steering, inside telltale, lifeboat, and two spares); four watches and a
chronometer (rated); three barometers and a barograph; a sextant;
anemometer; inclinometer (never used); thermometers of various kinds; a
complete set of signal flags; several pairs of binoculars; and, of
course, the necessary navigation books, sailing directions and charts,
and the 1954 nautical almanac which Takemura had left with us at his
departure.
We had a spare battery radio, with batteries, wrapped in a moistureproof
package, and an emergency fresh-water still. We had adequate sail repair
equipment and materials, tools of every description, and a quantity of
spare lumber, in case fairly extended additions or repairs proved
necessary at sea.
Our medicine chest, a gift from the doctors at the Casualty Commission
in Hiroshima, was unusually complete, from antibiotics to scalpels.
Barbara had taken a survey course in emergency medicine under our good
friend Dr. George Hazlehurst. She had passed the final examination with
honors by successfully injecting a grapefruit and suturing a sausage. As
Ted wryly observed, if anything went wrong with grapefruits or sausages,
we were all prepared.
As for education and entertainment, we were supplied and oversupplied.
In addition to textbooks, we had a complete set of the Encyclopaedia
Britannica, the Book of Knowledge, and some three hundred additional
books. We had decks of cards, and kits for checkers, chess, and
backgammon; and sets of Mahjong and Scrabble for family games. We had a
handcranking phonograph and a wide selection of records. Ted’s
grandmother, Minnetta Leonard, had even sent him a plastic ukulele,
evidently in the fond hope that he would be prepared for the beach at
Waikiki.
In everything except that important commodity, deep-sea experience, I
felt we were ready. If we were fools to embark without that vital item,
at least we were fools who were operating within a framework of adequate
preparation and common sense.
As to the mental preparation of the ship’s company, that was difficult
to assay. Barbara had taken over without demur whatever tasks were
assigned to her, and Jessica wrote faithfully in her diary, but neither
of them asked questions or appeared to be overly concerned. Whether due
to an inability to imagine what deep-sea life would be like or utter
confidence in the Skipper, it seemed to put an extra burden on me.
As for the three Japanese men, they were, during the preparation and the
trip through the Inland Sea, completely unconcerned in certain areas,
and very active in others. Although well-educated men, they seemed quite
content with manual skills: carpentry, painting, sail handling, and deck
seamanship. They appeared to have no interest in the sailing plans,
navigational methods, or the operation of the radio or auxiliary engine.
Also, as far as I could detect, they didn’t seem to be worried.
On the morning of October 26, the Rev. Raymond Christopher, a British
missionary, visited us and held a short service aboard, asking a
blessing on our journey. His solemn words sent a sudden chill through us
and more than any other event made us realize some of the implications
of our departure.
That evening we sailed from Takamatsu.
Our leave-taking was strongly reminiscent of Hiroshima: crowds, press,
last-minute gifts, bilingual confusion, tears. But there was one vital
exception: we knew that this time we were heading not for the quiet
waters of the Inland Sea but for the Hawaiian Islands, across more than
4,000 miles of open ocean.
The day was hectic, culminating in a formal send-off, for radio and
national TV, presided over by the governor of Kagawa Prefecture. The
circumstances surrounding our departure are shown in the log:
Final preparations completed, immigration cleared, and check made with
Coast Guard; decided to leave on afternoon of Oct. 26. News of Typhoon
18 (now making up near Philippines) was received, and decision made to
proceed until more details available. Decided to try to get through
Naruto Straits if possible, rather than go all the way around Awaji
Shima.
Also I notified the U.S. Navy in Yokosuka of the date and time of our
departure, our approximate route, and the estimated length of our trip
(45 days, based on an assumed distance, by sailing route, of 4,500
miles, and an average of 100 miles per day). I informed them, as I had
the local Coast Guard, that we had no facilities for sending radio
messages, only for receiving. We did, however, have a small
hand-operated emergency set (Gibson Girl) on which we could send an
automatic SOS at limited range, but this would be used only in direst
emergency.
We crossed Harima Nada during the night and reached Naruto Straits the
following afternoon. The narrow passage to the open ocean looked
formidable. Even without binoculars we could see a white wall of foam as
the tide fought its way through, at a peak speed of 11 knots. The rips
were between 6 and 9 feet in height. Even as we watched, a large ship
battered its way through but another, which had not been so lucky, could
be seen stranded on rocks in mid-channel.
We decided in any event not to attempt the straits at night, but to
check with the local fishermen and get their opinion. If they agreed it
was feasible for our boat, we would try the passage at slack tide the
next morning. So we crossed to Marugame, where we anchored, while the
Japanese men rowed ashore to talk to the inhabitants. From them we
received a golden nugget of advice: “When the fishing boats go through,
you go through.”
After the others had gone to bed, Ted and I reviewed the strategy for
perhaps the hundredth time. It was very simple—in theory. We would head
east as fast as was consistent with safety, to get beyond the area of
the late-season typhoons as soon as possible. We would sail as far south
as we could, though still keeping within range of the prevailing
westerlies and the eastward-flowing Japanese current. In this way we
would get the benefit of warmer weather and less severe storms.
In handling the boat we would try to keep a good margin of safety, never
overpressing, and we would reduce sail at night during unsettled
weather, until we knew our ship and had gained experience and confidence
in our abilities.
When we finally reached a position north of the Hawaiian Islands, we
would turn south, using the engine if necessary to help us through the
band of Horse Latitudes and into the northeast trades. We would try to
raise the island of Molokai, the long island in the center of the group,
and proceed to Honolulu.
This, in brief, was our plan.
There was only one way to find out whether it would work.
3 FROM JAPAN
TO HONOLULU
“The long shakedown ... a seven-week course in How to Sail.”
Before dawn we weighed anchor and sailed down to join the fishing fleet
near the strait and at 0955 we fell in with a procession heading through
Naruto. Great whirlpools, a threat to the small boat when the tide is
running, were still circling turgidly, but now, during the slack, they
had no power. In a short time, with a fair breeze, we were in Kii Suido,
which funnels out to the open sea. This cutoff saved us about three
days—and later was to result in newspaper headlines in our own country
and in Japan that would cause much anxiety to family and friends.
The morning was mild and sunny. Our ship rose and fell gently in the
long swells, so different from the shorter, choppier waves of the Inland
Sea. We headed south to round the headland. As a first taste of ocean
sailing, we thought, this isn’t half bad!
It took only twelve hours for the Pacific to put us in our place. Toward
evening the barometer began to fall, the wind rose, and the seas built
up fast. During the night we lost—permanently—any complacency we may
have had. The men were all kept busy on deck, fastening down the crates
of provisions which should have been better secured before we left, and
putting extra lashings on fuel drums, water tank, and extra spars. The
boat plunged frantically as one wave after another lifted her high or
smashed against her sides.
The rain came, in a fury, and on deck the sounds of wind and wave
drowned out everything except a shout at top voice. We began very
quickly to accumulate that experience we had lacked. “But won’t you be
seasick?” We were—and by the time we had the answer it was too late for
any remedies to have effect—they didn’t stay with us long enough!
Below decks everything that could fall fell; everything that could break
broke. The low railings we had just put around tables and
shelves—modest, unobtrusive fiddles—proved to be completely ineffective.
We had brought plenty of extra lumber and fastenings on the assumptions
that a few spots of carpentry might be needed while underway, but that
first night there was nothing we could do but make a mental note:
“Higher fiddles.”
Our beautiful mugs—with their hand-painted phoenix designs of which we
had been so proud—swung violently on their hooks and, one by one, parted
company with their handles and crashed across the cabin. It was obvious
that nothing fragile was going to survive this trip—and that included
people.
Barbara doggedly cooked supper but no one felt like eating. The girls
were told to climb into their bunks and pay no attention to any crashes
which might occur in the galley. No mental effort, however, made it
possible to ignore the smash of waves against the hull. Each one that
hit sounded like a sledge hammer striking an empty drum—a nerve-racking
experience for those on the inside. In addition, the shouts on deck and
the pounding of feet overhead carried below with an urgency that was
frightening, since the clamor of the elements, which made the shouting
necessary, was somewhat shut out by the heavy planking.
By midnight, although Barbara still lay awake expecting each moment to
be her last, we were in better shape on deck. Once we had succeeded in
getting everything secure, we “jankenned” for the first watch—the
“scissors, paper, stone” method of selection traditional in Japan—and
began a routine of two hours on, eight hours off, which we would
maintain around the clock from now on.
The sequence of watches, which was continued without alteration for the
next three years, was as follows: Moto, Mickey, Nick, Ted, Skipper.
There was a reason for this. Ted, the youngest, was placed between Nick
and Skipper; Mickey, whose English was poorest, was sandwiched between
Moto and Nick.
The first official watch having been determined, and the sequence agreed
upon, those off duty went to their bunks. I had no desire to go below,
however, but remained in the cockpit to study the behavior of our ship.
The _Phoenix_ climbed to meet each rushing wave, slid into the trough,
and rose again to the next challenge. She never tired, never faltered. I
had heard about this, and read about it in books, but now, for the first
time, I was experiencing the wonder of it, a wonder I have never lost.
Wet, miserable, sick, and not a little frightened by the tumult about
me—even so, I was happy.
By the next morning we were out of sight of land and our dead reckoning
put us far enough to the south to clear the point. We changed course to
the east and the long shakedown was truly underway. Ahead of us,
according to my calculations, lay about a seven-week course in How to
Sail. If we were able to pass it, I was sure we would be able to go
anywhere on earth; if we failed—well, there would be nothing more for us
to worry about.
It was our hope that in the next few days we would sight one of the
small islands, preferably Hachijo-shima, that fan out into the Pacific
south from Tokyo. This would give us a good departure—and also assurance
that we had left the islands safely behind us!
During the day I took my first sextant shot at sea, while Ted worked out
the sights. We were dismayed briefly when we discovered that the
nautical almanac inherited from Takemura was printed—naturally enough—in
Japanese. Fortunately, numerals were the same as in English, and the
only critical ideographs—“toward” and “away”—were easily translated for
us by Nick. Though we had difficulties, both in getting a good shot and
in working out the calculations, it was easier than we dared hope. We
were sure that, with practice, we could handle this assignment. Once
past the islands, there would be a whole oceanful of sea room and plenty
of time to learn the business.
The weather continued clearing during the day and the seas moderated.
All of us felt better, and everyone helped get our gear in order and
stowed in more seamanlike fashion. Our losses were mostly crockery and
expendable items, and nothing of any real importance had been broken,
including that most essential item, morale.
Several ships passed along the horizon during the day, one of them an
American aircraft carrier and another—as strange an anachronism as we
ourselves—the magnificent four-masted training ship of the Japanese
Merchant Marine, the _Nippon Maru_.
In the afternoon we had a feathered visitor, which flew on board and
settled down to preen itself in the forward rigging, ignoring the
raucous complaints of Mi-ke. It stayed for several hours, giving us an
opportunity for close inspection, including photographs, and it is our
unanimous and unshakable opinion that our friend was an American robin.
Many a mate to this little creature we had seen in the yard of our home
back in Yellow Springs, Ohio! How it got to the coastal waters of Japan
we didn’t know. Was it a pet, escaped from the flattop we had seen
earlier? Farfetched, but possible. At any rate, toward evening it flew
away, while Jessica rushed below to enter full details in her Journal.
For the next two days we sailed east, with fair weather. We were
beginning to get organized and to find our sea legs although Barbara,
who had the least desirable job on the boat, continued to suffer from
recurrent malaise every time she entered the galley. Food had assumed a
tremendous importance in all our lives, and she realized that to fail
even once in the preparation of a meal would only make the next
defection easier. And so, queasy though she was and unappetizing as the
very thought of food seemed to her, she wired the pots to the stove and
doggedly turned out an amazing variety of hearty dishes.
In addition to the galley, Barbara was responsible for three other
important departments: health, recreation, and education. She set
regular times for Jessica’s lessons, while Ted, although carrying a full
load as a working member of the crew, also carried on with his studies.
However, the elements had something to say about leisure time. On the
afternoon of October 31, just as we were beginning to congratulate
ourselves on our fine adaptation to life at sea, the barometer again
began to fall, this time in earnest. There was no doubt we were in for
trouble. That night the Pacific really lowered the boom.
My log merely says, “At midnight, high waves and strong wind. Hove to
for night, under reefed mizzen and storm jib.”
How often I had read, in published logs and stories of cruising, such
cryptic sentences, and how often I had tried to imagine the
circumstances! That night I began to get some idea, but it is not easy
to put a reader in my place.
First, it is rough, and I don’t mean rocking-chair rough—I mean rough
enough to break a leg, if you are thrown across the deck, or to smash in
your skull, if a swinging block hits you. Outside the cockpit, you must
hold on at all times, especially when working far forward. This means
that everything must be done in slow motion just at a time when all your
instincts tell you to rush.
Below decks, it is necessary to chock yourself in some safe corner or to
hold on continuously as you move about. “One hand for the boat” is not
just a catch phrase but an essential habit that must be developed, and
Barbara, who was reluctant to abandon her instinct for two-handed
efficiency in preparing or serving a meal, was a mass of bruises until
she learned this basic lesson.
Second, it is noisy, and this means noisy at a level which tempts one to
panic. On deck, the high-pitched howling of the wind cuts through all
lesser noises. In order to be heard, even if your companion is right
beside you, it is necessary to shout. Below, out of the wind, it seems
at first almost quiet, but the ship groans with a thousand noises, there
are mysterious knocks and grinds, and at this stage of your experience
every sound is ominous and sinister. Occasionally there is the sudden
boom and the shock of a wave as it slams against the hull. _That’s_ when
you’re thankful for two-inch planking and four-by-six deck beams!
Finally, there is the sight of the waves, each one mountainous and
impersonally lethal. You know it would take only one to finish you, and
that there are plenty more where that one came from. You wonder how the
ship can possibly take it. Just at this moment you don’t wonder about
yourself, because you’re too busy trying to reduce your canvas and set
up your storm sails. Your whole life narrows to a concentrated attention
on the state of the sea, the strength of the wind, the look of the sky,
and the behavior of your boat. Whether you admit it or not, fear is your
shipmate, and depending upon your temperament, you work the better or
the worse because of it.
You may or may not enjoy the experience of sailing a small boat in rough
weather on the open sea, but I can assure you of one thing—you
positively will not be bored!
After several hours of labor, we finally had the boat hove to. It was
our first experience in this maneuver, and it was a wonderful feeling to
see how well the _Phoenix_ behaved. With the sails properly trimmed and
the tiller lashed, she lay head to the wind, quartering out of the
trough, no longer fighting the seas, but riding them like a duck,
drifting slowly downwind. Below, the motion became relatively
comfortable, and it was possible to cook a good meal and enjoy eating
it, and to rest quietly in the bunk.
Three times, during the course of our first passage, we hove to thus,
when the weather became too rough for safe sailing. However, after we
had gained experience and confidence we carried on through seas which at
first would have tempted us to heave to.
On the afternoon of November 1 we sighted Hachijo-shima, dead ahead, and
changed our course to pass well to the north of it. The island was a
comforting sight, since it gave us a definite position, against which we
could check our dead reckoning and our accuracy with the sextant. Also,
having passed these islands, there would be no more land to worry about
between here and the Hawaiian Islands. At this stage of our experience,
what we needed more than anything else was plenty of sea room.
Late that night, with Hachijo-shima astern on the starboard quarter, we
saw a smaller island looming up to the north. We knew from the charts
that this should be Miyake; however, it showed a light, with a 15-second
interval, and Miyake had no light. A careful search of our list of
Japanese coastal lights, and an inspection of our charts, showed no such
light listed for this area, so I was considerably worried. Could we
possibly be in the wrong position? Ted and I were convinced we were not,
but Nick thought our position might be much farther south and the island
we had seen earlier might not have been Hachijo-shima at all.
I checked again, widening my range, searching all the charts within a
radius of several hundred miles. There were no 15-second lights, in any
location, which could conceivably be ours. No sleep for me that night,
as we kept the island in sight, and I checked and wondered.
At dawn, by studying the contours of the land, we were able to identify
it positively, light or no light, as Miyake. We sailed on, but I still
had a nagging worry in the back of my mind. If one could not depend upon
the light lists and charts....
Two days later, in the evening weather forecast of November 3, the
Japanese radio announced that on November 1 a 15-second light had been
established on Miyake-shima. We had seen it on its first night’s
operation!
I mention this little incident because it serves to bring out, as well
as any other, several points which are important. First, in a cruise of
this kind it is not safe to take anything for granted. I remember
talking to a young chap in Fiji who, with his companion, had been
approaching the Society Islands from the west. According to their
calculations, they were a good 50 miles out, so they set their sails and
both retired for the night. They were awakened about two in the morning
by the distinctly unpleasant sound of their keel hitting a coral reef.
Their boat was a total loss. They actually _had_ been 50 miles out, but
what they had taken for granted was that there was open water all the
way. What they had overlooked was the existence of the small island some
miles to the west of Tahiti, which they had the bad luck to run onto in
the night.
Another lesson I learned from the Miyake incident was that no matter how
carefully you prepare, how many precautions you may take, something
unanticipated is bound to come up. When it does, it should be met in a
way that will give the greatest margin of safety to the ship. If the
chart indicates there is a one-knot westerly drift, assume it could be
as much as two knots—one of these times it will be. If the anchorage is
strange and the weather uncertain, set an anchor watch, no matter how
sleepy you are. For ninety-nine nights you’ll lose your sleep and
nothing will happen, but on the hundredth night you’ll save your ship.
This point of view, in a number of instances, may have caused me to err
on the side of caution—I know for a fact that our Japanese crewmen
tended to regard me as cautious to the point of obsession. But when they
became impatient, or at times clearly disapproving, I reminded myself
that, after all, the responsibility was mine. This was my dream, my
family, and my boat—and I had to make the decisions.
Whether these precautions were excessive I have no way of knowing, but I
treasure the observation that Nick made, almost grudgingly, after the
successful completion of the trip:
“If other boys and I had been boss, we’d have gone on reef many times!”
I accepted the admission in the spirit in which it was meant, and
refrained from pointing out that it might not be necessary to run on the
reef “many times.” Once might be quite enough.
Finally, there is the practical matter of sleep. Unless you can snatch
it at odd intervals, and when necessary get along without that precious
commodity for long periods and still maintain your efficiency, you will
have a real handicap on a long ocean passage. You are lucky if you are a
light sleeper, for to awaken promptly when an anchor begins to drag or
when the changed motion of the ship indicates a change in the weather is
better than explaining that you didn’t hear a thing until you hit the
rocks or until the sail blew out. In my case, I found out that a
characteristic which ashore was a liability—the habit of being easily
awakened—was an asset at sea.
As a matter of fact, all of us learned to grab sleep where and as we
could get it. Day ran into night. On a ship there is always someone
awake, and usually someone asleep. Only at mealtimes does everyone
generally put in an appearance, and even then the man on watch must wait
until he is relieved before he can come below and eat. On our first
crossing, when getting ready to go on watch was often a case of putting
on heavy weather gear, it took some nice calculation on Barbara’s part
to serve each meal long enough before the change of watch so that the
man about to go up would have time to eat and dress, and still report
promptly for duty, and the man coming off could come below to a
still-hot meal.
Now we were well on our way, and there was no turning back. Until we
passed the islands, perhaps in all our minds had been the knowledge that
actually we were still close to land, and might if necessary put in or
send out a call on the emergency radio. But now we were heading into the
empty North Pacific, well outside the shipping lanes. Soon we would be
far beyond the range of our tiny sending set, and for the rest of the
4,000-mile trip, until we reached Hawaii, we would be completely on our
own.
In the first several days we saw a ship or two, and on November 10 a
four-engined plane passed over us. After that, nothing ... with one
exception.