Chapter V: Part 5

“I’ll go take a look,” I said, and did so. While I was forward, adjusting the sail, Nick called Ted to the next watch and went below. I fought down my rising irritation and tried to understand, to put myself in Nick’s place. The incident was trivial, and yet it was one of those things that could be significant. True, there had been no emergency and one man could easily do the job. Nick was tired and looking forward to going off watch. On the other hand, why the silence which seemed rude or sullen at the very least? What was the answer? I didn’t know.

The only conclusion to be drawn was that, at this stage, subtleties, suggestions, and hints were out of place. If I wanted a job done I must give a simple direct order even if it made me a Captain with a capital C, rather than a yachting companion. So far as the work of the boat was concerned, nothing must be left unclear. On the other hand, I couldn’t look to Nick or the others for the kind of companionable discussion of pros and cons of procedure that I was sharing more and more with Ted. The Japanese seemed to prefer clear-cut orders and to look upon preliminary discussions as an indication of inefficiency on the part of their skipper. This placed an additional burden on me!

On the sixth day, just after noon, we sighted land off the port bow. Simultaneously, with a noise like an explosion, the main after chain plate on the port side parted. Immediately I put the boat about to take the strain off the port shrouds. Everything else held.

When we inspected the damage, it was easy enough to see what had happened. It was a matter of poor design—my design—in having made the neck too narrow. This was a serious matter and meant that all the chain plates would have to be replaced at the first opportunity. In the meantime, we jury-rigged the shroud, reduced sail enough to ease the strain, and worked our way gradually toward Rarotonga. By the middle of the next afternoon we were off the entrance to Avarua, port of entry for the Cook Islands.

The channel was easy enough to spot. It lay between the wrecks of two ships that had missed the entrance and ended their trips, one on each horn of the encroaching reef. The pass was narrow and the harbor beyond obviously too small to maneuver in. Feeling less than happy about the situation, we dropped the sails, and I started the engine, prepared to go in cautiously under power.

At this moment a small tug came out and offered to take us in for 30 shillings (about $4). Never was a deal closed more swiftly. The captain gave us a shouted rundown of the procedure: “Get lines ready at each quarter—pass them to the native divers as soon as you get in.... As soon as you’re inside, drop your anchor _at once_ and put the tiller hard over ...” etc. I, in turn, repeated the orders to my crew in slow and careful English, and assigned each man his position and function. Only then, and under tow, did we tackle the entrance. It was a narrow squeeze, but after much shouting and more sweating, we were finally fixed in place like a fly in a spiderweb, with two anchors forward, two lines aft to the dock, four set out to rings in the underwater coral, and a final line secured to an interisland trawler, _Inspire_, which lay to the tiny dock and threatened to overturn from the sheer weight of the crowd that had rushed aboard her for a grandstand view of the proceedings.

We were not left long in doubt about the hospitality of the Cook Islands. Ten minutes after we were secure, a note was handed to me:

Dr. Earle Reynolds and Mrs. Reynolds:

Welcome to Rarotonga and the Cook Group. I hope you will call at the
Administration Building sometime at your convenience and please let me
know if there is anything we can do for you.

Yours sincerely,
G. Nevill, Commissioner.

While we cleaned up the boat and ourselves and donned our shore clothes, we savored to the full the satisfaction of having arrived safe and of being warmly welcomed. All of us were looking forward to the amenities of shore living. As far as Nick, Mickey, and Moto were concerned, hot baths were at the head of the list—the hotter the better. Personally, I also wanted a cold beer, a good steak, and a crisp salad.

Just to make sure, I asked the bearer of the note whether it would be possible for us to dine out in Rarotonga. He told me that the only public dining room was at the Government Hotel, just off the docks, and he offered to go there directly to make arrangements for hot baths and dinner reservations for our entire group.

Barbara and I went ashore first, to pay our respects, and arranged to meet the rest at the hotel. The Commissioner was quite as cordial as his note. He invited us to tea at the Residency the following afternoon and promised to put a car and driver at our disposal so we could all make a trip around the island at our convenience.

When we reached the hotel, glowing with good cheer, we found our group were not so happy. They had had the promised baths, but had been told that dinner “for so many” was out of the question.

To the Japanese, sensitive to polite circumlocutions, this meant discrimination and they were all for withdrawing forthwith. I could not believe, judging from our reception, that any slight had been intended and I approached the manager directly.

I found him full of welcome and apology. “It’s just that you came in so late, sir—the government freezer closes at three, and each day we draw our rations from there. We might have squeezed in one or two, but trying to do for seven on such short notice would be hopeless. I trust you do understand?”

“Then how about tomorrow night?” I wanted something definite to take back to my companions.

“Oh, that would be excellent, sir! I think we can do you very well indeed.”

And very well indeed they did do us, well enough to make up completely for the letdown of having to open cans again on our first night in port.

There were few times during the rest of our stay when we had occasion to eat on board, for the hospitality of Rarotonga was overwhelming. As a family, we had little contact with the native Cook Islanders (whom the government is careful to refer to as “Maori”), but Nick, Mickey, and Moto saw a great deal of them. This disparity was quite against our own inclinations. We simply had no invitations to native dances or gatherings and were quite envious of the reports brought back by the Three M’s, who had their choice of both worlds—and frequently chose the more colorful!

From Rarotonga we again headed north, bound for American Samoa. We set our course to sight Aitutaki, then headed northwest. It was good sailing—a broad reach, a quiet sea, a full moon, and a seven-knot breeze. Two days out I noted in the log: “Just informed today is Labor Day. Well, not working too hard, anyway.”

At dusk on the seventh day out, we sighted the mass of Tau Island, looming out of the mist, and jibed to the west for the night, turning northwest again at dawn. At 0735 we picked up Tutuila, dead ahead, and worked our way into the entrance of Pago Pago harbor, one of the best protected in all the South Pacific.

By midafternoon we had been met and escorted to the docks and all was secure. The weekly mail, we were informed, was due to leave within the hour, so our first official act was to scribble hasty notes of reassurance to family and friends. Our next—and one that gave us great pleasure—was to accept the invitation of Phil Mosher, the representative of Governor Lowe, to go with him to his house for hot baths and cold drinks—an unbeatable combination for those who have just come in from the sea.

We expected to spend about a week in Pago Pago; we stayed over a month and hated to leave. A great many factors combined to extend our visit, including the possibility that we might be able to haul out at a government dock if we could stay two or three weeks until they could fit us into the schedule. Also, we were offered a two-bedroom house (at the cost of $1 a day), which gave Barbara that chance to move ashore which she still seemed to crave. Jessica went off each day to the dependent school, and both she and Ted were given placement tests to see if they had lost ground in the course of their rather haphazard program of home study. (They hadn’t. In fact, Ted was issued a certificate equivalent to a high school diploma on the basis of the tests developed by the Army.)

Almost before she had been given a chance to adjust to the rather frightening mob of thirty students—three of whom were in her own seventh-grade class—Jessica was asked to give a talk to the entire school about our travels. The prospect was so terrifying that she was unable to eat breakfast, but when she returned at the end of the day she was both relaxed and triumphant.

“Now I know how to do it,” she explained, when we asked about her speech. “It’s easy.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Anything they wanted to know. I just showed them a map of the world and pointed out where we’d been. Then I said, ‘Any questions?’”

Our stay in Pago Pago was a round of constant activity, but this time, in addition to many enjoyable evenings with local officialdom, we were able to see something of Samoan life as well. Our entree was through the school system.

Barbara mentioned to Mr. Fort, the director of education, that she was interested in visiting some of the Samoan schools. The next time he made a trip to one of the outer villages for a meeting with the local school board, Mr. Fort took her with him. She visited a number of classrooms, waxed indignant over the folly of trying to teach reading to Samoan pupils from stateside-oriented textbooks—“Mother and Betsy are going to choose wallpaper for Betsy’s room”! Why, these kids have never even seen a room with _walls_, much less wallpaper!—and sat in on a “Board of Education” meeting in a little village called Lauli’i.

Afterward, when Mr. Fort introduced her to the various chiefs and “talking chiefs” who make up any Samoan village council, there was so much interest shown in the _Phoenix_ and her cruise that Barbara felt called upon to offer hospitality. Remembering an incautious speech in Rarotonga, when she had spoken at a school and invited “everybody interested” to visit the _Phoenix_—and everybody, by the hundreds, had come—she confined her invitation this time to “any representative of your village who might like to see the way we live on the boat and report back to his people.”

The very next day the pulenu’u (or mayor) of Lauli’i turned up. We entertained him as best we could with cigarettes and warm beer and gave him an exhaustive tour of the boat. His English, though far from fluent, was adequate for communication.

“Many boats come this island,” he explained. “But my people—we never see inside. When I go back Lauli’i, I tell my people many things your family. How you live. What you show. How you are kind.”

He asked many questions about the United States which, he pointed out, was his country also. (Samoans, as wards of the government, are a kind of third-class citizen with certain fringe benefits but a great deal of pride and loyalty.) Remembering the pleasure the people of the Societies had in looking at pictures of Japan, we brought out a three-dimensional viewer and a series of stereo pictures of National Parks. It was a great success.

“I never before see like this,” at last said the pulenu’u, laying the gadget aside reluctantly. “It is like I go there.”

“Take it back to your village,” Barbara urged. “Show it to your people and then bring it back next time you come to town.”

The pulenu’u didn’t have to be urged. Stammering his thanks and forgetting to finish his beer, he hurried off, clutching the viewer and all the stereoscopic reels.

“But, mummy!” Jessica protested. “Don’t you remember what that man in Honolulu said about the Samoans? You can’t trust them—they’ll steal you blind! And you gave him my viewer!”

“Let’s give him a chance, hon. Remember the French officials in Tahiti, who were supposed to ask for bribes before they’d give a boat clearance—and who didn’t? And the Bora Borans, remember—who were supposed to be greedy and spoiled. Were they?”

“But that yachtsman in Hilo, who’d just come back from here, said—”

“Let’s not take hearsay evidence. Let’s just keep on expecting people to be honest and decent until we’re proved wrong. Okay?”

Jessica remained dubious. After all, it was her viewer and although we promised to replace it if anything happened to hers, it might be many months before we could. She didn’t have long to wait, though. Only a few days later the pulenu’u came again, returning the viewer and all the reels. He told us that his people had spent several evenings looking at the pictures and discussing them and now, he continued, they wanted to meet _us_! In fact, they wanted our entire group to come to Lauli’i and make it our home for as long as we could stay. His own fale, he added, would be put at our disposal. We accepted with alacrity although Barbara, who had been there before, felt there might be some problems connected with living for any length of time in a completely open pavilion with only thin lauhala mats to sleep on.

We arranged for a government jeep to drive us out to the village and piled it high with presents for our hosts: cases of corned beef, canned vegetables and pineapple, and a five-pound can of hard candies for the kids.

It was my first trip outside the port town and I soon began to see what Barbara meant. The Samoan fale is nothing if not open. A thatched roof, a floor of coral, and between the two, posts at regular intervals marking off a circle or an oval. When it rains, shutters of woven pandanus matting can be dropped on the windward side, but at all other times the houses are as a cage at the zoo.

We had worried, however, without realizing the extent of Samoan hospitality. The large oval pavilion in which the chief had gathered for the school board meeting on Barbara’s first visit had been transformed for our benefit. Every family in the village must have contributed for our comfort: a long wooden table, straight-backed chairs, a massive wardrobe with a cloudy mirror on the door—all had been installed to make us feel at home. Army cots had been set up for the men and, for Barbara and Jessica, one end of the open pavilion had been curtained off with beautiful tapa cloth to form an inner room. Within were two thick mattresses, made up with clean sheets and elaborately embroidered pillow cases, and draped about with folds of mosquito netting suspended from the roof.

Our meals, too, deferred to Western taste. While the families of the village gathered in the compound behind the fales to share their food in Samoan style, we sat on the hard chairs that had been provided for our comfort and ate from a conglomeration of Navy issue crockery with monogrammed utensils (USN). Only the pulenu’u ate with us, while his wife and a couple of the younger men waited on table. Our first meal, indeed, was served up to us from our very own cans: corned beef, canned peas, and pineapple. In spite of our insistence that these were for the people of the village, the pulenu’u was sure we would not care for Samoan food.

One evening a group of children from the pulenu’u’s family put on a performance of native songs and dances for our benefit, and then we played our portable victrola for them while Jessica demonstrated dances of other islands. After the entertainment, the older people vanished silently into the night, but the children lingered. Then the pulenu’u unlocked the door of the large wardrobe, where he kept our gifts, and brought out the big tin of hard candies.

Placing it on a table, he drew up a chair, and as the children passed by in a single file, he carefully counted three pieces into each outstretched hand. This was a nightly ritual, and we decided that the candy, at that rate, would last quite a while.

On our last afternoon in Lauli’i all the village chiefs gathered once more in the guest fale and an ava ceremony was held. It was a bit unusual for a woman to be included in what is normally an all-male affair, but we were told that “a brave woman is the equal of a man” and Barbara, by sailing across the Pacific, evidently qualified.

The chiefs, clad only in lava-lavas (a kind of wrap-around skirt which reaches the ground) and garlands of green leaves, settled themselves around the room each in his preordained position, according to rank.

Ava, a slightly narcotic drink, is made from the fibrous roots of a local plant, which is mixed with water according to a very precise ritual. The resulting liquid is then passed to each in turn and drunk in accordance with a ceremonial formula. We had studied up on the ceremony in advance, had removed our watches and all jewelry as demanded by etiquette, and were very careful not to offend by stretching our legs out in front of us, or by standing up inside the house.

As guests of honor, we were served first, from the polished half-coconut shell. Each of us carefully spilled a few drops on the matting in front of us and uttered the proper incantation (Manuia—Good luck!) before draining the cup. We could only hope we had not disgraced ourselves or our country.

Back in Pago Pago we again took up our bustling activities. Thanks to our rented house we were able to spread out a bit and, while Barbara worked on her book, the boys and I set ourselves to painting and redecorating the cabins. The haul-out we had planned proved impossible, as we were too heavy for the cradle, but we got far enough out of the water to have a good look at the bottom and found it in pretty fair shape.

Since we had lingered so long, we were forced to shift our plans and skip British Samoa. More and more we were realizing that a trip such as ours must be a constant series of compromises. If we go to this place we must miss that one; if we stay longer here we must skimp our visit there. Weather conditions and the length of the seasons places limits on the amount of time we can spend in any one area, while hundreds of islands must be bypassed because one simply can’t go everywhere. Had we allowed ten years for the trip instead of four, it still wouldn’t have been enough but, even so, we were infinitely better off than those who travel by plane or cruise ship with only a day or two in each port and no way to meet people.

And so, knowing we would have no time at all in Fiji if we didn’t get going, we sailed from Pago Pago on October 9, bound for Suva.

Throughout our nine-day passage we all scanned the sea with more than usual attention, for a ship not much larger than the _Phoenix_ had disappeared mysteriously only a few days before and all shipping in the area had been alerted. _Joyita_, a charter boat operating out of Apia, had departed for the Tokelaus, less than 250 miles away, but had never arrived. The government boat from Pago Pago had joined with British ships and planes from Apia to comb the area, but without success.

We did not sight any wreckage of _Joyita_, but on the fifth day we came across what was, on the face of it, another mystery. Sighting the island of Niuafoo to the northwest, we decided to make a detour to investigate. This island is referred to in the Pilot Book as “Tin Can Island,” due to the local custom of floating mail out to passing ships in a watertight container. No one, however, attempted to float anything out to us and, even with the aid of binoculars, we could see no sign of any inhabitants save for a couple of horses up in the hills. Intrigued, we sailed all the way around the island, rather close in. On the northeast tip we saw a village with a number of houses still under construction, but no sign of a living soul. It was as if everyone had simply walked away a few minutes before.

This was indeed a weird situation and we speculated endlessly. Even if everyone had gone on an excursion into the interior for some reason, surely there would have been old people staying behind, there would have been dogs around—and pigs—and chickens. And, no matter where they were, the sight of our boat—an unusual visitor—should certainly bring out at least one curious inhabitant!

Puzzled, we sailed on. Not until we reached Suva did we learn that the entire population of Niuafoo, under the control of Queen Salote of the Tongas, had only recently been evacuated because of a volcanic eruption and the threat of further disturbances.

Eight days out we saw the loom of Wailangi Lala Island light and another of those incidents occurred which demonstrate how narrow is the borderline between success and disaster. Knowing it would be several hours before we came up on the light, I went below to rest, leaving what I thought were clear instructions with Mickey, on watch, that I was to be called _before_ we reached it, so that we could make a necessary change of course at the light. I slept fitfully and came up on deck without having been called—to see the light already abeam and the boat on a course that would very shortly have piled us on the rocks. I changed the course and asked Mickey why he hadn’t called me according to orders. His only reason was that he couldn’t remember what I had told him, and thus had done nothing!

It is necessary to navigate very carefully in the Koro Sea. All day we cruised among countless inviting-looking islands, wanting to stop, but required to push on to Suva, the official port of entry for the Fiji Islands. We knew that, on this trip at least, we would not have the time to backtrack, for the hurricane season was approaching and by the first of November, at the latest, we would have to be on our way south to New Zealand, out of the area of tropical storms.

That night, as we worked our way through a tricky series of lights at the western exit of the Koro Sea, I stayed on deck. I had no desire to push my luck and knew there would be plenty of time to catch up on lost sleep when we had dropped the hook in the harbor of Suva.

By afternoon on October 18 we were rounding Viti Levu with a good breeze and at 1600 we dropped anchor off the Royal Suva Yacht Club. A very nice birthday present for the Skipper!

As usual, the first hour or two was hectic. The port doctor cleared us without difficulty, but the customs official sealed not only our guns and liquor, but a case of root beer as well. (Beer, he insisted, is beer!) The immigration officer was a bit bothered by the presence of three Japanese tourists without visas, although I explained that I had checked in advance and been assured that no visas would be necessary for a short visit of a yacht to a crown colony. At last he solved the dilemma by deciding officially to ignore their presence so long as they did nothing to call attention to themselves. In other words, so long as there was no trouble they had the freedom of the port.

After we had been cleared there came, as usual, the press, followed by the Commodore of the Royal Suva Yacht Club, who presented the family with honorary membership cards. When we introduced Nick, Mickey, and Moto, emphasizing that they, too, were yachtsmen, there was an awkward pause.

“Er—well—yes!” I almost expected him to add, “Raw_ther_!” Instead, he drew me aside as soon as convenient and confided that the club was forced to adopt a “Whites Only” policy—because of the Indians, you know—and although he, personally, had nothing against the Japanese—and he was sure that most of the others would feel the same—well, there it was, you know, and all that.

As a family, we discussed the situation long and seriously and decided, at last, that we could do more good by accepting the proffered membership than by huffily refusing. As Jessica expressed it, “We’ll make friends and sow destruction!” This we tried to do, taking every opportunity of bringing our companions into the conversation: “They’ll be the first Japanese yachtsmen ever to have sailed around the world” and “Those chaps of ours are pretty good small-boat sailors. They made a fine record in the All-Japan Intercollegiates—they sail Class boats much like those you have here,” etc., etc. When we admired the clubhouse, we expressed regrets that _all_ of us couldn’t see what a fine place they had and described how wonderfully we had been treated by yacht clubs in Japan. “Wonderful what a common interest in sports can do to bridge international barriers, isn’t it?”

Our campaign didn’t seem to have much effect at first, but after a few days we noticed that those who came aboard made a special effort to be cordial to the Japanese, albeit somewhat ponderously.

We did not change the policies of the Royal Suva Yacht Club; Nick, Mickey, and Moto never saw the inside of the clubhouse, and yet we felt we had gained something when one of the senior members remarked, in tones of obvious astonishment: “Those lads of yours are fine chaps—very intelligent!” And he added thoughtfully, “It is rather a pity they can’t go into the clubhouse—walk around a bit, what? Some of the trophies make a good show—and then, there are the photographs.... Yes, it is a pity.”

We could not hope, during our brief visit, to sort out the rights and wrongs of the complex issues here, but we found the racial tension in Suva a disquieting contrast to that other crossroads of the Pacific: Honolulu. Jessica, for instance, found that although a Girl Scout may be “a sister to every other Girl Scout,” in Fiji her sisterhood does not cross color lines. There are Fijian Guides, Indian Guides, and European Guides—and never the troops shall meet, not even for an occasional jamboree.

Barbara and Jessica, however, visited them all and were warmly received. The Fijian Guides, wearing costumes of beautifully designed tapa, put on a program of native dances and entertained the visiting Scout from America with lemon tea (made by boiling lemon leaves in a tin can “billy”). They even invited her into a native bure, the Fijian name for the shaggy grass huts that are as completely closed and airtight as the Samoan fale is open. But this was about all the Fijian life they saw. True, the city of Suva itself is colorful, with its tall and picturesque Fijian policemen, hair trained to a bushy headdress, wearing red and white sulus with scalloped hems; its tiny, fine-featured Indian women in gauzy saris, with jeweled pins in their nostrils; its blatant Chinese shops; its bustling open-air market, like something out of the _Arabian Nights_; its colorful flower vendors. These sights are all worth seeing and remembering.

But over it all hangs a sense of tension. There are sharp contrasts in Suva between the principal ethnic groups: the dominant British, the cheerful Melanesians, the quiescent Chinese, and the restive Indians. The last-named are rapidly increasing their economic and political influence in the islands, and there is clearly a conflict brewing. There is no contact between Fijian and Indian, nor between these groups and the British. The British in turn have a patronizing affection for the Fijians, but a dislike and distrust of the Indians, which is reciprocated. The Chinese sit in the background and make money.

When we left Fiji we felt we knew even less of the people here than we had in other Pacific islands, and we regretted it.

7 DOWN UNDER:
NEW ZEALAND AND AUSTRALIA

“Ah-h-h, yes-s-s!...”

On the trip from Suva to Auckland, New Zealand, we had a marine hitchhiker along, a lanky, cheerful Australian, Bill Sherwood. Bill was on his way home to take part in the World Championship 18-footer races and, as we all liked him at once, he had little difficulty in persuading us to give him a lift for the first 1,100 miles.

The first few days were quiet. Once we had cleared the several islands of the Fiji group, south of Viti Levu, the course presented no particular navigational hazards and we settled quickly into our sea routines. With an extra man, I evolved a new system of watches to give everyone, including the cook, a bit of change and occasional relief. We continued our schedule of two-hours-on-eight-off, but each day one of the men was relieved from tiller duty and put himself at the cook’s disposal for such chores as peeling vegetables, washing the rice, or washing up the pots and pans. Mickey wasn’t too happy about this, evidently considering galley duty as beneath the dignity of a Japanese gentleman, but since the Skipper took his own turn whenever it came around, there was little Mickey could do but conform.

The missing ship _Joyita_ was still on our minds and, in the early-morning darkness of the seventh day we had an encounter that gave me some moments of uneasiness. A ship passed us fairly close to port, only her riding lights showing. Changing course, she pulled ahead and stopped as we sailed by. I recalled that other boats besides _Joyita_ had disappeared without a trace in this region and the thought of pirates flashed across my mind. As we approached, I began signaling with the flashlight: “Yacht _Phoenix_. American Yacht _Phoenix_. We are okay! We are okay!”

I sent this several times, but there was no response of any kind from the silent ship ahead. After we had passed, the vessel got underway again and moved on out of sight.

We were working our way south now, out of the area of steady trades and into the horse latitudes. Gradually the wind dropped and at last for several days we were becalmed outright or made bare steerageway in very light airs.

Far from being bored, we found these quiet and indolent days full of interest. We lolled on deck, read aloud, fished (without success), shot at cans for target practice, and slept. A great deal of time was spent just staring at the gently heaving sea.

In some strange fashion, a sea that is utterly calm seems to me more alive than a sea in a gale. An angry sea is a mechanical monster, all sound, power, and threat of immediate destruction. But a calm sea, its surface breathing slowly and gently like a sleeping giant, seems animate and, in spite of its seeming gentleness, somehow more menacing.

At various levels below the surface we could see hundreds of life forms: jellyfish of many shapes and colors and innumerable other floating shapes ranging from tiny, confetti-like blobs to fairly large and elaborate, flower-shaped creatures. We caught a man-of-war, floating on the surface of the water like a child’s plastic bath toy, and Jessica, who spent hours hanging over the gunwales, discovered a school of half a dozen little banded fish, about eight inches long, who were escorting us faithfully, in the shadow of the hull.

Our most memorable day at sea was the one we christened the Day of the Albatrosses. In the glassy calm these birds, who had been following us for hundreds of miles, one by one left the air and skidded in for a landing on the quiet sea, braking with feet flat ahead as they hit the water. We threw out bits of pilot cracker and soon they had been lured up to the boat where they squabbled noisily over the scraps.

Our next move was obvious! Rigging a loop on the end of a bamboo pole, we began to try our hand at lassoing them. To my amazement, when I finally succeeded in dropping a noose over the head of my chosen victim, he struggled hardly at all—nor did his neighbors show the least alarm at his predicament. I pulled the ungainly creature alongside, Nick and I lifted him by his outspread wings and held him while Barbara got a picture, and then we released him. He withdrew only a few feet, grumbled a bit, and smoothed his ruffled feathers. In no time at all, he had forgotten the indignity and rejoined his fellows to battle under the stern sprit—and another threatening noose—for the delectable bits of sea biscuit.

During the next couple of hours each member of the family had a try and all of us, including Bill Sherwood, earned our membership in P.A.L.S.—the _Phoenix_ Albatross Lassoing Society. Since there weren’t enough birds to go around, it is obvious that some of them must have been captured more than once! (Sidelight on the mysterious East: Nick, who was mildly interested in our capture of the first albatross, soon went below without attempting to try his luck: Mickey, reading in his bunk, never did appear throughout the excitement; neither of the two bothered to wake Moto, who was taking a nap.)

At last a light breeze, out of the northeast, rippled the surface of the sea in a tentative manner. After a few false starts, it settled down, and we were again on our way. With the breeze came a large school of porpoises and a solitary whale, who surfaced nearby as if to round out the entertainment.

On the sixteenth day Ted calculated that we should be able to see the lights of the north end of New Zealand soon after dark. At this information Bill, suddenly infected with land fever, glued himself to the upper shrouds and began to strain his eyes to the south. Every half hour or so he descended, wondered volubly where the light could be, and climbed to the crow’s nest again. Watching his antics, we realized how really seasoned we had become. Naturally we would be glad to make our landfall, but none of us was impatient. We knew we’d see the light sooner or later. Poor Bill, however, was in a fever of eagerness and doubt. Not until 2200 did a loud and happy shout come from aloft and Bill climbed stiffly down to announce triumphantly that he had found the lights, right where Ted had said they ought to be. Shortly afterward we were able to see them from deck level.

By morning we could catch glimpses of land through the haze and set our course for the entrance to the Bay of Islands. Once we were in the straits, the wind came up strongly and sent us bowling in so that, by midafternoon, we were riding to anchor off the little port of Russell and ready to be granted pratique.

Russell, New Zealand, is a charming village of some two thousand souls, a world-renowned center for big-game fishing. The clustered red roofs and the green hills beyond were very inviting and we all looked forward to our traditional celebration dinner ashore—and the nice, cold drinks that would precede and accompany it. But now we were to have our first taste of New Zealand casualness. We met with no difficulty in clearing customs and immigration, the officials seeming far more interested in the details of our passage than in trotting out regulations. But quarantine? “Ah-h-h, yes-s-s ...” in a delightful New Zealand drawl. That was a bit of a problem, that! The only doctor, you see, was out fishing and there was no telling where he was or when he might be expected back. It was a pity he had chosen this day to go fishing, but there it was. We would just have to wait.

When we asked about the prospects of getting dinner ashore, we were assured there would be no trouble, no trouble whatsoever. The Duke of Marlborough could serve any number and no advance notice need be given. The only thing, of course, was that we must get there before seven o’clock, when the dining room closed.

Rather enchanted than otherwise with this evidence of the small-townishness of Russell, we settled down to wait for the doctor’s return. In the meantime we tuned in the news and learned that _Joyita_ had been found at last, a battered and empty hulk, drifting among the islands of the Fiji group. Passengers and crew were missing and there was no clue to their fate. No one of us said anything, but I was sure that in all our minds was the knowledge that it could have been us.

The afternoon passed and the shadows lengthened. Finally the sun set and Bill, who had been regaling us with descriptions of the huge steak he intended to order, with two—no, three!—fried eggs sitting on top, began to consult his watch more and more frequently. Every time a fishing boat came in he dashed hopefully on deck, only to rejoin us below with obviously sagging spirits. At last, and with only a few minutes to spare, the doctor arrived—apologizing charmingly for the inconvenience. He glanced around, gave us a clean bill of health, signed the guest book with a flourish, and then took us ashore in his own boat and rushed us to the hotel, where the entire gang was treated to a seven-course dinner as guests of the management!

We spent a week in Russell and then, eager to reach Auckland, where mail had been piling up (we hoped) for several months, we started cruising down the coast. This was a type of sailing we’d had little experience with. We found it fascinating to be always within sight of land, sailing by visible landmarks rather than by celestial navigation. The countryside was fertile and lovely, with brilliant green uplands dotted with the woolly blobs of grazing sheep, while along the shore stretches of sandy beach piled into yellow dunes or reared up in sheer sandstone bluffs.

We made only one stopover, at Kawau Island, where we spent a most enjoyable weekend tied up to the private dock of Roy and Irene Lidgard, New Zealand’s number one entry in the Be Kind to Visiting Yachtsmen sweepstakes. There we fished, went crabbing, helped crew the small-boat races at the Kawau Yacht Club, and took long walks into the hills hunting for elusive wallabies. The climax was a spontaneous potluck picnic that eddied back and forth between the _Phoenix_, Jim Lawler’s _Ngaroma_ out of Auckland, and the Lidgards’ front lawn.

Auckland, when we finally arrived, proved equal to its reputation as one of the most yacht-conscious cities in the world. It supports more than three dozen yacht clubs and its beautiful and extensive bay provides opportunity for every type of yachting activity. Certainly the welcome extended to overseas yachtsmen would be hard to beat and, for those who are interested in racing events, the Annual One-Day Regatta, with its hundreds of entries, is undoubtedly the largest and most varied of its kind.

Our concern about our Japanese companions was quickly dispelled, for although we did hear one or two uncomplimentary asides, most of our visitors were happy to accept us all as yachtsmen rather than racial types. In addition, a number of “Kiwis” who had spent some time in Japan under the occupation came down to show the boys around as a gesture of appreciation for courtesies shown them in Japan.

During our three months in Auckland we learned much about the strange mixture that is New Zealand—a country where personal relationships are warm and hospitable, but where business contacts can be irritating in the extreme. The casual absence of the doctor on the day we arrived turned out to be quite typical of the “couldn’t care less” attitude of the average New Zealander. The socialized state provides free medical care, free dental care, old-age pensions, mothers’ pensions (with bonuses to Maori mothers for increased production!), and many other benefits so that worry scarcely enters the consciousness of most individuals. No one works any more than he can help and business and industry have to beg for laborers and make all sorts of concessions to keep them happy. We had hardly settled down after arrival when I overheard the following conversation on the dock:

“How would you blokes like a job while you’re here? We’d pay you right!”

“But we have only tourist visa. Cannot work.” This from Nick, who had been strongly warned against trying to earn any money while staying in Hawaii.

“Oh, you can work here right enough! Anybody can. When will you start?”

“I don’t think ...” Nick was obviously bewildered, afraid of getting into trouble, not sure he had understood correctly, or perhaps reluctant to desert the boat. I knew how low all the boys were in personal funds and hurried up to reassure him that they were quite free to take any job they might wish. Before I could get there, however, the would-be employer had pressed ahead so eagerly to close the deal that he had twice raised the going rate—although even the base pay was far more than any of the men had ever received in Japan—and had even agreed, without being asked, to have a taxi call for and deliver them every day.

And, as Moto said in bewilderment after the visitor had extracted their willing promises and gone, “We don’t even know what kind work! Maybe we cannot do!”

Actually, the job turned out to be the breaking up old American planes for scrap metal, a task that all three could do very well and took a particular delight in getting paid for.

Christmas in Auckland, 8,000 miles from home, found us locked up behind the high board fence of a deserted shipyard. December being midsummer in New Zealand and the height of the yachting season, we had found only one shipyard that could accommodate us for the bottom job we had promised the _Phoenix_—and that only if we would do our own work over the holidays. On the morning of Friday the 23rd the workmen had made a feeble gesture of assisting us to haul out—then silently stole away to start their vacations. Before we knew it, the last of them had gone, locking the gate behind him, and there we were—trapped.

Of course, we could always rescue ourselves by rowing the dinghy along the shore until we found an escape hatch, but we wanted easier access to our ship. Moreover, we were smarting with the indignity of it. How _dare_ they just walk off and lock us in? (We had yet to learn that the New Zealand workman will dare anything.)

The family and I explored the yard, whose fences extended down to the waterfront on either side, in a vain search for a man-sized mousehole. Nick, Mickey, and Moto stayed on board and settled themselves for a philosophical nap. Situations like this, they seemed to feel, were pre-eminently the problem of the Skipper.

Dusk was falling as we climbed onto a pile of lumber near the main gate and peered over into the silent, empty streets.

Suddenly Jessica shouted, “Man ho!”

Sure enough, far down the street a speck resolved itself into a pedestrian. We waited until he came abeam.

“Hey!” I hailed him.

He looked up. “My word,” he observed genially, “Americans!”

“Too right!” I responded in flawless New Zealandese. “Can you tell us how to get out of here?”

“I’m frightfully afraid I can’t,” he admitted. “I should think everyone’s gone home by now. The holidays, you know.”

He started on, but then he had a thought. “By the way,” he added, coming back and speaking directly to Jessica, “if you should want a Christmas tree, you’ll find bags of them at my stand just down the road. No one seems to be buying this year, I’ll take a frightful loss. Just trot on down and help yourself!”

“But there’s still time. You’ll sell lots tomorrow,” Jessica pointed out.

The man sounded positively shocked. “On _Saturday_! Now, what would the wife and kiddies say if I was to tell them I was going back to the stand on a Saturday just to sell a few more trees? No, I stayed a good half hour over as it is and now I’m for me holiday! And a happy Christmas to you!”

He disappeared around the next corner, but we were not alone for long. A car drew up to the curb and four very large bobbies stepped out. They deployed in approved Scotland Yard fashion, one remaining near the car and two covering the fence, while the fourth strode toward us purposefully. His face was officially stern. He opened his mouth—but not fast enough, for Barbara, always the strategist, spoke first.

“Can you tell us how to get out of here?”

The policeman seemed taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

“Out!” I pressed our advantage. “We want to get out!”

“We were informed,” he told me reproachfully, “that some person or persons were attempting to break into this yard.”

“Quite the contrary!” We explained the circumstances and suggested that they summon the manager.

“The manager? Of the shipyard? Impossible. It’s the holidays, you know.”

I explained, as gently as my nature permitted, that we well knew it was “the holidays.” In fact, that even increased our desire to be free to come and go. We, too, would like to celebrate Christmas. So would he please get the manager? Or could he get a key to the gate? Or perhaps it would be simpler if I just broke the lock?

That did it. My last suggestion was vetoed in horrified tones, we were told to wait, and sometime later a defensively apologetic manager came down and unlocked the gate. He permitted us to put our own combination padlock on it for the duration, and even gave us the key to the W.C. and shower for which we had quite forgotten to make arrangements.

Our original plan, to sail on down to the South Island after the first of the year, was rudely changed in the course of this overhaul, for a routine inspection revealed the presence in the head of our mainmast of a nasty variety of boring insect, the first of which we had discovered in the course of our trip to Tahiti. After digging into the mast and finding that it had been badly infested, I decided that, like a bad tooth, the whole thing would have to go. The situation was discouraging, however, for—unlike an infected molar—it would have to be replaced immediately.

There was no doubt what wood we wanted for the new mast—kauri pine, historically famous for its use as spars on sailing ships. However, there is a modern-day hitch in that kauri has become so scarce that it is now protected by law.

Where there’s a law there’s a loophole, however, and it was the helpful manager of the shipyard who helped us find a way. Suppose someone wished to build a new house—or construct a road—and a kauri “ricker” just happened to be growing in the way? In such a case, permission might be obtained to cut the tree and no questions would be asked as to its subsequent disposition.

After scouting around for days we were finally directed to the right combination of tree and circumstance. Permission was granted, the tree was cut, and the trunk, bark and all, was hauled to the shipyard and dumped. I had announced that our own gang would do all the work, but when we looked the log over it seemed a truly formidable undertaking. I could feel my feet getting cold.

“Are you quite certain you know how to go about making the mast?” the yard foreman asked.

“Quite certain,” I said firmly.

“Is there anything you need?”

“Nothing but adzes, axes, spokeshaves, planes, sandpaper—and a few weeks.”

He lent us the tools and told us to take as long as we needed. The boys looked at me.

“What do we do first?” asked Ted.

“First,” I said, “we take off the bark.”

About a month later we had our mast, gleaming smoothly in the summer sun. Frankly, I was proud of our job. Kauri is beautiful wood, both to look at and to work, and it has the added advantage of needing no seasoning period. With the help of the workers at the boatyard, we rolled the mast into the water, borrowed a motorboat, and towed it across the harbor to where the Auckland Harbor bridge was under construction.

I approached the operator of an enormous steam crane.

“I have a boat,” I explained, “and that mast over there. I’m trying to figure out how to get them together. Any ideas?”

He grinned. “Bring them on over.”

We did so, the crane lifted our new mast like a twig, poised it dramatically for a moment over the gaping hole amidships, and then lowered away. By nightfall we had our “homemade” mast completely wedged and shrouded, with a bright “thruppenny” bit—a gift from Jessica, which we were assured would bring luck—nestled beneath the base.

It was time to move on and I began to inquire about the possibility of sailing down the east coast as far as Wellington, through Cook Strait, and thus across the Tasman to Sydney.

“Wellington?” everyone demanded scornfully. “Why do you want to go to Wellington? There’s nothing there, really. And as for the trip down the coast—you’re likely to have very bad weather, you know—shocking! Wellington harbor’s not too good, either—exposed and windy. My word! Terrible! As for Cook Strait—worst stretch of water in the world—absolutely notorious. No yachts go that way to Sydney. You must go north first, then west and around the cape. It’s the only way.”

Still I hesitated. We’d come from Russell and it seemed a shame to go up that way again when there was so much farther south that we hadn’t seen. Surely there must be another side to the story.

At last I found it. One day I met a charming chap on the dock. He had just come in from his mooring. In the course of our chat I mentioned the possibility of our sailing to Wellington. He was delighted.

“Ah-h-h, yes-s-s! Wellington! Splendid place. You’ll like it. Very active yacht clubs there—real sailors, you know—nothing they won’t do for you. The trip down the coast? First-rate fun—easy course. Fine sailing. Wellington harbor? Couldn’t be better. Bit of a wind there, true—but it’s well protected. Wellington to Sydney? Through Cook Strait? Well, why not—why not? I remember distinctly another yacht made it that way—no trouble at all. Back in the thirties, I think it was. Not as sturdy a craft as yours, either.”

Here was the optimistic note I’d been seeking. I turned away, encouraged, but had a sudden thought. “By the way, where are you from?”

He smiled cheerfully. “Ah—Wellington, actually!”

At any rate, on February 6 we sailed south, en route to Wellington. We left Auckland with a bit of a flourish, in a force 6 southwesterly, amid showers. For two days we bowled along, covering a record 280 miles in 48 hours, but then the winds fell off. In the next few days we experienced the wide variety of weather that can be expected in these latitudes, with winds ranging from calms to gales in rapid succession, and neglecting no point of the compass. First-rate fun, indeed!

Early on the morning of the eighth day we rounded the last headland and tackled notorious Cook Strait. It did not disappoint us—although we were more than willing to be disappointed. A northerly gale funneled down on us and after a few rough and profitless hours of beating through high seas we eased off and continued on across the southern approaches to the strait and ran for the lee of South Island. The _Phoenix_, which takes a bit of a breeze to get underway, was making an easy seven knots under storm jib and reefed mizzen alone and her motion evoked unwelcome memories of our North Pacific crossing.