ALL IN THE SAME BOAT
THE FORBIDDEN VOYAGE
ALL IN THE SAME BOAT
An American Family’s Adventures on a Voyage around the World in the
Yacht _Phoenix_
By
EARLE and BARBARA REYNOLDS
DAVID McKAY COMPANY, INC.
New York
ALL IN THE SAME BOAT
COPYRIGHT © 1962 BY EARLE AND BARBARA REYNOLDS
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or
parts thereof, in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations
in a review.
PUBLISHED SIMULTANEOUSLY IN THE DOMINION OF CANADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 62–18969
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
VAN REES PRESS · NEW YORK
INTRODUCTION
At a party, celebrating the passage of the _Phoenix_ through the Panama
Canal, the master of ceremonies introduced our group as follows:
This is the crew of the yacht _Phoenix_, now on a voyage around the
world.
First we have Jessica Reynolds, who is the first little girl, to my
knowledge, to have attempted this feat.
Then there is Ted Reynolds, probably the first teen-age navigator of a
globe-circling sailing yacht.
The third member of the crew is Nick Mikami, from Hiroshima—the first
Japanese yachtsman to sail around the world.
Beside me is Barbara Reynolds, surely the most charming
circumnavigating yachtswoman I have yet had the pleasure of meeting.
Finally—here is Dr. Earle Reynolds, whose sole claim to distinction is
that he is the first, and _only_, skipper ever to sail around the
world with all these wonderful people.
Fellow yachtsmen, both deep sea and dry land, both cockpit and armchair,
here we are—all in the same boat.
DEDICATED TO
“All those men who want to go to sea and never do—” (Jessica’s Journal)
and to their long-suffering wives.
AUTHORS’ NOTE
For simplicity, this collaboration is presented from the point of view
of the Skipper
CONTENTS
Introduction v
1. THE RISE OF THE _PHOENIX_ 1
“Between a dream and a deed lie the doldrums.”
2. PREPARATIONS FOR A VOYAGE 20
“Cruising is walking, talking, buying, scrounging ... but
cruising is also sailing.”
3. FROM JAPAN TO HONOLULU 39
“The long shakedown ... a seven-week course in How to Sail.”
4. ON TO THE SOUTH PACIFIC: FROM HAWAII TO TAHITI 61
“Banzai!... Banzai!... Banzai!”
5. TAHITI AND THE ISLANDS UNDER THE WIND 81
“Money? What I do with money?”
6. WESTWARD THROUGH THE SOUTH SEAS: RAROTONGA, SAMOA, FIJI 100
“A broad reach, a quiet sea, a full moon....”
7. DOWN UNDER: NEW ZEALAND AND AUSTRALIA 115
“Ah-h-h, yes-s-s!...”
8. —AND BACK UP: THE GREAT BARRIER REEF 133
“Better men than we had come to grief....”
9. INTO INDONESIA: THURSDAY ISLAND TO BALI 151
“Our life at sea was teaching us....”
10. BALI, JAVA, THE KEELING-COCOS 169
“A sense of uneasy anticipation....”
11. ACROSS THE INDIAN OCEAN: COCOS TO DURBAN 189
“You have seen people of all sorts. Makes my mouth water....”
12. SOUTH AFRICA: BEAUTIFUL, UNHAPPY LAND 207
“What will you do when that day comes?”
13. ACROSS THE ATLANTIC THE LONG WAY: CAPE TOWN TO NEW YORK CITY 225
“Beautiful night, new moon, slow progress, who cares?”
14. EVERY KIND OF CRUISING: NEW YORK TO PANAMA, BY THE CORKSCREW
ROUTE 247
“A man must stand up for what he believes.”
15. GALÁPAGOS: HOME OF THE LAST PIONEERS 267
“Those delicate souls whose coffee must be just so....”
16. BACK TO HAWAII 286
“How come change ya mind?”
17. THE LAST LEG: HONOLULU TO HIROSHIMA 297
“Of course, there were a couple of incidents.”
INDEX 305
ILLUSTRATIONS
(_between pages 182 and 183_)
Map of the journey around the world
The _Phoenix_ under full sail in the waters off Hawaii
In port, Wellington, New Zealand
Arrival in Honolulu, 1954
Japan, buying scrap iron to use as inside ballast
The timber is cut
Shaping the hull
Full-size patterns for the ribs
The Captain and his ship
Launching day
Bora Bora, French Oceania
Skipper and Mi-ke
Sextant shot on a quiet day
Mickey: Portrait of a seasick sailor
Galley scene, April, 1955
Jessica and her journal
Lassoing albatross
Rough day, Tasman Sea
Repairing sails
Marina, Staten Island
Ted refurbishing figurehead
Jessica sewing on Girl Scout badges
Reynolds family
1 THE RISE
OF THE _PHOENIX_
“Between a dream and a deed lie the doldrums.”
The yacht _Phoenix_ stood poised on the launching cradle. The ways were
greased, the tide at spring high, and only a single wedge restrained our
newly built ketch from sliding into the waters of the Inland Sea of
Japan.
Standing on deck, I looked at the crowd below, at the Shinto priest
chanting a blessing at the bow, and at Yotsuda-san, my long-suffering
shipbuilder, waiting alongside for my signal.
Across the bay I could see the mountainous island of Miya Jima, green
and beautiful in the bright May sun. Over there, in her famous shrine
which at high tide seems to float upon the surface of the sea, sleeps
the goddess, Itsukushima-hime-no-mikoto, famed and feared for her
jealous nature. I could only hope she would not begrudge us our brief
moment of glory.
When the priest had finished, I made a short speech, and then mochi—pink
and white rice cakes of ceremonial significance—were tossed to the
crowd. The moment had come: it was high noon. I caught Yotsuda-san’s
eye, and nodded. He smiled, bowed, and signaled to a workman. I suddenly
thought, Well, Yotsuda, if this launching is a bust, I’ll be busted,
too—but you’ll probably have to revive the good old custom of harakiri.
“Ikimasho!—Let’s go!” I shouted. Then everything happened very fast.
Jessica, standing on tiptoe, cut with a tiny golden ax the ribbon which
symbolically bound the _Phoenix_ to the shore; Barbara swung mightily
and broke the traditional bottle across the bow, cutting her finger in
the process; a workman knocked out the last block. We paused for a
breathless moment, and then began our slide, picking up speed as we
descended rapidly, until we hit the blue waters of the Inland Sea with a
grand and noble splash.
From the boat Ted and I could hear mingled American cheers and Japanese
banzais floating out across the water, as our _Phoenix_ glided, riding
free on the placid bay—where she promptly rammed into the side of a
Japanese sampan, and spilled the too curious occupants into the drink.
So now we had our boat, and she floated. It was another stage in a
long-term dream, a dream which had been born in my seventeenth summer.
With my first pay check from my first job I had bought a book: Joshua
Slocum’s account of the building of the beloved _Spray_, and of his
singlehanded voyage around the world. That was the beginning.
But between a dream and a deed often lie decades of doldrums.
During the next two decades I lived what might be called a normal
academic life, acquiring three degrees (all in anthropology), one wife,
a daughter, two sons, a growing waistline, and a suspicion that life was
pulling a fast one on me.
It was not until 1951 that my dream of ocean cruising returned in
strength. At this time I was associate professor of anthropology at
Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio—where the nearest body of water
is the local pond, three feet deep—and head of the department of
physical growth at the Fels Research Institute.
That year the National Academy of Sciences asked me, as an expert in the
field of human growth and development, to set up a scientific study in
the atom-bombed city of Hiroshima. I accepted and went to Japan,
together with Barbara and our three children: Tim, now fifteen; Ted,
thirteen; and Jessica, seven. For the next three years I studied the
effects of atomic radiation on the growth of the surviving children of
Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
Now, for the first time in my life, I lived within sight and sound of
the sea, even though it was the relatively gentle Inland Sea of Japan.
Every day, as I drove to the laboratories of the Atomic Bomb Casualty
Commission, I passed busy shipyards, where wooden ships, both large and
small, were being built with age-old skills. Oyster boats, fishing
sampans, and trading schooners dotted the blue waters of Hiroshima Wan.
Gradually, as I settled into my research and got my bearings, I began to
look about with a very specific purpose in mind.
There is a poem by Browning whose lines are haunting: “Never the time
and the place and the loved one all together!” At last it seemed that
these three magic elements might possibly be combined. We had the time—a
two-year contract, with an option to extend it for a third year. This
was certainly the place—the magnificent Inland Sea, unrivaled for
beauty, with plenty of opportunity for sailing—while just beyond lay the
vast and challenging waters of the Pacific. Moreover, there were skilled
Japanese shipwrights here, with centuries of tradition in the building
of wooden craft.
As for the loved one—she existed as yet only in the notes, sketches, and
pictures I had stored over the years, but which I hoped might be
assembled into the plans for the ideal boat.
Finally, for the first time in our lives, we had a chance to accumulate
some capital. At last, and for once—the time, the place, and the loved
one seemed to have met.
The type of craft that evolved in my mind was a heavily built ketch,
stressing the factors of safety and simplicity. I knew about the pros
and cons of light-versus-heavy displacement cruising boats, and had
compared modern and old-time designs, rigs and methods of construction.
One fact was all-important: styles in boats, like everything else, may
change, but the sea doesn’t. Boats built along traditional lines have
made long voyages in safety and relative comfort in years past, and they
can do so today, even though they may be scorned as “old-fashioned.”
With this idea in mind, I made a few contacts with stateside designers
and ordered a number of stock plans. I came across some very fine
designs, but none completely suited me. One very real problem was the
particular circumstances under which this boat would have to be built. I
would have to use materials and equipment now available in Japan. The
boat would have to be built of Japanese woods. Would a foreign designer
know which to recommend? Also, there was the matter of the local
boatbuilders, who didn’t take too kindly to plans and blueprints, to say
nothing of the English language. Would an absentee designer be able to
anticipate and provide for all the problems that were bound to arise?
Reluctantly I had to face the facts: if I wanted a boat built in Japan,
by local shipwrights, I would have to design it myself and supervise
every detail of its construction. If I didn’t think I could do it, it
would be better not to start.
I settled myself to the task. For the next year all my time and energy
outside the laboratory were devoted to the labor of designing the boat.
It was entirely a “library research” type of job, based on my studies,
collected materials, and the books I had brought to Japan with me.
I drew up the plans for a double-ender, along the lines of the early
Colin Archer designs. It was to be 50 feet over-all, with a 14-foot beam
and a draft of 7½ feet, displacing about 30 tons.
The ketch was to have a straight keel, high bulwarks, gaff main,
topmast, inside ballast (6½ out of a total of 9 tons), and a flush deck
forward of a small after cabin. Her accommodations would attempt to
combine the best features of an open design, so necessary in the
tropics, with the essential privacy for each member of the crew, which
could make all the difference on a long voyage.
With the plans well along, we hit a real snag. For months all efforts to
find a satisfactory boatbuilder, at a price we could afford, drew only
blanks.
A major problem was language. I could speak enough Japanese to get a hot
bath, to find out when the next train left, or to agree that the scenery
was out of this world—but this was a long way from being able to discuss
technical phases of boatbuilding. I began to enlist help from among my
Japanese friends, and before long had built up a working team, which we
called the “four-man parlay.”
Man No. 1 was Yasuda-san (“san” is a suffix meaning Mr., Mrs., or Miss).
Yasuda-san was a teacher in the local high school; his knowledge of
English was excellent but he knew nothing whatever about boats.
Man No. 2 was Takemura-san, key member of the Hiroshima University Yacht
Club. He was a former officer in the Japanese Navy, an expert navigator,
and a keen sailor of small boats, though not a deep-sea yachtsman. His
interest in the venture was as a potential member of the crew. He spoke
not one word of English.
Man No. 3, whom we called the catalyst, was Niichi Mikami, a fellow
employee at the Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission. Nick (as he quickly
became known) spoke fair English and had a good understanding of “how to
get along with Americans.” He was also a fine small-boat sailor and a
member of the local yacht club. He filled in the gaps in the chain of
communication.
Man No. 4 was myself, who thought I knew what I wanted but was hard put,
at times, to get it.
Whenever the team could be assembled, we toured the boatyards of the
surrounding areas, but without success. The builders either refused
outright, or quoted such a fantastically high price that there was no
point in dickering, or—more in character—were so devious in their
discussion that this amounted, in Japanese terms, to a refusal. Not
until the search was widened well beyond Hiroshima, to the region near
Miya Jima, did I find my man. One cold, wet morning in December, our
four-man team set out for Miya Jima Guchi, thirty minutes by
standing-room-only train from Hiroshima. From here a short walk took us
to the small shipyard of Mr. Yotsuda.
As we approached we could see Yotsuda-san himself, silhouetted against
the terraced rice fields of an adjoining hillside. His kimono waving
briskly in the breeze, he was repairing his roof—and judging from the
looks of it, none too soon. At a hail, he scrambled down, and I bowed
through the rituals of introduction, via Yasuda-san, via Takemura-san,
with help from Nick.
Yotsuda-san impressed me favorably when I met him, and I had a feeling
he liked me. He was a cheerful, shrewd-eyed, honest-faced man of middle
age. He had been a busy and prosperous shipbuilder in Manchuria until
after the war, but now, repatriated to Japan, he had been able to bring
back only his family and a few hand tools. At present, the Yotsudas were
living precariously from hand to mouth, or rather, from fishing smack to
oyster boat.
The workshop consisted of an open shed, with living quarters behind, and
a nearby pile of scrap lumber. The shop had a bare and austere
appearance to American, gadget-accustomed eyes. There were no high-speed
tools in evidence, no laborsaving devices, no power saws or sanding
machines, not even a brace and bit. There were only the traditional hand
tools of Japanese boatbuilding—adzes, chisels, hammers, augers, saws. I
noted that the saws functioned by pulling instead of pushing. As I later
discovered, so did the workmen.
Our group was ushered into the Yotsuda living-sleeping-dining room, with
its bare tatami mats and the family shrine in the corner. There we knelt
about the hibachi, trying to warm ourselves from its core of glowing
charcoal. The family had apparently been banished to the earthen-floored
kitchen. While the wind whistled through the plainly visible cracks, the
“team” discussed with Yotsuda-san in tortuous fashion the possibility of
bringing to life, in wood and iron, my sketches and notes. And I thought
doubtfully to myself, When this man can’t even plug the holes in his own
walls, how could he ever be able to build a good boat?
At any rate, I showed him what I wanted, bringing out my plans and
pictures, and discussing notes and construction. Hours passed.
Yotsuda-san looked and listened quietly. Behind his impassive smile—that
famous Japanese smile!—there began to glow a spark of genuine interest
and understanding. Through the interpreters he began to ask pertinent
questions and make sharp comments. There was no doubt this man knew his
business, and that he saw, in the designs, a challenge that intrigued
him. Suddenly I found myself thinking that, cracks or no cracks in the
wall, this man _could_ build our boat!
So I knelt there, with legs long ago gone to sleep, and shivered
silently in my overcoat, while a long and vigorous discussion took place
in Japanese. At last there was a pause, a question from Takemura-san
which could be recognized as climactic, and Yotsuda-san’s answer, ending
in the phrase, “Dekimasu—Can do it.”
The team summed up the four-hour meeting succinctly: “He say ‘Okay’!”
Now we had to come to grips with reality. A dream on paper is no risk at
all, but the time had come to back it with a sizable wad of cash. Even
though the price agreed upon was remarkably low, by American standards,
it would take all the money we had and could raise. I had to face the
fact that, if anything went wrong, we might be financially wrecked
before we even got the boat in the water.
The contract, when completed, was a magnificent document, embodying
every item and clause I could cull from legal terminology and textbooks
on boatbuilding (I had eight of them). It protected us (or so I thought)
from every imaginable disaster or delay, whether from act of God or from
error of Nippon.
Even so, the contract contained, as I later discovered, two flaws.
First, when translated into Japanese by Mr. Yasuda, the language somehow
lost the force of the English version, so that the verbs “will” and
“must” came out “it would be nice if” and “it would be good to.” Months
later, when I came to know both Mr. Yasuda and the Japanese language
better, I asked him why he had so softened the original version.
“Reynolds-sensei,” said Mr. Yasuda (“sensei” being a term of respect
accorded professors and the like), “Reynolds-sensei is a very polite
man.”
“Oh, I am?” I asked politely.
“Of course. And Reynolds-sensei would never say anything to make
Yotsuda-san unhappy.”
“No?”
“Because then Yotsuda-san maybe not work so well.” Mr. Yasuda smiled.
“So I do not translate what Reynolds-sensei _say_; I translate what he
_mean_.”
“Oh.” I thought this over for a moment. “Mr. Yasuda—the boat—it’s still
to be fifty feet long, isn’t it?”
“Of course!” said Mr. Yasuda, shocked. “Everything just like you say in
contract!”
The second flaw in the contract was a very simple one. The time
stipulated for the completion of the job, to be started in December,
1952, was June 15. The contract merely neglected to mention _which_ June
15.
In any event, having made the down payment, as per contract, so
Yotsuda-san could begin to buy the materials, I retired to the bosom of
my family for Christmas. Perhaps there was something in the gifts I had
shopped for so lovingly—heavy brass ship’s candlesticks mounted in
gimbals, a ship’s bell with a truly mellow tone, a bright orange life
jacket for each member of the family—that made the kids realize that,
although this boat might be another of daddy’s whims, it was a whim that
was going to affect them directly. They began to take a mild interest in
the project and to look at my plans with more respect. Jessica, in
particular, asked to be shown _her_ place in the boat, and wanted it
distinctly understood that she would have no part in it unless room was
made for _all_ her dolls. This was managed by simply labeling one locker
in the plans, “Jessica’s Dolls.”
Shortly after New Year’s Day I returned to the shipyard, eagerly
expectant. I looked forward to seeing the piles of lumber, redolent with
promise. Perhaps the keel had already been laid. At least the lines of
the boat would have been laid down, full size, as directed.
I was alone this trip, so as I trudged the muddy road from the station
to the boatyard, I went over my meager Japanese vocabulary. But after
all, I wanted only to look at the progress of the work, and surely no
technical problems would come up this soon.
None did, for when I arrived I found the shop, in its original
condition, together with Mr. Yotsuda, in his original condition, and
nothing else. At a disadvantage, I began a conversation in my best
pidgin Japanese.
“Ohio gosaimasu—Good morning,” I said, as an opening gambit.
Mr. Yotsuda bowed. “Ohio gosaimasu. Shinen omedeto gosaimasu!” This
meant not only good morning but also Happy New Year, which put him one
up.
“Boat,” I fumbled. “Not begin?”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Yotsuda happily. “Not begin!”
“Ah so desuka?” This is the Japanese equivalent of “You don’t say?” “Why
not—begin?”
“Ah—now New Year!” Mr. Yotsuda seemed vastly surprised at my ignorance.
“But, Yotsuda-san, New Year—three days before!”
“Ah, yes!” agreed Mr. Yotsuda. “Also today—and tomorrow—and tomorrow.”
His gestures indicated a vast array of tomorrows. “Many, many days.”
So I learned a new thing about Japan—that New Year’s is not a day, it is
a season.
However, when we visited the yard again, together, late in January,
things looked more promising. Much lumber had been assembled; nearby
were many curved logs of keyaki, comparable to oak, from which the
frames would be made. Set upon a foundation near the shore was a massive
log of kuromatsu (black pine) which the awkward-looking adzes of the
workmen were rapidly transforming into a long, gleaming white keel. As I
ran my hands lovingly over the fresh, smooth wood, I knew that at last
we were on the way.
The methods of the workmen never ceased to fascinate us. In one corner
of the shipyard was a sight that was to become very familiar: a solemn
little man in a black fur cap who, sawing horizontally with an enormous
curved saw, steadily, day after day, reduced huge logs to two-inch
planks. Every bit of lumber on our boat was to be hand sawn. All the
workmen handled their tools with consummate skill, an ease which was
deceptive when one tried to use the same instrument. For example, after
the deck had been laid they smoothed it to perfection by removing almost
transparently thin shavings with the swing of an adze—an operation in
which a fraction too much follow-through would have removed a toe or a
miscalculation in depth would have left an ugly gouge. Neither gruesome
alternative ever happened.
The men worked mainly by eye, even when operating within the confines of
measurements, but the completed job was always amazingly accurate. An
example was the fitting of the planking which, forced into position by
huge vises, was fastened to the frames with handmade, hot-dipped
galvanized boat spikes, through-bolted at the butts, and then, for
additional strength, edge-nailed from the inside. The planking was begun
from the bottom up and completed from the top down. It remains one of
the mysteries of the inscrutable East how that last plank was so cut as
to fit exactly into the space that awaited it. No crack of light could
be seen between the finished planking, even before calking.
Both planking and deck seams were calked with oakum. When the job was
done, the cooperation of the local fire department was enlisted and a
hand pump set up on the sea wall. A contingent of volunteers spent hours
pumping the Inland Sea into the hull, while workmen on the scaffolding
outside marked the few small leaks with chalk. At the end of a busy day,
a hole was drilled in the bilge and the sea allowed to drain out.
The chief exceptions to traditional Japanese methods were in my
insistence on the use of wood preservatives, marine glue and American
putties and paints. Such procedures are not a part of normal
sampan-building activities. A certain preliminary confusion was also
caused by the fact that Japanese shipwrights do not operate in terms of
feet and inches, but with shaku and sun, which are only rough
equivalents. Eventually, I discovered that the work proceeded much more
smoothly if I adapted to their measuring system and translated my
figures into Japanese dimensions. I became quite casual, as time went
on, in the use of shaku and sun, not to mention bu, ken, kan, kin,
tsubo, sho, to, and koku.
We never did become casual, however, about the manner in which the
workmen smoked on the job and tossed their butts and matches—sometimes
still aflame—into nearby piles of trash and shavings. Naturally, there
was a fire clause in the contract, but we were realistic enough by now
to know that if the job came to a fiery and untimely end, Yotsuda-san
would be profoundly distressed, but absolutely without means to rebuild
our boat. Insurance? Just the thought of beginning negotiations made my
head reel. No, the men must stop smoking on the job. I told them so, and
they smiled and bowed politely. From then on, each time we came out to
the boatyard, they smiled, bowed, and carefully put out their
cigarettes. We smiled and bowed also, and hoped for the best.
Nevertheless, these months were happy ones for us all. The work
progressed steadily, if slowly, and although we had gradually reconciled
ourselves to the fact that we would not launch in June, we felt that
surely by July—or, at the latest, August.... We still had much to learn.
During this time hundreds of problems arose, and each, after its own
nature, had to be met and surmounted. Scores of items, major and minor,
had to be hunted down, designed or made, or contracted for. A principal
source of supply was in the junk and secondhand marine shops that lined
the waterfronts. The nearby city of Kure had during the war been a
mammoth shipbuilding center, and even then in some half-forgotten bin at
the back of a shop one could sometimes make rich strikes. I would emerge
sneezing, dragging out a length of galvanized chain or an assortment of
bolts. The proprietor, knowing quite well who I was and what I was up
to, would grin amiably. The conversation usually went like this:
“Kono jonku wa—ikura desuka?—This junk—how much?”
“Jonku!” he exclaimed in mock indignation. “Jonku nai! Yotto no mono
desu!—Not junk! Yacht equipment!”
“Iie! Jonku dake! Ikura?—No! Only junk! How much?”
He laughed. “Hokay. Sekai isshu no yotto kara, jonku desu.—Okay. Because
it’s for the round-the-world yacht, call it junk.” He weighed it up, I
paid for it at the rate of scrap iron, and hauled it down to the boat.
In Kure also was an offshoot of the Korean War, the BCOF—British
Commonwealth Occupation Forces—salvage depot, which was a high-class
name for another junk yard. War materiel poured into this depot in
bewildering abundance and a wide variety of conditions, from completely
unused to completely useless. Climbing the mountainous piles of scrap in
the yard, or delving into the bins in the sheds, I would sometimes make
a fine haul, as on the day I picked up two new 65-pound plow-type
anchors for one pound Australian ($2.25) apiece.
Sometimes, however, the find would turn out to be fool’s gold, as it was
the time I bought a 1,200-foot coil of condemned one-inch manila rope
for 10 shillings, sight unseen, only to discover that it should have
remained sight unseen, forever.
In time the officers in charge of the depot became interested in our
activities, and set aside items which they thought we could use. In this
way we acquired such things as a ton of truck springs (for inside
ballast), an Air Force compass (which we used all the way around the
world), a big bilge pump (still in use), an aluminum gas tank from a
crashed plane (our deck water tank), and dozens of other items, great
and small.
No amount of searching, however, would dig up the outside keel we had to
have cast by a foundry, or a marine engine (ordered from America), or
our sails (made in Yokohama), or the many special deck irons, or the
rigging. In cases such as these, I had to do it the hard way.
By September, work had progressed far enough so that we felt it was high
time to decide on a name for our craft. My preference was for Daruma,
the Japanese doll with a rounded bottom and the well-known ability to
bounce upright every time it was pushed over. The Japanese have a saying
about the daruma: “Nana korobi, ya oki!—Down seven times, up eight!” I
liked those odds very much. So, when our Japanese language teacher and
very good friend, Mr. Yamada, next visited us, we broached the subject.
“Daruma....” Mr. Yamada said, slowly tasting the word. “Yes-s-s ... very
good.” From his tone we knew he really meant not worth a plugged yen.
What we didn’t know at that time was that to the Japanese the daruma
also connotes a lady of easy virtue, for obvious reasons.
“Maybe something else would be better?” Barbara said, giving him an out.
“I think so—maybe something else,” agreed Mr. Yamada. “I will think
about it.”
On his next visit Mr. Yamada did not bring up the subject of the boat’s
name directly. That was not his way. But he did produce a 10-yen note
and point out to us the mythical bird engraved across its face, the
phoenix. And during the rest of the evening the word “phoenix” seemed to
recur frequently in our conversation. “We Japanese hold phoenix in very
great esteem.... One of the rooms in the Imperial Palace is called
Phoenix Room. It is most beautiful.” More importantly, Mr. Yamada had
written out for us, in his amazingly neat script, an account of the
place of the phoenix in Oriental mythology—“He is legendary king of the
birds appearing to reign only in time of universal peace.” In turn Mr.
Yamada seemed both awed and incredulous when we told him of the Western
concept: that the phoenix is eternally born again from the ashes of its
own destruction.
“Perhaps—world peace—shall rise from the ashes of Hiroshima,” he
murmured.
“Mr. Yamada,” I asked, “what would you think of the name of _Phoenix_
for our boat?”
“_Phoenix_....” Mr. Yamada echoed the word softly. “Yes.... I
think—maybe a very good name. Very—auspicious.”
And that was that.
The next step was to arrange for a suitable figurehead—naturally a
phoenix. A local wood carver submitted an ambitious design. We managed
to tame his enthusiasm somewhat, but our present compromise, carved from
a solid block of camphorwood, is still a very impressive bird.
By now it was fall and we had begun to adjust our sights to a December
launching. After all, that would be only six months late! The work was
going along well and all seemed serene when suddenly, like the collapse
of a pricked balloon, everything stopped. On several consecutive visits
we saw no workmen, no progress, no signs of life. Yotsuda-san seemed not
to be available.
There was only one thing to do. Rounding up the “team,” I called a
conference. Mrs. Yotsuda was sternly warned to have her husband there.
Yotsuda-san came to the meeting, but it was only after long prodding
that the reason for the delay came out. Yotsuda had run out of money.
Without pay, the workmen—even though they were his relatives—wouldn’t
work. Therefore, he needed money—not more than the contract called for,
but the next installment in advance of the due date.
After getting this straight, I advanced the sum needed. When
Yotsuda-san, bowing his apologies all the way out of sight, had
departed, I asked the natural question.
“Why didn’t he tell me at once? Why waste so much time?”
“Yotsuda-san was very much ashamed,” Mr. Yasuda explained.
“Ashamed because he needed money?”
“Yes. Contract says, ‘Next payment when masts stepped,’ but masts not
stepped yet, so Yotsuda-san is ashamed to ask for money. It is a great
disgrace to the Japanese people.”
“To the Japanese _people_?”
“Yes. You are foreign gentleman. You have made very careful contract. To
foreigners, contract is important. So Japanese people much disgraced if
Yotsuda-san cannot keep contract.”
“Don’t Japanese people have contracts among themselves?”
“Of course!” said Mr. Yasuda. “They _have_ contracts, but do not _use_
them. If contract is no good, they forget it.”
“Mr. Yasuda,” I said, “tell Yotsuda-san to forget the contract and build
the boat.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Yasuda happily. “I think it would be much better.”
With the threat of disgrace from contractual obligations removed from
Yotsuda’s shoulders, together with judicious advances of small sums at
regular intervals, work again proceeded slowly and happily, interrupted
only by the prolonged O-bon festivals of the fall months, the bad
weather in November, and of course by the expected hiatus at New Year’s.
By early March the work was far enough along so that I thought we should
discuss a definite date for the launching, but I was determined that
this date, once set, would not be postponed, and stressed this strongly
at the next group meeting.
Mr. Yasuda seemed surprised. “But date for launching is already
decided.”
“Ah so desuka!—You don’t say!” I remarked. “Who decided it?”
Mr. Yasuda consulted his companions. “The priests at Miya Jima shrine,”
he announced.
“Oh—naturally. And the date—may I ask when it is?”
“The fifth of May, a very good day. The priests say this is a lucky day.
Also, it is big spring tide and you cannot launch except at highest
tide. And it is Boys’ Day—Japanese national holiday—so everyone will
come!”
This seemed to be an unbeatable combination, so May 5 was set as L day.
In the meantime, we were busy as never before. We hung the rudder—a big,
barn-door affair, on which the ironwork alone weighed 500 pounds. We
sanded, puttied, and painted. And we stepped the masts, an all-day job
using manpower alone. For this task the Hiroshima University Yacht Club,
of which Nick and Takemura were members, turned out in a body to help.
Even the press took notice, reporting that “A gigantic yacht is building
near Miya Jima Guchi.” Compared to the snipes and sailing dinghies of
the local yacht clubs, the _Phoenix_ did indeed look gigantic as she
reared up in her makeshift cradle, towering above the roof (now
repaired) of Yotsuda’s humble home-shipyard.
As the date approached, our craft, superficially at least, began to take
on the appearance of a boat. For the moment we refused to think of the
work yet to be done: all the interior joiner work, the engine
installation, the tanks, the deck-iron work, the standing and running
rigging, the sails. And beyond this, such items as clothing, supplies,
stores, navigation equipment, charts—literally hundreds of individual
items to be obtained. And at the end of it all, the cruise itself, for
which the entire undertaking was merely preparation. Of this last stage
I dared not, at the moment, even think.
In the last hectic weeks before launching Barbara took over a number of
items that had been added to the already lengthy list of Things to be
Done. She located an upholsterer who could cover the frames for our
seats and couches; she arranged for our weekly “sewing girl” to shift
her talents from shirts and dresses to such necessary items as mattress
covers, canvas cushions, and a complete set of signal flags.
All in all the family didn’t see too much of each other as we moved into
the home stretch, but we consoled ourselves by thinking that once we
moved aboard we’d be together constantly. This prospect was not one of
unalloyed bliss, however, especially when Ted and Jessica tangled in a
brother-sister dispute. At such times we were inclined to agree with
Tim, who had announced violently, “I simply couldn’t _live_ with my
family on a fifty-foot boat!”
Soon thereafter Tim announced his decision to return to the States and
go to college, rather than accompany us on our voyage. Barbara was
disconsolate.
“It was one thing when I thought we’d all be in this together,” she
tried to explain, “but with Tim in the States—and the rest of us out of
touch for weeks at a time—possibly months—” She paused, and we both
finished the thought silently, Maybe forever.
“Families,” wailed Jessica, “ought to stay together! I don’t want Tim to
go!”
None of us did, but it was his decision to make. We let him go with our
blessing, and went ahead with our plans. Barbara determined to do
everything possible to draw the rest of us even closer together.
The last forty-eight hours before launching was a time of continuous
work, accompanied by the hammering of shipwrights, who removed most of
the scaffolding and poised the _Phoenix_ in her launching cradle. They
also had to demolish a portion of the heavy sea wall so that the ways
could be extended out over the water. On the last night work continued
long hours after dark, by the light of bonfires. The men themselves were
considerably lit up by several cases of beer, so it was a tired but
musical gang who saw the sun come up as the job was finally completed.
During the night Takemura-san, Nick, and I completed our preparations
for the launching ceremonies, which had blossomed until they were far
more elaborate than anything I had ever imagined or wanted. Much of this
was due to the activities of Takemura, the prospective first mate, who
had shown himself a bit unreliable in the matter of solid work but now
proved himself to be a born master of ceremonies.
Among other things he had arranged elaborate king-size badges, to be
worn by all participants. It was during the preparation of these badges
that the first faint signs of future complications put in an appearance.
At four in the morning Takemura approached and through Nick indicated
that he needed to consult with me. Nick’s English, which had improved
remarkably during the months we’d known him, was still strained a bit
when conversations got beyond the realm of the strictly functional.
“Takemura-san wants to know what to write on badge,” said Nick.
“Do we _have_ to have badges?” I asked desperately, but I already knew
the answer to that one.
“Of course,” said Nick. “Always have badges—very important.”
“Okay,” I said resignedly. “On Oku-san—Mrs. Reynolds’ badge, write
Cook.”
“Just—Cook?” repeated Nick, aghast.
“No—better make it Chief Bosun’s Mate,” I hastily amended.
“Ah, taihen ii desu—Very good!” approved Takemura when Nick translated.
The title was duly brushed in, in beautiful Japanese ideographs.
I was getting warmer now. “And on this badge—” taking up Ted’s—“write
Assistant Navigator, and on Jessica-san’s badge write Cabin Girl.” This
was done, and Nick, who had been officially signed on, was given the
title of second mate. Then there was a pause, and I could sense some
sort of crisis.
“Reynolds-san, your badge. Takemura-san asks what to write.”
“Why, Captain, I should think. Unless you want something fancier?”
“Captain. Ah so desuka!” Takemura sucked air and bowed very low. All at
once I got it.
“Yes,” I repeated firmly, “Captain. And on your badge write First Mate
or Navigator in Chief—or both. Just as you please.”
The last two titles were recorded in a rather tense silence. I realized
for the first time that Takemura had coveted the senior title and that
this entire build-up may have been designed solely to establish that one
point. Well, it’s been established, I thought. It’s settled, once and
for all. As I discovered later, it settled something, all right, but not
what I expected.
By dawn a crowd had begun to arrive, and we shared breakfast coffee with
a dozen early well-wishers. The family came soon after, driven out in a
truck along with the housegirls, the sewing girl, the gardener, and any
number of large paper fish (for flying on high during Boys’ Day),
ceremonial rice cakes, and various bottles of sake which had been
dropped off at the house during the preceding evening. The most
_appreciated_ present, bar none, was the three-colored kitten which
Jessica was clutching tightly in her arms.
“Miss Uchida says a three-colored cat is lucky on a boat,” Jessica
announced. “Its name is spelled m-i-k-e—Mee-kay, not Mike—and that
_means_ three-colored, and it will catch rats when it gets big.”
“Just what we needed!” we managed to proclaim, to her intense relief.
In spite of my forebodings, Barbara had not forgotten to bring the
champagne and a bag of netting to cover it, so the glass wouldn’t be
sprayed at the critical moment. The bottle was promptly hung from the
bow, convenient to the platform that had been erected for the
ceremonies. Beyond this we had barely a moment to exchange a conjugal
word (“Did you remember to bring the lanterns I left on the porch?”
“Yes.”) before we were surrounded by friends who shoved bouquets and
gift-wrapped parcels into our hands and asked us to pose, together with
reporters, who held microphones of portable tape recorders in front of
our faces, and press photographers, who begged for “Just one more,
please!”
Long before noon all the choice vantage points, including nearby hills
and the roof of Yotsuda-san’s house, were filled with people. By eleven
o’clock there was no room left on shore, and very little left on the
water. At 11:30 the program began, and promptly at the tick of noon the
_Phoenix_ was launched.
2 PREPARATIONS
FOR A VOYAGE
“Cruising is walking, talking, buying, scrounging ... but cruising is
also sailing.”
It was almost dark before visitors ceased to stream aboard the
_Phoenix_, now riding at anchor in the bay. Then it was time for me to
go ashore for a conference with the owner of the sampan we had wrecked
during the launching.
After that, I told Barbara, Ted and I would attend a party ashore, given
for everyone even remotely connected with the building of the
boat—except, of course, females. For the first time Barbara appeared
recalcitrant.
“Do Jessica and I stay on board here alone?” she asked.
“No, you go on back to the house. The Yacht Club boys will keep anchor
watch. Come back out tomorrow.”
“It was nice knowing you,” Barbara said, climbing down into the dinghy.
“I hope you and the _Phoenix_ have a wonderful honeymoon.”
Only after Barbara had left did it occur to me that she had really
_wanted_ to stay on board, even without bunks or conveniences. I
suddenly realized that my actions must have revealed my misgivings about
the family, their adaptability and willingness to “take it.”
The conference with the sampan owner was protracted. His boat, badly
holed, had been hauled up on the beach, a mute testimonial to the
ruggedness of the _Phoenix_, which was barely scratched.
The victim readily admitted his responsibility. He had been warned to
stand clear and had ignored the warning. On the other hand, it was the
_Phoenix_ that had been launched. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been there.
If he hadn’t come he wouldn’t have lost his sampan. Obviously, it was
nobody’s _fault_—it was the will of the gods. However, since the captain
of the _Phoenix_ was a rich man—
I hastened to correct that statement.
—Well, anyway, richer than the sampan owner, and since this was an
auspicious day when everybody should be happy, perhaps a sympathy
offering....
“How much sympathy would the sampan owner need?” I inquired cautiously.
This required a long conference, but it came out to 2,000 yen—about
$5.50 American. I announced that I could be _that_ sympathetic, and the
offering was duly made. With mutual expressions of esteem and
satisfaction the conference broke up, and we moved on to the evening’s
festivities.
This party, for which preparations had been under way for weeks, cast me
in the dual role of guest and host. As guest, I was given the seat of
honor; as host, I was expected to foot the bill. I hasten to add that I
was by no means being victimized; it is the custom of the country.
Besides, the whole affair came to less than a hundred dollars, including
a bonus to each worker in proportion to his work.
It is also worth mentioning that Yotsuda-san never so much as hinted
that a bonus should be given to him or that he should be paid more than
the contract called for. This, in spite of dire predictions by fellow
Americans—“old Japan hands”—who had warned me gloomily throughout that
I’d be “taken for a ride.” What they failed to recognize was that Mr.
Yotsuda was a completely honest man.
Late that night, after the party, Ted and I relaxed on deck, listening
to the rustling of the tide as it slipped gently past the hull. Our
first night aboard our yacht! In fact, I mused ruefully, it was the
first night I had ever spent aboard _any_ yacht. Ahead of us lay an
unknown future but here, tonight, lying on deck and watching the stars
overhead swing slowly in gentle arcs, I was at peace.
Early the next morning the _Phoenix_ was towed to Hiroshima harbor, and
the next stage of work began. A cabinetmaker and three workmen, complete
with tools and lumber, moved aboard and began to carry out our plans for
the interior accommodations.
Four main areas had been laid out. There were to be seven permanent
bunks, each a tiny unshared domain. Two bunks were in the forecastle,
just aft of the forepeak and chain locker. Between the forecastle and
the main cabin an area was laid out to starboard for the head (American
fixtures) and to port for a large and waterproof sail locker.
The large central cabin contained two more bunks, the main companionway,
galley, lounge, and food and storage lockers.
Aft of the main cabin, and raised two feet, was the “ladies’ cabin.” It
was to be finished in Oriental cabinet woods and ornamented with a
ramma, or carved bas relief, and a miniature tokonoma, a replica of the
family shrine that graces the main room of every Japanese home. Beneath
the floor of this cabin was a large area for food storage.
At sea, there would be no traffic through the ladies’ cabin, everyone
forward using the main companionway. Aft of the ladies’ cabin was a
small cabin for the skipper, with navigation table and chart drawers.
Beneath the floor was the engine space, and a small hatch led directly
to the cockpit abaft the mizzenmast.
The entire arrangement seemed well adapted to our needs, giving adequate
ventilation, but allowing a certain amount of privacy.
Once the _Phoenix_ was afloat and nearer the house, family participation
picked up. Barbara took a particular interest in the galley, and made a
number of changes in cupboard and drawer arrangements. She and Jessica
also ran a series of experiments in food preservation and provisioning,
including a number of methods of preserving eggs. Each egg was carefully
marked as to process used and date, and every few days one of the batch
was tested—naturally on me. In the end we found the simple practice of
greasing the eggs with oleo to be the most practical.
Meanwhile, most of my free time was spent away from home, working on the
boat or roaming the streets and alleys of Kure and Hiroshima, with a few
jaunts as far afield as Kobe, Osaka, and Yokohama. Only too well did we
learn that cruising is not just sailing—it is walking, talking (in
halting Japanese), buying, planning, scrounging, compromising—for months
and months—and all on dry land. Nevertheless, we did manage to save
several thousand dollars by these efforts.
Our sails were made up by the Ohara (that is not an Irish name!) Company
of Yokohama and required, before negotiations were completed, three
trips upcountry—a day’s journey each way. Drawing up the sail plans was
a task on which I had burned a lot of midnight oil, and after the
contracts were let I could only hope there had been no slip of the
pencil.
At last the day came when a dozen bundles, carefully wrapped in rice
straw, were dumped on the Hiroshima dock. Eagerly we opened them, to be
greeted by an exciting odor of canvas, manila, and tar. Inside were the
sails, gleaming white. One by one we checked them, stretching each in
its appointed place. Outwardly businesslike and matter of fact, I was
tremendously relieved to see that each sail had been properly designed.
We now had a mainsail, mizzen, forestaysail and jib (these four lowers
giving about 1,000 square feet), plus a mizzen staysail, topsail, top
jib, storm trysail, and storm jib. We had spares for the main and
foresail. (Later, in Honolulu, we added a genoa.)
The arrival of the sails was a high spot during a time which was
otherwise rushed, uncertain, and confused. Crew problems were beginning
to emerge. We had been aware that Takemura-san was becoming increasingly
uneasy. Instead of moving aboard to help with the rigging and final
fitting-out, as we had agreed upon, and as Nick had done, Takemura
became less and less dependable and often failed to show up at all. One
night, after a long conference which put a heavy strain on both Nick’s
English and his loyalties, the two men went up on deck and talked for
several hours.
The next morning Takemura-san came to me, shook hands long and
earnestly, and with real tears in his eyes, said “Sayonara.” He rowed
ashore and out of our lives, leaving us not only without a mate, but
without a dinghy, as this had been his contribution to the _Phoenix_.