Chapter VIII: Part 8

Actually our passage out through Lombok Strait was gratifyingly easy and, once in the Java Sea, we had fine sailing. Jessica, contentedly convalescent, was busy getting caught up in her Journal or sunning in the cockpit while Ted reeled off fabulous stories on his watch. I, tired for the moment of serious reading, turned to a tale of high adventure at sea. So overloaded was it with drama that I fell to considering the whole difficult problem of trying to communicate a very meaningful experience. How, for instance, could I convey to a reader the wonderful adventure of just _being_ at sea; the thrill I sometimes felt, lying in my bunk and listening to the whisper of water flowing past, in thinking, I’m _doing_ it! I’m actually sailing around the world, just as I planned and dreamed! This is my ship, my life, my adventure, and nobody can take it away from me! Perhaps it is necessary to “juice up” a story, or nobody would ever read it, but although I felt sorry for the hero on the night he _crashed_ into a reef—my _own_ memory of a similar mishap was that it is more like a sickening crunch. And yet, _crash_ or _crunch_, how is it possible to get across a _feeling_ to one who has never been there? More and more I was grateful to Barbara because she had known instinctively that this experience was one that we had to share, since no words of mine could ever have made this vital part of my life real or meaningful to her if she had stayed behind.

That night on watch, still struggling with the problem that confronts any writer, of trying to capture and share an experience through words, I was led to speculate on the subject of sounds at sea. Some are ominous, such as the snap of a jerking anchor chain at an uneasy anchorage or the wind rising and beginning to whistle high in the rigging; others are merely annoying, like the slapping of halyards or the banging of a block on a quiet night, if one is restless. While musing over sounds, it occurred to me that by now I had classified every sound my boat made (I had spent hours tracking down each one in the first months when every noise was a possible harbinger of trouble). At that precise instant, from the darkness of the cabin below, I heard what can only be described as _thump_—pause—_plump_—pause—_plop_—pause—_thud!_ That was a new one! I shone a light below. Nothing. Now I did have something to occupy my mind throughout the rest of my watch.

The next day, during lunch, there was a lull in the conversation. Suddenly Manuia appeared at the porthole. She leaped lightly down to Jessica’s desk—_thump_—then across to the table—_plump_—then down to the plastic-covered couch cushion—_plop_—and finally to the floor—_thud_.

At least one mystery of the sea had been solved!

All along the coast we passed numerous praus. I was always conscious of the possibility of being hijacked by pirates, and whenever one changed course and came over to take a look at us, we mustered all hands—and a couple of rifles—and waved heartily. Invariably, they waved back and shouted cheery greetings and we each went on our way.

A more real danger turned out to be that of running down, at night, an unlighted prau at anchor. On the night of the 29th we had two narrow escapes from such a collision, the second one literally by inches. This shook us quite a bit and I debated following the local example and simply stopping for the night to anchor in the shallow water along the coast. Finally I decided to carry on, stationing a man forward with a searchlight in addition to the man at the helm. Naturally, having made the decision, I began to question my own judgment, with the result that there was still another man on duty for the rest of the night—me!

The next day we were far enough along the coast to hope to reach Jakarta before dark, but the day was misty and, although we were close to shore, it was difficult to tell where the water met the land. We could find nothing that looked like a harbor of the size we knew must be at Jakarta.

At last we spotted a channel through which small-boat traffic was moving toward shore and we worked our way in, sounding as we went. At four fathoms, while still fairly well out, I gave orders to drop the anchor.

“Why we don’t go in until eight feet?” asked one of the crew with sweet reasonableness. “Then anchor?”

Since we draw almost eight feet, that would hardly have left enough margin for error, tide, or rapidly shelving bottom.

“We’ll anchor _here_!” I repeated firmly.

There was such obvious dissatisfaction with my decision and so many allusions to “toi”—with the emphasis meaning _very_, _very_ far, that I picked Ted alone to accompany me in to the shore. We started up the channel, but were quickly hailed by a soldier at a guard station. He spoke no English, but had an efficient-looking gun which spoke an easily understandable language. We rowed over and struggled with a Malay dictionary but were unable to communicate. Finally, soldier-plus-gun piled into the dinghy with us and waved us on up the channel. We started rowing again.

On the way we passed several hundred seagoing praus, brilliantly painted, all very real and all very much lived on. In this corner of the world, at least, the age of sail is far from over. As we toiled up the narrow canal, several of these ships passed us on their way in. It was truly thrilling to see them drive boldly for the entrance, fly up the channel, shedding canvas as they came, to reach their berths with sails neatly stowed and just enough way on to come snugly up to their dock. Such skill, however, doesn’t come from sailing even ten times around the world, but from generations of experience in a vessel which is not just an avocation but one’s whole life.

In the course of an hourlong trip we passed several check points before we reached the inner sanctum and were taken in hand by an English-speaking official. We explained the situation, showed our credentials, and blessed the lucky day that had given us the director of the Ford Foundation in Indonesia as a character reference. We were given permission to telephone Mike, who further cleared up the difficulties and gave us an explanation of what we had done.

We were, it seems, in Jakarta, all right—but in _old_ Jakarta, formerly known as Batavia. Only sailing ships were permitted in here, many of whose crews were not entirely sympathetic to the existing government. During their stay in port all these ships were made to observe a rigid curfew and were kept under close observation. It seemed that _our_ proper port was Tanjung Priok, the large new harbor for overseas vessels, five miles along the coast. Now we could understand the reason for the suspicious treatment, the guards, the frequent check points, and the barbed-wire fences. For all they knew, we were the vanguards of a revolutionary force, come to overthrow the regime.

By the time we got back to the _Phoenix_ it was well after dark and Barbara was frantic with anxiety. Jessica was already asleep and Nick, Mickey, and Moto, quite unconcerned over our prolonged absence, also had retired. Had we been set upon and carved up by pirates? Were we languishing in some moldy Malay jail? Or were we having dinner with President Sukarno, as honored guests of the government? Any of these might have explained the delay, and I’m not sure which possibility caused her more anguish.

Actually, the only danger we ran was on the return trip when, with no flashlight, we were in constant danger of being run down by belated praus charging past in the dark to reach the channel before curfew.

The next morning, under power, we moved to Tanjung Priok in a foggy calm, groped for the entrance, and were met and escorted to a dock within easy rowing distance of the Tanjung Priok “Jachtclub,” one of the few holdovers from the colonial Dutch regime. There the Harrises, Minnetta, and cold drinks were waiting to welcome us, and we were made to understand that all the facilities of the club, including _free_ use of restaurant and bar, were at our disposal!

The location at Tanjung Priok had little beside the hospitality of the yacht club to recommend it. It was steamingly hot, noisy, and odorous. The nights were made miserable by mosquitoes and by the hourly clangor of the night watchman, who punched his time clock every hour by beating a length of pipe upon a metal ring.

Thanks to the Harrises, some of us were spared this discomfort for all or a part of our three weeks’ stay, for they whisked Barbara and Jessica off to Jakarta. Barbara shared the guest room with her mother and Jessica moved in with Susan and began to gain back a bit of the weight and color she had lost during her illness.

I did not feel the same compulsion the girls apparently felt, to desert ship at every opportunity; in fact, I always felt uneasy when I did not sleep aboard. Yet in Java I, too, took a holiday from the sea by accepting the Harrises’ offer of their mountain retreat as a place to do some very necessary writing. (Unless Barbara and I mailed off a couple of salable articles before we left Java, there would be no checks awaiting us in Durban—and no Christmas for the _Phoenix_.)

Our trip into the pundjak, the pass through the mountains of Central Java, was an invigorating change from the fetid city. Each morning we awoke in the crisp, cool air of the hills and were greeted by a magnificent vista of twin mountain peaks thrusting against the sky.

As Barbara expressed it: “Imagine! A view like that just by opening your eyes! What luxury! No getting dressed, no going up on deck—and not a speck of water in the foreground to muck it all up!”

There are times when I suspect that Barbara is just a landlubber at heart.

In these surroundings our writing flourished and almost before we knew it the Harrises’ car had arrived to take us back to the city with our completed manuscripts. Here we rejoined Ted and Minnetta, who had also managed to squeeze in an overland trip, to Jogjakarta, seat of Javanese culture. There Ted, exploring the vast archaeological ruins in the vicinity, had the experience of being accompanied by an armed bodyguard. Being an American, he was obviously a millionaire and a rich prize for kidnapers! (Little did they know!) At night, through the solicitude of his hosts, the bodyguard had slept across the threshold of Ted’s room, but whether such protection is conducive to better slumber Ted didn’t reveal.

Our last few days were divided between laying in last-minute supplies for our crossing of the Indian Ocean and accumulating memories of a diffuse and very confusing place. Jakarta is vast, sprawling, and amorphous. It is a city of beautiful residential areas with red-tiled houses set well back from shaded streets—and of squalid kompiangs where hundreds of families are herded together without sanitation, light, or even air. For these crowded thousands, the canals that traverse the city are laundry, swimming pool, public bath, social center—and privy.

From the deck of the _Phoenix_ we could see, in one direction, the beautifully appointed yacht club where a constant procession of limousines drew up to discharge members and their friends who came to swim, sail, or water-ski, or just to relax with a drink on the shaded veranda. In the other direction, just across the road, a procession of another sort moved slowly from dawn to dark—a long line of tired, ragged women, each waiting with a pail or a battered old kerosene tin to get water at the single faucet which served as the sole drinking and bathing supply for hundreds of people in the dock compound. It was a desperate imbalance, which obviously could not endure for long.

Generally speaking, the officials in Indonesia were very helpful and pleasant. One of them, Commander of the Navy, Jakarta, presented each of us with an imposing document which called upon “Whom It May Concern” to give us all possible aid and assistance. I flashed mine several times in the course of my shopping expeditions, until an old-timer pointed out that, in the present state of the government, there were almost as many to whom a letter from Major Lie would be an invitation to shoot me as there were those to honor it!

A Voyage around the World—October 4, 1954–July 30, 1960
]

_Werner Stoy_

Yacht _Phoenix_ in full sail off Hawaii, after maiden voyage from
Japan
]

Drying Sails—Wellington, New Zealand
]

The Reynolds Family
Ted, Jessica, Barbara, and Earle
]

Buying scrap iron in Japan to use as inside ballast
]

Shaping up the hull by eye and by hand
]

A solemn little man, armed with an enormous saw....
]

Full-size patterns for the ribs
]

The skipper and his ship—even the ladder is curved
]

Launching the _Phoenix_
The skipper, as new as his ship, makes a speech
]

Bora Bora, French Oceania. Earle Reynolds with Schoolmaster Sanford;
in front of schoolhouse
]

The skipper and Mi-ke
]

Sextant shot on a quiet day
]

A seasick sailor Mickey wishing he weren’t there
]

Galley scene, April, 1955
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Jessica and her Journal
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The sea at her best
Lassoing albatross on a calm day
]

The sea at her worst
A stormy day on the Tasman Sea
]

Repairing sails, L. to R.: Moto, Mickey, and Nick in Sydney harbor
]

_UPI_

Staten Island Marina. Ted lost no time heading for the joys of New
York
]

_Judith Belisle_

Ted painting the figurehead, Rowayton, Conn.
]

Jessica sewing on Girl Scout badges
]

Safe in port
Captain Reynolds, Jessica, and Mrs. Reynolds
]

The highlight of our stay in Indonesia, and one for which we laid over a few extra days, was the eleventh anniversary of the founding of the republic, on August 17. The entire city was decorated for the occasion with archways of greenery across the streets and parades and festivities in every district. We had received invitations from President Sukarno himself, beautifully embossed with the Indonesian emblem in gold, to attend a program of dances at the palace that evening. It was a splendid affair, staged on the floodlit grounds, beneath the high branches of enormous trees. The variety and fascination of the dances, representing many of the islands of the spread-out archipelago, kept us enthralled until well after midnight.

On August 20 we set out once more, bound for the Keeling Cocos Islands, 740 miles out in the Indian Ocean. It was not by chance that we were crossing this ocean in August and September, but because, as I always tried to do, we had chosen the season when, according to the pilot books, cyclones are “unknown.” As far as we were concerned, they could remain that way. We had had our bellyful of typhoons in Japan and we knew that by any other name—whether cyclones in the Indian, hurricanes in the Atlantic, or typhoons in the Pacific—these tropical revolving storms are nasty customers and nothing to fool around with.

Our first two or three days out of Jakarta were quiet, with little wind and frequent rains. The second evening, after passing through the Sunda Strait between Java and Sumatra, we could see the volcanic cone of Krakatoa with a trailing cloud, like a plume of smoke, rising from its tip. As we ate our supper on deck, Ted read aloud the encyclopedia account of that tremendous eruption, source of such widespread devastation, and Jessica eyed the now somnolent peak uneasily.

“Shouldn’t we turn on the engine and go a little faster till we get past?” she suggested, in a whisper.

“Better not,” Ted whispered back. “The engine might wake it up!”

Jessica, who showed a regrettable tendency to “put down roots” whenever she had been given shore leave, was finding it particularly hard to leave the land—and Susan Harris—behind, but she was not the only one who felt a continuing malaise.

From Barbara’s diary on the third day:

Everyone feels unaccountably under the weather. No active seasickness,
but depressed and broody. Hard to carry out resolutions for making
good use of my time at sea when each trip seems to involve this period
of adjustment after life ashore. By the time the incipient mal de mer
and the regrets of leave-taking have subsided, the pattern of lazy,
do-nothing days has already taken hold.

Part of the mood was caused, I am sure, because the expected trades never settled down, the seas remained high, and the weather was vaguely threatening. There was a sense of uneasy anticipation which could not be pinned down by any instrument. This is not aftersight, as I noted in my log that on the fourth night I felt so strangely ill at ease that I was awake most of the night and during my early-morning watch Barbara, who also was wakeful, came up to keep me company as she frequently did at sea.

Barbara’s own diary continues to reflect the unusual atmosphere:

A miserable, rolling, wallowing night with alternate rains and high
seas, followed by dropping winds. Rolled violently in my bunk from
side to side and dozed fitfully. The swift dropping sensation as the
boat rolls down, down, goes against one’s most basic instinct, the
fear of falling. A queer shuddering seems to have entered the picture,
giving rise to night fancies involving a loosened rudder or working
keel bolts! What terrors can suggest themselves and become rapidly
convincing in the dark!

The day before we were due to sight the islands, Ted and I spent a number of hours checking the charts and making our plans. The Cocos are low islands, with an altitude of only 10 feet plus the height of the palm trees. If the day continued overcast so that we could not get a good position, we might have quite a job finding them. If the weather was bad, we would have to decide whether to attempt an entrance, to lay off until the weather improved, or give the islands a miss altogether, which would mean continuing on to Rodrigues, 2,000 miles to the west.

That night the barometer began a slow, ominous fall. The next morning the seas were high and the wind at gale force. It was time to heave to. With the wind out of the southeast, we lay under mizzen alone, facing south, with a westerly drift of about two knots. The barometer was by now at about 1000. We were riding well, and I hoped that the worst would soon be over and we could continue on our way to the shelter of the lagoon at Keeling-Cocos.

But the worst had just begun. By the afternoon, the barometer fell sharply to 991, and for the first time in our trip we were in conditions that I could honestly call “storm.” The peak hit at 1400 with solid rain, blown horizontal by the wind. I couldn’t see the mainmast from the cockpit and the seas were enormous. The wind, especially at the height of the gusts, had a strength and fury I had never known before, on land or sea.

Faced with this, we at once changed our strategy. The last thing we now wanted was to be anywhere near the reefs of Cocos, especially with night coming on. What we needed was plenty of sea room. The wind by now was out of the northeast and shifting to north. The current in this area, according to the charts, was about 18 miles a day, generally northwest, but there was no telling what the storm had done to the pattern. Our estimated position, about 25 miles east of the islands, was too close for comfort and, if we remained hove to, it was not at all impossible that we might drift down onto the reefs.

In spite of the weather, I decided we must try to make some easting. We set up the storm jib and mizzen and headed east, managing to make good southeast at about four knots even under this scrap of canvas. It was a very bad night and my log book at this point is almost illegible, for the following reason:

1930. Tremendous dollop of water through afterhatch—wet
everything—including this book. Gallons and gallons—worst _inside_
wetting I’ve ever had—bunk a shambles.

Barbara’s diary was spared, however, and she describes the same incident with a bit more gusto:

In the early evening, after we had started to sail, a _huge_ wave came
aboard and _poured_, steadily and by bucketsful, down the afterhatch
on top of poor Skip who had been trying to snatch a brief rest. He
landed standing in the middle of his cabin, looking as though he’d
just been in for a swim with his clothes on. Even the folded blankets
_under_ the mattress were soaked and his pillow and bolster were
hopeless. With the patience of Job, he unloaded everything; wiped and
blotted his books and instruments; remade his bed—using dry wool
blankets on top of the wet mattress; got into dry clothes, and climbed
back to continue his sleep. What a man!

Throughout the night I arose frequently and kept an anxious eye on the barometer, which was now slowly rising. By morning it was up to 1004 and our spirits were obviously climbing right along with it. There is a real lift in knowing that the worst is over and I feel sure it is no accident that we refer to spirits, as well as barometric pressure, as being “high” or “low.”

I felt we had made enough easting during the night so we could afford to give everyone a rest by again heaving to. This time we tried a new maneuver—lying atry: that is, taking down _all_ sail and letting the ship take its natural position. It seemed to make little difference to the _Phoenix_, other than that she lay a little bit more in the trough. We rode quite comfortably.

The seas and wind were down considerably, but this is a relative statement as they were still very high. With a constant drizzle, visibility was poor and there was no chance to get our position. I estimated that we were about 35 miles southeast of the islands, but that could be only the merest guess.

During the next day the skies began to clear, with the wind still strong and gusty. We could now be sure that the worst was really over and began to check our damage. It was not too bad: four or five clips had pulled loose from the foresail; the main downhaul block was broken at the end of the gaff; the mainsail had chafed through in one spot where ironwork had rubbed against the furled sail. Otherwise we were in good shape.

That afternoon the mizzen flag halyard, which had worked loose and had been flying straight out and beyond our reach for the past two days, at last allowed itself to be captured from the deck. I took this as a sign that we were ready to carry on, so we set sail again to the northwest under mizzen and foresail. In a couple of hours we had the main repaired and ready for action.

Now our problem was to find the islands. The next day we were able to get a hasty sun shot. Barbara took the tiller while Ted and I went below to plot it. Suddenly she let out a whoop.

“Land ho!”

“Where?”

“Off the port bow!”

“Right where it’s supposed to be!” said Ted, with satisfaction.

We felt a tremendous sense of triumph after four days of storm and aimless drifting—to have been able to find our low island after all, almost by dead reckoning alone.

As we approached it, however, we began to have doubts. It was too small. And where were the other islands of the group, some twenty or so, which encircled a reef-enclosed lagoon?

Moto went up the mast and came down to report no other islands visible.

Ted, unwilling to take another’s word, went up next, with binoculars, and reported that he _thought_ he could see other islands beyond this one.

Nick went up last and announced, in his positive and dogmatic way, that there was no other island. By this time we were close enough to make further debate unnecessary. What we had picked up was North Keeling, an isolated, seldom-seen island 15 miles from our destination.

At least we knew where we were, which was a great relief, but we also knew we had one more night at sea with a very hard beat ahead of us, for the main group of islands was dead upwind.

That night Barbara challenged Jessica to a game of cribbage, but both of them were rather subdued and in the midst of the game Jessica began to drip quiet tears and soon decided to crawl into her bunk “to keep Manuia warm.”

Ted and I were up most of the night, trying to plot a course that would keep us within a day’s sail of the islands without getting too close to the reef in the dark. The only navigational light mentioned on Keeling-Cocos is a “sometime thing” hung in a palm tree, so there was no question of coming in close and standing off and on as we had done on other occasions.

All night, with passing squalls and a high and confused sea, we worked our way south, but by daylight there was no land in sight. As soon as we could we got a sun shot, hasty and unsatisfactory though it was, and estimated our position as being south of the main group. We turned north.

At 0800 I sent Mickey up the mast, giving a specific order this time instead of asking for a volunteer. It was a very tough job and the first time he had ever done it, but the rest of us had taken our turns and I felt that, for the good of the ship, he must not shirk the assignment. He came down, looking green—reported nothing in sight.

I frankly didn’t know where we were, in spite of having had a good departure from North Keeling the day before. I decided to look for the islands one more day and then, unless the weather cleared so we could get a definitive position, to stop flirting with the low reefs of Cocos and carry on for the high island of Rodrigues.

It would not, I knew, be a popular decision.

However, by 1100 the welcome sight of palm trees shimmered dead ahead and during the afternoon, with the weather improving rapidly, we gradually closed the islands and rounded to the north entrance.

Never did water look so calm and clear and _blue_! Never did a beach gleam so white and welcoming! We were eleven days, a thousand miles of sailing, and one humdinger of a storm out of Java and very, very happy to be here.

11 ACROSS THE INDIAN OCEAN:
COCOS TO DURBAN

“You have seen people of all sorts. Makes my mouth water....”

The Keeling-Cocos Islands are the perfect model of a South Seas atoll. About twenty small, low-lying islets, of coral and sand topped with palm trees, form an oval about a lagoon of some 5 by 10 miles. Only three of the islands are inhabited: Direction Island, off which we had dropped anchor, which exists solely for the purpose of operating the British Cable and Wireless establishment; West Island, five miles away across the lagoon, where a colony of some 200 Australians maintains the Qantas airstrip and meteorological station; and Home Island, where some 500 natives live under the benign but feudal patronage of the Clunies-Ross family, hereditary owners of all the Keeling-Cocos Islands since the days of Queen Victoria.

During our ten days’ stay we were to learn more of the rather intricate relationships and frictions between these three groups. At the moment, however, we were just happy to have arrived.

On shore we could see a bustle of activity. Figures dashed here and there, into buildings and out again, but nothing constructive seemed to happen. At last a small native boat was launched and started out under sail, bringing Chris Bartlett, manager of C. & W., some half dozen of his group, and a couple of native boatmen.

As we helped him over the side, Mr. Bartlett’s first words were “Well, how did you like the cyclone?”

This was the first time the word had been spoken aloud. I had secretly _thought_ that this storm bore all the earmarks of a typical Indian Ocean cyclone but had pushed the idea aside, because of course they just didn’t occur at this season!

Jessica’s eyes grew round. “Was it really a cyclone?” she breathed.

“It certainly was!” Mr. Bartlett assured her. He handed us a copy of a cablegram he had received from Perth, Australia:

28/8/56. HEREWITH CYCLONE WARNING AREA
AFFECTED LATITUDE 10 AND 25 LONGITUDE 90 AND
105 CENTRE BELOW 985 MILLIBARS MOVEMENT
INDEFINITE FORCE 10 TO 12 WINDS WITHIN 70 MILES

Jessica eagerly took the cable and rushed below to record the momentous fact in her Journal. Later, at the weather station, we were given more detail. Except for one other ship, on the edge of the disturbance, West Island and the _Phoenix_ had been the only ones in a position to report the out-of-season cyclone. Several hundred miles to the south the freighter _Hollywood_ had reported rough seas, confused swell, and a barometer of 1003. Mr. Lardi, meteorologist at Qantas, showed us all their records and was delighted when I turned over the data from my log so that he could round out the picture. The eye of the cyclone had passed between the _Phoenix_ and the islands, coming down out of the northeast. At the height of the storm, the Qantas rain gauge measured seven inches in 75 minutes, and the barometer dropped to 988 millibars. Peak winds were over 70 knots, or almost 80 miles an hour.

Barely within cyclone range but, as Jessica pointed out, “It was a _real_ cyclone, even if it was a little one—just the way even a _baby_ dragon would be a real dragon!” Even with my dull adult mind I was able to follow her logic.

Locally, damage had been considerable. All the powerboats in the lagoon had been sunk or put out of commission—an embarrassing circumstance for the Air and Sea Rescue Service. Both power and water had failed on West Island; a number of houses were damaged, and several score palm trees were blown down or decapitated. The roof of the passenger terminal at the airstrip had been blown away. The schoolhouse was completely demolished, the walls knocked down, and even the books blown away. Only the blackboard had been left unharmed but this, as the schoolmaster put it, had been “well and truly washed.” There were no serious injuries.

The Keeling-Cocos have one distinction which will always stand out in our minds: never have so many parties been given so often by so few. Any occasion, it seemed, was sufficient reason for a whingding: the 21st birthday of one of the C. & W. “Exiles,” the arrival of a yacht, the miracle of having survived a cyclone—or “just because it’s Thursday, you know.”

Parties to welcome visiting yachts are rather rare, to judge from the visitors’ book in the C. & W. office. I counted only five yachts, from 1952 until the arrival of the _Phoenix_ in 1956.

Supply ships, we were told, came almost as rarely and the Cable and Wireless people, who must order everything out of Singapore, have to provision almost as far in advance as we of the _Phoenix_. Qantas employees, on the other hand, were receiving fresh fruits and vegetables and frozen meats by air twice a month, which made for a certain amount of envy on the part of the Exiles, who had to “make do with tinned goods.”

On the other hand, the Australians on West Island were envious of the luxurious standard of living enjoyed by C. & W., who could import Malay help from the Straits Settlements, a privilege Qantas did not accord to its employees, in conformity with the “whites only” policy of Australia. Furthermore, both groups felt a certain resentment against the benevolent dictatorship of John Clunies-Ross, from whom both Direction and West Islands were leased, because he would allow none of his natives to work for, or even to visit, the installations from which he derived profit.

It was also forbidden to set foot on Home Island, except by express invitation, which was rarely forthcoming. In the case of the Australians, in the wake of some unspecified incident, such an invitation was categorically denied. There was, however, some social interchange between Clunies-Ross and the C. & W. personnel, another cause for complaint.

As visitors, we were sought after by all three camps and exposed to all three points of view. We were careful not to take sides, but it did seem to us pitiful that, in such a remote and potentially peaceful paradise as Cocos, it was not possible to escape the discord and the rivalries of the outside world.

John Clunies-Ross and his wife were in England at the time of our visit, but we spent a most interesting day on Home Island at the invitation of the Keegans, caretakers and baby-sitters-in-residence to two-year-old Linda, the crown princess of the Cocos.

The natives of Home Island, so far as we could tell from a superficial visit, were happy, healthy, and content, although they are entirely dependent upon the Clunies-Ross family for employment and subsistence. All necessities are provided, so that their nominal wages for working in the coconut plantations are needed only for such individual luxuries as may be desired from the local store. The predominant religion is Muslim and no attempt has been made to convert them. On the contrary, they took great pride in showing us a newly completed mosque, simple but attractive, which had been built to supplement an earlier one. All of the houses were well built and in good repair, but the older buildings are gradually being replaced with modern units with concrete floors and fluorescent lighting.

Little “Princess” Linda accompanied us on our tour in her royal carriage (pram, that is), standing up and waving in semi-regal fashion to her subjects. Crowds followed us wherever we went, whether out of devotion to their blonde, blue-eyed princess or out of curiosity over the presence of a strange family, it was hard to say. Certainly, they seemed genuinely happy and if, as we were told, they are being “ruthlessly exploited,” they don’t seem to be aware of it.

Before our departure from Direction Island, and in honor of the American and Japanese visitors, an event was scheduled which will forever stand out in my memory: a baseball game, pitting the Exiles of C. & W. against the Outcasts of Qantas. Naturally, it took place on the cricket field and, as a special honor and because none of our hosts knew the rules, I was appointed umpire.

The players, once the game had been explained to them (“Rather like rounders, wouldn’t you say?”), took it very seriously indeed, but added a certain exotic element that I never could have imagined. Pitchers were changed every inning and, under the influence of cricket, threw overhand with a stiff arm. Runners slid into _every_ base, regardless. And not a single decision of the umpire was questioned—although many of them, under the circumstances, were questionable.

Between the sixth and seventh innings a break was called and players and spectators knocked off for a cup of tea. I happened to make a comment about the polite restraint of the gallery, comparing it to the more typical behavior of a baseball crowd at Yankee Stadium. In the midst of the next inning there floated out over the field in the sweet voice of Mrs. Bartlett, one single, gentle recommendation: “Please kill the umpire!”

The game lasted the full nine innings and the score, for the record, was: Exiles, 22—Outcasts, 14.

We sailed on September 9, with regrets as always, but this time with the guarantee of further friendships to come, for we had entered into the magic network of the far-flung Cable and Wireless system. Henceforth, we would be passed along from one island outpost to another, introduced in advance by the cable grapevine.

As if to make up for our unseasonable cyclone, the elements combined, on the passage to Rodrigues, to give us some of the finest sailing we have ever had. With a following wind and under full lowers, the _Phoenix_ racked up the best record of her trip to date—2,023 miles in 13½ days, or better than 6 knots all the way.

There was little to record in the log other than good weather, good progress, and good times. From my bunk, where I had leisure to spend many lazy hours, I could catch scraps of Ted’s stories drifting down through the afterhatch, as he kept himself entertained on watch by amusing Jessica.

“Once there was a small kingdom—” such a story would frequently begin.

“Oh, goodie!” says Jessica, settling herself comfortably. “I _love_ small kingdoms!”

“—with a _very_ small king,” Ted continues. “About two days old, in fact.” And he’s off.

On another occasion, I made record of a typical exchange:

Ted: “—a lady of stupendiferous bearing—”

Jessica: “_What_ bearing?”

Ted: “North by west.”

On the afternoon of September 22 we sighted the peaks of Rodrigues just off the port bow. By 1750 we were at the port of Mathurin, but still outside the reefs. A launch, loaded with officials, local residents, and boatmen came out to meet us. They undertook to pilot us through the intricate channel—and promptly dumped us on a reef. For the next half hour, in the growing dark, there was a certain amount of confusion, with mingled orders and oaths in English, French, Japanese, and various Creole dialects. Finally we worked clear and were secured in mid-channel by divers, who personally went down to set our anchor firmly in the coral.

No harm was done to the boat, aside from a small rubbed spot at the turn of the starboard bilge. There was also a small rubbed spot in the temper of the Skipper, but after I had pouted a bit, we ushered our guests below and exchanged introductions. Entry formalities were quickly cleared away by Christian Belcourt, medical officer, and Claude Rouchecouste, chief magistrate. Before we knew it, all seven of the _Phoenix_ crew were in the launch, along with the reception committee, and heading in to shore for baths, drinks, and dinner with M. and Mme. Rouchecouste. (_Monsieur_ because, although Rodrigues belongs to the British Crown Colony of Mauritius, it is predominantly French in language and culture.)

On the way in we passed the only navigational light of Rodrigues—a one-candlepower beacon marking the edge of the inner reef. We knew it was one candlepower, because we could see the candle itself, flickering fitfully behind its glass shade. As Ted summed it up, “If you can see this light, you’re too darn close!”

Now began ten of the pleasantest days we have ever spent anywhere. As on Keeling-Cocos all invitations and activities included all of us. The veranda of the magistrate’s large house near the landing was the unofficial clubhouse where we were made to feel at home and where good conversation, cold drinks, and numerous newspapers and magazines—both French and English—were always available. In the course of many convivial afternoons and evenings, we began to feel that, through the interest of our hosts of Rodrigues, we were learning more about our Japanese companions, their backgrounds and their impressions, than we had ever been able to elicit during the two years of our relationship.

Rodrigues itself is an island of unusual attractions, not the least of which is its inaccessibility. There are only two practicable ways to reach it: you can go on the supply boat from Mauritius, which makes the trip three or four times a year and stays about three days, or you may visit the island on a private yacht.

Although the island is only 42 square miles in area, it is densely populated. Most of the 16,000 people are of African or Malagasy racial stock, many are descended from slaves brought in from Mauritius by the French, while others trace their ancestral lines back to Breton or Scottish families.

Mauritius is the hub of their universe and the supply ship, also named _Mauritius_, is the connecting link. “Have you ever visited Mauritius?” Barbara asked one of the teachers in the Port Mathurin school.

“Oh, yes!” she answered eagerly. “We go on board every time it comes!”

There are no newspapers on Rodrigues, no telephones, no radio stations, no banks, no movies; there is no airport or commercial shipping, no harbor, no railway, no buses, and no taxis. There were, however, five horses (“three cobs and two mules”), a number of bicycles, and two jeeps. The jeeps, one of which belongs to the magistrate and the other to the Catholic priests, are recent acquisitions and have already accounted for one traffic fatality. Within the first week a cyclist tried to go _between_ the headlights of an oncoming jeep, in the mistaken impression that they were the lights of two bicycles. By the way of instilling caution and avoiding further accidents, there is now a large, hand-lettered sign over the gate that leads from the schoolyard onto the road. STOP! LOOK! LISTEN! JEEP!

Each night we had dinner at a different house, but always with a nucleus of the same group: the magistrate and his wife, the two doctors, the meteorologist, and various members of the Cable and Wireless installation on Rodrigues.

As they came to know us better, the Rouchecoustes in particular became more frank in their eagerness to learn all they could about America and Japan while Exhibits A and B were available. M. Rouchecouste confided that, although he had studied for several years in Europe, we were the first Americans, as well as the first Japanese, that he had ever met—and the first of either, to his knowledge, ever to visit Rodrigues.

“Tell me, Madame Reynolds,” he asked, “would you say you were a typical American woman?”

Barbara, obviously nonplused, looked helplessly at me.

I came to her rescue. “I should imagine,” I stated judicially, “that she’s certainly the typical American woman who goes around the world on a Japanese-built yacht.”

This response seemed to be entirely satisfactory.

By contrast with our first week on Rodrigues, which was peaceful and relaxed, the last three days gave us a taste of the furor that surrounds the rare visits of M.V. _Mauritius_. The sleepy town of Port Mathurin woke up. From all over the island, people converged on the town. Boats from villages along the shore began to arrive, piled high with produce and livestock. Impromptu pens were knocked together and the waterfront was transformed into a squealing, bleating, and cackling open-air market where traders, who came over from Mauritius on the boat, could wander up and down to inspect and bid on the available stock.

The day the boat arrived was given over to landing the cargo, including two mares to swell the equine population. Letters and packages were distributed in a daylong ceremony of mail call from the porch of the administration building.

The second day saw hundreds of empty oil drums ferried out, to be refilled and brought back on the next trip. The produce of the island, principally garlic and dried octopus, was sent aboard in a never-ending procession of lighters that were towed out through the channel in strings of three or four to deliver their cargo and then return, under sail, at their own convenience.

On the final day, with a proficiency obviously developed from much practice, the animals were loaded. The cows, lassoed expertly and forced onto their sides by the seemingly painful expedient of twisting their tails up between their legs, were trussed up by their four feet and loaded upside down into the open boats. Eight or ten were carried at a time, rolling their eyes in patient misery until they had been hoisted aboard the _Mauritius_ by crane and released into the hold.

The goats were all driven out to the end of the dock, their retreat was blocked off with movable barricades, and then they were relentlessly herded off the edge into the waiting lighters, some of the recalcitrant ones being tossed in by a couple of legs. Arrived at the ship, a huge wicker basket was lowered by crane, ten to twenty goats at a time were tumbled in and lifted aboard to be dumped into deck pens.

Last of all went the pigs—and the passengers. The pigs, “who always get seasick,” according to the captain, were stacked on deck in the same kind of tubular wicker container we had seen in Bali—with a snout protruding from one end and a tail from the other. For the sake of the passengers, we hoped their bloodcurdling shrieks and squeals as they were rolled down to the boats would eventually diminish.

We sailed a few hours before the _Mauritius_, knowing she would pass us, probably during the first night, and would be waiting when we reached Port Louis. The only unusual circumstance of our departure was our decision, on the advice of the pilot, to slip our hawser rather than risk maneuvering among the reefs while attempting to get it aboard.

“We’ll take it out to the supply ship,” he assured us, “and you can get it from them in Mauritius.”

The trip to Mauritius, 400 miles to the west, was routine and we made an easy entrance into the inner harbor of Port Louis at 1000 on October 5. By 1130 we had been cleared by the harbor office, doctor, and immigration officer and were free to explore the homeland of the now extinct dodo.

Our first impression of Port Louis, even before going ashore, was of a harbor more bustling and colorful than any we had yet visited. Work began early in the morning and lasted, with much attendant shouting and seeming confusion, until late at night. A procession of Indians in brief loincloths, coifed like Egyptians of ancient tomb paintings, marched back and forth like industrious ants between the docks and a never-ending succession of barges. The coif arrangement was formed by heavy material wound turbanwise around the head and hanging down the back in a thick pad, making it possible to distribute the immense weight of their loads evenly between head and shoulders.

The island itself is a beautiful sight from the harbor. A range of deep-green mountains, dominated by the distinctive peak of La Pousse (The Thumb), forms a dramatic backdrop to the low red roofs of the warehouses along the shore. We anchored well out hoping to ensure a bit of privacy, but it did us very little good. Local water taxis, flitting about like bugs, were all too available and many curiosity seekers came out for the ride and boarded us with no advance warning other than a hail as they clambered over the gunwales.

One of our first callers was M. Appavou, the Indian ship chandler who has earned for himself a well-deserved reputation among yachtsmen. He gave us a bottle of the local rum with his compliments, and urged us to make use of him in any way. His representative would call daily to pick up our shopping list and our orders would be delivered on board in the afternoon. “No extra charge.”

I warned M. Appavou that he could expect little profit from us, but that didn’t seem to worry him. _Anything_ we might need, he would be happy to get. Barbara decided to test him out and ordered a fez. (My birthday was coming up.) That afternoon the fez was delivered, a handsome one in maroon felt. Its cost, we discovered, was less than we would have paid in the market.

Thereafter, we made full use of M. Appavou’s advice and services. In addition to keeping us supplied with meat and vegetables, he guided us to the best barbershop, arranged to have a suit made for Ted, gave us tips on the races (we broke even), located beautiful saris for the girls, and contracted for the building of a new small boat. Moreover, we became very good friends. At New Year’s, in South Africa, we were both pleased and touched to receive a warm personal response to the mimeographed letter we had sent out to announce our arrival.

No doubt you must be proud of accomplishing such a cruise, and you
must be thankful to God for your luck of what I call a trouble-free
track, but for a few odds. You have seen oceans, seas, countries, and
peoples of all sorts. Makes my mouth water, so to say. You have made
friends everywhere, because sympathy is not merchantable: it is born
in Earle, Barbara, Ted, and Jessica; you are such a charming group,
you are.

Well, Capt., God give you en famille, His gifts in galore—which spell:
HEALTH, BLISS, HAPPINESS, and most happy conclusion of the marvellous
cruise of the gallant “PHOENIX.”...

During our stay in Mauritius we met a number of yachtsmen, both cruising and local. One of them, planning a cruise shortly, came aboard “for advice.” It seemed strange to have another asking advice of _us_ and making eager notes of such bits and pieces of hard-won experience as we were able to pass along!

Another small-boat sailor was Jacques Rousset, an eager young chap who appointed himself our guide and mentor. Piling us into his car amid cases of soft drinks and hampers of lunch, he set off at top speed along the narrow, winding roads of his island. Cows, goats, chickens, children, and ox-drawn cane carts kept appearing unexpectedly around curves and kept all of us, who had just come in from weeks on the uncrowded ocean, in a constant state of nerves. In vain we hinted that we would much prefer a more sedate pace. As Jessica put it, “We want to see everything—but we want to be able to _remember_ it, too!”

Perhaps Jacques thought we were old fuddy-duddies, but I managed to take the sting out of my eventual ultimatum by rhapsodizing over the charm of Mauritius, not only its beauty, but the novelty of the sari-clad women we passed along the road; the rows of sugar cane that alternated in the fields with rows of rock; and the two-wheeled carts pulled by broad-horned oxen.

“Don’t you have those in America?” Jacques demanded, astonished. From then on he drove circumspectly, deriving wonder and pleasure from our comments about his homeland and plying us with questions about our own.

Three yachts arrived while we were in Port Louis, rather more than usual. First was _Jeanne Mathilde_, a 40-footer out of Singapore, with “Rex” King aboard. In our yacht register King merely notes that he left Great Nicobar with a crew of one and “arrived alone.” The actual story is dramatic. While at sea, his companion developed acute appendicitis. By rarest good luck, they met a passing ship and Rex was able, by means of flares, to attract their attention and have the ill man taken off. In the process of signaling, however, one of the flares exploded and King was badly burned. He refused to leave his ship and sailed on alone. When we met him in Mauritius his face still bore scars and powder burns.

The second yacht to arrive was _Marie Thérèse II_, with singlehander Bernard Moitessier, a very likable Frenchman. He, too, had known the rigors of the sea. In his own words, written in our log, his first _Marie Thérèse_, a Chinese junk, was “lost in a reef in the Chagos Archipelago during her attempt to reach the Seychelles Islands from Indonesia. Reason was no chronometer, no radio, lost, no binoculars, and probably too much cheek from the skiper” (sic!).

King and Moitessier, obviously, were not usual types, but the third arrival was the most bizarre of all, as well as the least communicative. This was a lone Australian on _Kate_. His brief entry in the register says merely: “Best wishes and regards from Bill Geering of _Kate_, 21 ft. L.O.A., and 60 days out of Fremantle to Mauritius. Bon Voyage.”