visas for the Japanese men. Next in line was an agricultural inspector who apologetically threw overboard a couple of tired potatoes. We didn’t want them anyway.

A truck arrived, with the ominous lettering “Animal Quarantine” on it, and Mi-ke was snatched from Jessica’s arms and whisked away to a cell. We could have her back in four months we were told—and, no—the time spent at sea could _not_ be applied on the quarantine period! It was evident that whatever terrible germs might find their way into Honolulu they wouldn’t include rabies. As an anthropologist, my own feeling was that these precautions, while commendable, were a bit late, since a far worse disease, the white man, had long ago taken a firm grip on the islands.

At last the officials moved on and we were free to come and go—but not before the location of the Customs Office had been pointed out to me, with instructions to report there as soon as possible. We had just been introduced to a new aspect of cruising: the inevitable bout with officialdom, just when you are longing to get ashore after weeks at sea. Necessary, perhaps, but infinitely frustrating.

Taking a deep breath we went up to join our patient friends—and ran into the second land-based hazard of cruising: reporters. Frankly, I was a little surprised to find the press in Honolulu so interested in our arrival. After all, boats by the hundreds come in here and they have to sail a good long way to get to the islands, no matter which land they set out from. Then why all the excitement about us?

I answered questions from reporters with half of my mind and tried to carry on a conversation with friends with the other. All of us gathered together when told to and smiled when asked and waved upon request—and breathed a sigh of relief when at last the reporters and photographers left.

Hours later, on my way back from the Customs Office, I bought a paper whose headlines screamed: LOST YACHT ARRIVES! _What a coincidence_, I thought. _Another yacht—and on the same day!_ Only after I looked at the accompanying picture did I realize that the “lost yacht” referred to was the _Phoenix_!

This news took a bit of digesting. Gradually, as our friends filled us in, we learned that for more than a week we had been the subject of a running story started, perhaps, when friends who were expecting us had called the Honolulu Coast Guard to ask for news.

“Yacht _Phoenix_?” The C.G. had no information. “Coming from Japan? Never heard of her, but we’ll see what we can find out.”

A query was sent to the Japanese Coast Guard who, checking back, noted that a heavy storm had lashed Japan shortly after we sailed. Further research dug up an early news story indicating our original intention to sail up the coast before heading out to sea. A belated search of coastal waters turned up no wreckage of the _Phoenix_, no coastal station reported having seen her after her departure from Takamatsu.—Reluctantly, Japanese officials notified the U.S.C.G., “No trace of yacht _Phoenix_”—and the panic was on.

Conflicting reports began to crop up and were given international publicity. One, from an “authoritative source,” said we had “undoubtedly gone down with all hands”—a nicely flavored nautical phrase. Barbara’s mother, approached for comment, expressed confidence that all was well. A “Japanese naval expert” (our old friend Takemura?) was next quoted as saying that our ship was “built for the Inland Sea and would never withstand the rough waters of the North Pacific,” while another “expert” was found to maintain that a sturdier, better-built boat had never existed. “They’re safe”—“They’re lost”—“Hope dims”—“Hope revived”—headlines argued back and forth.

One article, the most bizarre of the lot, reported that a radio communication from the _Phoenix_ had been received in Hiroshima to the effect that we were safe and would reach Hawaii “in a few days.” Eventually we tracked this down. A message had been received—of a sort: Moto’s mother had visited a shrine, where she had received assurance from On High that all was well with the _Phoenix_. She had passed the word along to the anxious relatives of the other men, the word had spread, and the newspapers got hold of the story. When the overseas news service picked it up, however, they failed to recognize that a “message” could be heavenly as well as electronic. In their own version, they presupposed a radio contact without bothering to inquire whether we actually had a radio transmitter aboard.

When we protested the inaccuracy—and the cruelty to anxious friends and relatives—of such irresponsible reporting, a newspaper acquaintance shrugged off our indignation.

“It’s just formula stuff,” he assured us. “Yacht sails—yacht has trouble—yacht does (or doesn’t) arrive. Sometime during the trip there has to be a crisis—a big storm—a man overboard—or just, as in your case, no word at all. That’s always good for at least a couple of ‘overdue’ or ‘lost’ stories. If the boat is _really_ lost, the accuracy of the press is upheld. If it turns up—so much the better, because everyone feels good and we can do follow-up stories, general rejoicing, and big headlines.”

“Like ‘LOST YACHT ARRIVES’?”

He shrugged. “Anyway, it sells papers.” And then he added, a bit defensively, “Our paper hasn’t any objection to reporting the truth—so long as it doesn’t interfere with our circulation.”

In our case the news value was enhanced by the interracial character of our crew and the tremendous interest in the _Phoenix_ which was felt not only in Japan but throughout the substantial Japanese-American community of the Hawaiian Islands. The two Japanese-language newspapers gave the story a big play. The Japanese Consul General paid his respects within hours of our arrival. The Hiroshima Ken Society (composed of hundreds of first-generation immigrants from Hiroshima Prefecture) scheduled a Welcome Banquet in honor of our men. And a cable from Japan informed us that a “Yacht _Phoenix_ Supporters’ Association” had been organized, with Governor Ohara of Hiroshima Province as President.

This unexpected interest and publicity impressed us forcefully with the fact that our voyage was no longer a private affair. Whatever we did or said would be magnified by the press, both in Japan and locally. This put the problem of Mickey in a different light. Our instinct against washing one’s dirty linen in public had kept us from saying anything to press or public about Mickey’s failure, but the problem still had to be faced among ourselves.

My own feeling was that we should send him back to Japan, and the family felt the same. We had proved we could manage without him during the worst that we were likely to encounter in the way of weather and it seemed foolish to carry as supercargo someone who might at any time become a liability.

To my surprise, when I mentioned the subject to Moto and Nick, I found them unalterably opposed. My point of view was the narrow one of the skipper of a boat trying to make a successful circumnavigation; but my men were no longer thinking merely as yachtsmen. They had been greeted as representatives of Japan and they felt the responsibility keenly. A loss of “face” was involved. If one of them were to be sent back, the failure would reflect upon them all. In fact, there was the definite implication that if one went they would all feel obliged to go.

As is usually the case, no decision could be entirely satisfactory. If I kept Mickey, I felt he would be a constant threat to our success—not just from the standpoint of a weak stomach but because of his personality. Nick and Moto, however, were emphatically positive that he would turn out all right. We talked it over at tedious length and finally decided to keep Mickey—on sufferance—at least for a while.

After several days at the commercial dock, we were given permission to move to the Ala Wai Yacht Harbor, near Waikiki. Here we quickly made the acquaintance of fellow yachtsmen and, for the first time, had the real joy of visiting other yachts, of inviting friends aboard for coffee and yarns, and of hearing at first hand the experiences and opinions of men—and women—who had sailed all over the Pacific. We learned that the trip from California to Honolulu, or from Honolulu down to Tahiti, is considered the “milk run” by local seagoing yachtsmen. They had a certain respect for our Japan to Honolulu crossing, however, and we were human enough to be gratified.

Our _Phoenix_, with her rugged build, heavy masts, and massive tiller, looked a bit crude among the chrome and varnish of her sleek neighbors but, as Moto said in a series of articles he was writing for a Japanese-language paper, “Our boat is the roughest looking boat in the yacht harbor, but one of the most respected.”

All seven of us were made honorary members of the Hawaii Yacht Club, which Barbara and I later joined officially. Earlier, while still in Japan, I had joined the American Yachtsmen’s Association, which gave us outstanding help throughout our entire voyage. Soon we added still another burgee—that of the Seven Seas Cruising Association, composed of cruising yachtsmen who live aboard their craft and keep in touch with one another by means of a monthly bulletin to which all the S.S.C.A. “Commodores” contribute.

Every day brought visitors to the _Phoenix_. Some of them, naturally, were friends of ours, or friends of friends, but so many were people of Japanese ancestry who bowed and chatted in their native tongue with Nick, Mickey, and Moto that I sometimes wondered whether we weren’t still tied up to the dock in Hiroshima.

“I thought you said you didn’t know anyone in Honolulu,” I remarked to Moto, after several days had passed with no slackening in the steady stream of callers.

“Yes!” Moto agreed happily. “We don’t! But Hawaii people very kind, very _friend_.”

Indeed they were “very friend.” Day after day shiny black limousines drew up at the docks and discharged Japanese-speaking callers bringing gifts: clothes, cartons of cigarettes, baskets of fruit, flowers, cakes, Japanese delicacies of all kinds—and invitations without number.

Thus began a period during which we were treated to a hospitality such as few tourists, I am sure, have ever experienced. Our own list of haole (white) friends grew rapidly and we had no lack of invitations, which we could accept without qualms, knowing that our Japanese companions also were having a fine time. Only three or four times did our paths cross: once when we were all invited to a most enjoyable family dinner with the Japanese Consul General, Mr. Hatoyama, his charming wife, and three of their ten children; once when I was speaker at a Hawaii Yacht Club dinner; and once for a never-to-be-forgotten “Welcome Party” given by the Hiroshima Ken Society. All the guests were male (except Barbara and Jessica), and the food, utensils, and speeches were entirely Japanese. Mickey had apparently been elected spokesman for the _Phoenix_ crew and he made a stirring speech, complete with gestures and bravado. For the first time we experienced the rafter-raising Japanese cheer, a chorus shouted at top voice from over two hundred enthusiastic throats: “Banzai!... Banzai!... Banzai!” and we were proud that our Japanese companions should be so honored.

In spite of an active social life and my own commitment for a series of three articles about our trip, we managed to make time for a great deal of work on the boat. In addition to drydocking and doing a routine overhaul, we put in a number of improvements based on our hard-earned knowledge of what was needed most. With the proceeds from my articles, I was able to install a 12-volt electrical system, which only those who have returned, however briefly, to the onerous, overheated, and smelly age of kerosene can appreciate. Not only did this remove the necessity for reaching for one’s flashlight before trying to move about at night, but it made it possible for each of us to enjoy the infinite luxury of reading in our bunks. It was an improvement, too, from the standpoint of safety, for it became a simple matter to flick on masthead light or sidelights at the first sign of an approaching ship. I also installed a Navy surplus radiotelephone which, although we had no intention of using it routinely, was a comforting thing to have around.

Changes were made in the galley, too. Previously, Barbara had had to wire her pots to the stove—a tricky and sometimes dangerous maneuver in rough weather. Now we set up the stove in gimbals so it would always remain level—a sometimes fantastic sight at sea when it often appears as if the pots on the stove are the only things tilting and that liquid must remain in them by some kind of magic. We put in sink pumps for both fresh and salt water—the latter, as Moto described it, connecting us to “the biggest water tank in the world.” And we put in two more bilge pumps, one off the engine and one which went out to the turn of the bilge and also served to empty the sink. These changes, naturally, had the enthusiastic endorsement of the cook as well as of Ted, whose galley boy work was thereby considerably lightened.

Shortly after our arrival a Mr. Yotsuda from the northern island of Kauai, had flown over to welcome us. He was a brother of the Yotsuda-san in Japan who had built the _Phoenix_ and he had extracted a promise from us that we would visit a little “The Garden Isle” before we sailed for the South Seas.

By March Art Nelson, the local sailmaker, had completed the genoa jib I had ordered for the fair-weather trade-wind sailing we hopefully anticipated and, with all the rest of the work done, we felt we were in fair shape for sea. It seemed high time to keep our promise to Mr. Yotsuda and give the _Phoenix_ (and crew) a chance to try her wings again.

Early in March we set sail for Kauai, a hundred miles to the northwest. The trip, which we had hoped would be short, routine, and enjoyable, turned out to be otherwise. The channel was rough, the wind was fickle, we were soft—and it took three days. On the last evening a stiff breeze sprang up that threatened to pile us onto the unknown lee shores of Kauai. Ted and I had an uneasy time of it until we sighted land, but it was too late to go in, so, once again, we tacked back and forth all night. What with keeping an eye on the lights and rousing the men every couple of hours to come about, we got little sleep as we waited for daylight to arrive so that we could round the breakwater and enter the beautifully protected bay of Nawiliwili. Happily exhausted, we dropped the hook a few hundred feet from shore and crawled into our bunks.

Within five minutes we had visitors—the East Kauai Hiroshima Ken Association, led by Mr. Yotsuda, who had a full program lined up for us. Under his direction we turned on the engine and motored into the dock where a place of honor had been reserved. On shore, a caravan of cars was waiting and in no time we were on our way.

That day we saw all the points of natural beauty or historic interest on the east side of the island—and they are many. A full day ended with a formal banquet and many speeches.

It was after midnight before we were returned to the boat. At seven the next morning we were aroused by more visitors—this time, the _West_ Kauai Hiroshima Ken Association who did the honors for the other side of the island, including the banquet—and the speeches! If, that night, we were all a little sleepy, there was general agreement that it had been well worth it!

We also received an invitation from the Kauai Yacht Club, but because of club policy it was extended only to the haole members of our group. This gave rise to a situation we had discussed at some length: the probability that in the course of our world cruise we would run into discrimination. It was distressing, however, that it had arisen first in the friendly Hawaiian Islands—and particularly that it should be a yacht club which excluded certain yachtsmen on the basis of race.

The family’s first inclination was to decline but Nick, Mickey, and Moto were more realistic. As they pointed out, they had already received more invitations than they could accept, many of which did not include us. The most sensible course, they seemed to feel, was for all of us to take things as they came and enjoy whatever hospitality appealed to us. We accepted the invitation, therefore, and tried, by our attitude and conversation, to sow what seeds of tolerance we could.

While we were in Kauai, Mr. Yotsuda continued to consider himself our official host. “Did brother build you a good boat?” he asked, one day. “Is there anything you would like to change?”

I assured him that we were well satisfied with his brother’s work, but we would like to extend the stern sprit someday, in order to set up a permanent backstay for the mizzen. The next day Mr. Yotsuda appeared at dockside with his own tools and stayed until the job was done. Boatbuilding, it appears, runs in the family, and the _Phoenix_ had become a family affair.

After two pleasant weeks we headed back to Oahu and Honolulu. As it happened, the return trip was rougher, if possible, and took a day longer than the passage up. Our initiation into trade-wind island hopping had been unfortunate, and I could see signs of disillusionment and rebellion among the women—particularly when we had to spend two days within sight of Honolulu, beating our way in. It was a hard lesson in the vicissitudes of sailing upwind and I discovered that Barbara and Jessica had a tendency—regrettable in those who must depend on the wind—to chafe a bit when land was in sight.

We spent only a few days on Oahu, during which time we loaded aboard canned goods in case lots for an estimated six months. Then, bidding farewell to the many friends we had made, and with promises to return “in a few years,” we moved on to Maui. With us we took, as guest “hitchsailor,” Alan Pooley, the son of Wisconsin friends, who provided welcome companionship to Ted.

In Maui the Japanese community again took us to its heart but this time they had to compete with the hospitality of Al and Verity Collins, known throughout the cruising world as hosts to visiting yachtsmen. Did we want some laundry done? Bring it on up to the house and dump it in the machine. Hot baths? Come on over—any time! Shopping to do? Here’s Al, at the dockside with his car, ready to take you anywhere you want to go.

The climax of our stay on Maui was the two-day trip into Haleakala, the world’s largest extinct volcano crater. With us went our young guest, Alan, enjoying his last adventure before returning to the mainland, despite the minor inconvenience of a broken arm, obtained by falling down our forward hatch. (This was the first accident aboard and we sincerely hoped it would be the last.)

Our last memory of Lahaina is of the farewell party and hula show put on for us at dockside just before our departure. As we cast off the lines to the strains of “Little Brown Gal,” we suddenly noticed that Jessica was still sitting on the edge of the dock, her back to the _Phoenix_, so engrossed in the performance that she was quite unaware of our departure. Hastily I put the engine in reverse, Moto tossed a line to shore, and willing hands boosted her up over the stern sprit—together with three more cakes and another stalk of bananas in case we should get hungry on the overnight trip to the Big Island (Hawaii).

Sailing on down the Kona (leeward) coast of Big Island, we spent several days in Kealakekua Bay, where Captain Cook was killed. The bronze plaque which supposedly marks the place of his death was under a couple of feet of water, a short distance offshore. We could never have found it without the help of “Cap’n” Glass, a salty-looking old landlubber-turned-yachtsman. Even Cap’n Glass, however, could not tell us _how_ the marker had managed to end up in such an unusual spot. Water risen? Land sunk? We’d still like to know the details.

At Napoopoo we decided to make a further test of our new equipment by beating around South Point and up to Hilo, against both wind and current. I had good reason to believe that the trip would be rugged and some instinct made me suggest that the women go across the island by bus, a trip of only a few hours, to wait for the rest of us in Hilo. Barbara acquiesced with mixed emotions. In her diary she noted: “Deserted the _Phoenix_. It was a queer, rootless feeling to watch her moving out of the harbor far below us while we were driven along the upper road on our way to the station wagon-cum-bus.”

Four days later in Hilo, she noted in her diary: “Our _Phoenix_ was sighted this evening.... How wonderfully the Japanese grapevine works! Three members of the Hiroshima Ken Society were waiting at the dock when Earle and Ted rowed in to shore for the first time. Already we’re dated up for the Welcome Dinner plus a day of sightseeing around Hilo and another day touring the Volcano Area.”

We were exceptionally fortunate in visiting the Big Island during the 1955 volcanic eruptions, so that we had far more than the usual tourist excursion through Hawaii National Park. New cinder cones were being pushed up daily within easy driving distance of Hilo. In startling contrast to other countries, where volcanoes claim innumerable lives and force a mass exodus, Hawaii’s volcanic goddess, Pele, has a reputation for benevolence. One of the favorite expeditions, day or night, was to the scene of current activity. Tourists and locals alike, serenely confident, flock to watch and photograph her pyrotechnic displays or to scoop up—on a very long stick—souvenirs of molten lava.

I was absorbed, however, with preparations for our long hop to Tahiti, 2,200 miles to the south. The constant work and pressure took up so much time and energy that I almost resented the interruptions of volcanoes, hospitality, and the ubiquitous visitor with his often ludicrous questions. A couple of sailors from a naval ship wanted to know where we kept our gyrocompass—and they weren’t kidding. A Hawaiian housewife, too broad even to attempt getting down the main hatch, expressed incredulity and distress when she learned that Barbara had to get along without a washing machine. And a gang of modern teen-agers, far from envying Ted’s adventure, seemed rather to feel sorry for him because we didn’t have TV!

I was so preoccupied, in fact, that I was completely unaware of Barbara’s feelings or of the struggle she was having with herself as the date of our departure drew near. And not until several years later, after our trip had been successfully completed, did she allow me to read notations she had made in her diary at that time:

This whole period has been an emotionally confused one.
Intellectually, I _know_ that no trip to come will be as bad as the
hop from Japan, but like the rat who’s been shocked too many times, I
have a deep-rooted dread of starting off again. A thousand times I’ve
wanted to cry out, “I can’t go on with it—I just _can’t_!” Yet I know
I must. I can’t be the one to let Earle down—and after the trip around
from Kona, when the men batched it, and have taken every occasion to
tell me how important I am to their well-being and how morale suffered
when I was not along.

It’s supposed to be good to be wanted, but I feel only resentment. The
few wonderful, relaxing days at the Y.W.C.A. were not enough and when
we moved back to the _Phoenix_ it was with reluctance and a sense of
being cheated. And yet, I wouldn’t have wanted her any more delayed,
for the last day or two before they arrived was no pleasure because of
my anxiety over the lack of communication.

If that trip showed the men that they needed my contribution, it also
served to show me that as long as the _Phoenix_ continues on her
voyage with Earle aboard, I have no choice but to string along.
Watching and wondering is much the hardest part!

On May 26, 1955, with a high barometer but amid showers and overcast sky, the _Phoenix_ set out from Hilo on the long trip south. We felt much better equipped, both shipwise and personally, than we had been when we left Takamatsu exactly six months earlier, but I can personally vouch for it that Barbara was not the only one who had some private trepidation. One thing we were certain of, however: we could at least _expect_ better conditions than on the North Pacific trip.

It was our plan to make as much easting as possible in the early stages of the trip, so that at the southern end, when we reached the area of the southeast trades, we could make the port of Papeete, Tahiti, without undue effort.

For the first four days the weather, as well as myself, was uncertain. The pattern is shown in the log:

During night about a dozen mild squalls passed over, with or without
clouds and rain. My sleep was governed by these visitors, as we had
left the four lowers up, and I half expected something to carry away.
Each time a squall passed, with no sound of smashing blocks or
flapping canvas, and no call for help from the man at the tiller, I
sank again into an uneasy sleep. But all held, and my lost sleep was
wasted, for the night passed without incident and we made good time.

Our taffrail log was misbehaving, and I broke out the spare (which I had bought from a fellow yachtsman in Honolulu). For a while, we trailed them both—to port and starboard. The Big Log doggedly and steadily recorded that we were going 3 knots while the Little Log insisted that we were making 9. Making use of a Dutchman’s log, I determined that we were making about 5 knots, and Ted and I tried to work out the mathematics that would reconcile the two.

Also, we now had two sextants, as I had picked up an extra in a secondhand shop in the islands. It seemed to work fine—at least Ted and I, each shooting the sun at the same time with a different instrument, were able to get within five miles of each other, and this was quite good enough for us.

The weather, after its bad beginning, steadily improved until by the eighth day out it was perfect. Now, however, at about 10° North Latitude, we began to run out of wind. Each day it got a little lighter. My log asks one word, “Doldrums?”

The following day we ran the engine, on a course due south, for seven hours, to help us get into the southeast trades, and by the tenth day we picked up light but steady airs from the new direction. Slowly they increased, as we worked our way south.

Our radio listening was confined to five minutes a day—from a station in Los Angeles—at which time we caught a short roundup of the news and a time signal, to check our chronometer. That was all we wanted or needed. If anything of world-shattering importance happened, we knew it would be covered in that brief newscast. The rest could wait. My log says:

So far, this trip, compared with the N. Pacific crossing, has been a
quiet afternoon’s sail on the Bay, complete with sunbathing, naps,
reading, games, and drinks—not, unfortunately, cold. It’s full moon
now and we stayed on deck late last night in a scene of fantastic
beauty.

We had moved to better locations the last-minute miscellaneous items that had crammed the life raft on departure, and now we found the raft a perfect family playpen and a fine spot for astronomy lessons from Ted. We had time, too, for family games, such as Twenty Questions or Teapot, and for conversation, that forgotten art. Unconsciously we bridged the gap of years as we shared our reading and our thoughts and kicked ideas around. There was a new sense of relaxation. Hatches and portholes were left open day after day, and meals were often served on deck. Gradually we dared to believe that perhaps deep-sea cruising didn’t _have_ to be under conditions such as we had experienced on the Long Shakedown—given the proper latitudes and the right season of the year.

Mickey continued in good health and spirits and I began to hope that that problem, too, was a thing of the past. Occasionally, when it was the watch of one of the men, the others would join him to hold long conversations. Once the discussion became so vehement that I almost feared they would come to blows. Overcome with curiosity, I joined them in the cockpit and listened silently although I could catch nothing of the quick and colloquial man’s idiom.