anything was sighted. According to my log, this is what happened one
dark night:
11/13. Poor run yesterday, high wind and higher waves. Slogged it out,
but everyone sick of the jouncing. Slept fairly well, as waves
gradually subsided. At 0400, Mickey, at the tiller, poked his head
down the hatch. “Reynolds-sensei,” he said, without expression.
“Yes?” I asked sleepily.
“Fune desu—boat.”
“Chikai desuka?—Is it close?”
“Hai, so desu—Yes, it is,” noncommitally.
I jumped up and poked my head out. When Mickey said close he meant
_close_. Just off our stern was a flattop, looking as big as a
mountain, which seemed to be bearing right down on us. I jumped to the
cabintop and waved our kerosene lantern frantically, while Mickey, as
ordered, turned the flashlight on the sails.
After a long minute the carrier slowly changed its course to port and
gradually faded out of sight.
“Good,” said Mickey, his first sign of interest in the matter and
incidentally the first word of English I had ever heard him speak.
The following day I amended my order to add that I was to be notified
_as soon as_ anything was sighted. It cost me more sleep, but I didn’t
begrudge that. I usually woke up anyway at the change of watch, every
two hours, and took a look around—but I managed to average out my quota
of rest, and actually felt in fine shape.
The weeks at sea could never be disentangled in our memories were it not
for the help of the ship’s log, Barbara’s diary, and most vividly of
all, Jessica’s Journal. Disdaining such mundane things as barometer
readings and the state of the sea, she concerned herself with vital
matters, such as the activities of Mi-ke or the winners in our family
games. When she thought ship events were sufficiently noteworthy to
merit attention, she recorded them in her own style. Here are two
interpretations of the same event:
_From the ship’s log_: Last night, about 2300, a very large wave,
quite out of proportion to even the largest of the then current seas,
broke over the ship. Estimated height about six feet above deck.
Half-filled cockpit, drenched my bunk through the afterhatch and
Moto’s bunk through the main companionway. Swept several small loose
items overboard, and thoroughly drenched man at tiller (me) with solid
water. Only one such wave—only solid water on deck all night.
_From Jessica’s Journal_: In the night while Skipper was on watch he
just happened to look to the North. He saw a great wall of water four
times the size of the biggest wave come charging toward the _Phoenix_.
It was coming from a completely different direction from the other
waves, and didn’t just go gently under, heeling us a sukoshi (little).
It came over, soaked Skipper, flowed down the hatches, and swooshed
around in Skip’s bunk. It was a couple of minutes before the cockpit
emptied and the water stopped coming down the hatches and we came up
again. Skip says the wave was the only one of its size and kind, and
maybe caused by an underwater earthquake. Mum says we heeled down and
down on her side until she was sure we’d tip all the way over. I bet
the _lifelines_ skimmed the water that time! We realized how strongly
the boat’s built because some boats would have been smashed up by that
wave.
As to the human aspect of the voyage, I note in my log after the first
few days, “Relations between all most cordial and friendly—I think this
biracial setup is working out nicely.” Always in my mind was the
knowledge that our venture was strung upon a chain composed of hundreds
of links, some of which would inevitably wear out and have to be
replaced, and some of which were irreplaceable. I tried to anticipate
and to prevent undue strain upon any one part—rigging, sails, spars—or
men. Which of them would give way first—and at what crucial moment? I
tried to keep myself constantly aware of any evidence of chafing.
The first overt incident to occur involved Nick, the oldest of the three
and my former coworker at the Commission in Hiroshima. Though usually
cheerful, Nick was subject on rare occasions to unexplained moody spells
during which he became almost surly. During one of these periods we had
hauled the mainsail down to repair a seam. Since water from the bilge
had been coming up into our bunks occasionally when we heeled way over,
I said we would pump out the bilge before setting sail again.
Nick abruptly contradicted me. “No. Put up sail first.”
I was at the tiller. “No, Nick,” I insisted. “Once we put the sail up,
we’ll be heeling too far to get all the water out. First we’ll pump.”
“No!”
“We’ll pump first, Nick. Let’s go!”
“Do it yourself!” he suddenly burst out, in a black temper. Nothing like
this had ever happened before and all of us were petrified. We had been
in Japan long enough to know the strong emphasis placed on courtesy and
conformance. We knew that Nick’s outburst, which might have been taken
in stride by Westerners, was an unthinkable breach of Japanese
etiquette.
There was a dead silence which stretched endlessly. Then, without a
word, Nick stepped forward and began to pump the bilge.
After the job was done and the sail up again, Nick came back to the
cockpit and apologized. He said that he knew I was right, but he had
just felt tired. We discussed what we could do about the problem of
getting the bilge cleared when we were heeling and decided that another
pump, with extensions on both sides to the turn of the bilge, would do
the trick. (This was duly installed, in Honolulu, and has proved very
effective.) Then we shook hands, and that ended it. For the rest of the
passage, Nick was his former stolid, dependable self.
The next problem, which set in less dramatically but threatened to be
more serious, concerned Mickey. After we sailed from Hiroshima, and
during our quiet cruise up the Inland Sea, Mickey had been the brightest
and gayest of our group. The ditty he sang constantly, which roughly
translated meant “I’m going to Honolulu where the coconuts grow,” had
earned him the private family nickname of Coconut Boy.
However, after our first bad night on the open ocean, Mickey had quieted
down considerably. He seemed to realize for the first time that there
was a lot of water between him and his coconuts. Gradually his activity
and behavior deteriorated until at last he took to his bunk, rising only
to go to the head and for meals—which he seemed to eat with a fair
appetite.
The first night that Mickey defected completely, Nick and Moto conspired
to absorb his watch between them, without reporting his indisposition.
But by the next day there was no concealing the fact that Mickey “not
feel so good,” and although Nick and Moto offered to continue taking
three-hour watches until he felt better, it was agreed that we would
share and share alike.
From then on, Mickey was relieved of active duty until further notice
and the rest of us went on a schedule of two on and six off. This of
course meant that each man’s watch, instead of shifting each day,
remained the same. Ted drew two dark watches (0400–0600 and 2000–2200)
and found himself carrying a man’s role in earnest. In addition to his
job as navigator, he already doubled as cabin boy—a thankless job that
included siphoning kerosene from the deck drums, draining the dishwater
from under the sink, and keeping the water jugs filled from the main
tanks (we had no pump). It was not an easy life for a sixteen-year-old
who had had few responsibilities for the past three years beyond picking
up his own pajamas—and had often managed to avoid even that by stalling
until one of the Japanese housegirls did it for him.
Yet, Ted responded wonderfully, and I found myself depending on him more
and more. In these modern days fathers aren’t supposed to get to know
their sons, especially their adolescent sons, but in the case of Ted and
myself, never were conditions better for getting acquainted. Ted’s watch
preceded mine, and I often went up a bit early, especially at night, to
give him a reassuring word and stayed on to chat of this and that. His
nature is quiet and reflective; his interests run to mathematics,
astronomy, the sciences, and for relaxation, the classics. Our subjects
ranged far afield and more often than not Ted was the mentor.
Perhaps, as Barbara has since postulated, if Mickey had not “cracked
up,” one of the others would have—and I know she is thinking of herself.
Be that as it may, the heavier burden placed upon us all by Mickey’s
defection served to stiffen the resolution of the others. Mixed with a
very real concern over our ailing member was a growing pride in my
family and I felt almost ashamed of the doubts that had troubled me
before we set sail.
(Only much later was I told of the reservations Barbara and the kids had
secretly entertained, at the prospect of putting to sea with me—a
skipper whom they knew to be quick-tempered, stubborn, and far more apt
to be patient with machines or statistics than with people. My own pride
in their performance under duress was apparently matched by their own
surprised and pleased discovery that I, too, was making a real effort
and apparently succeeding. In the course of that first hard crossing, in
short, all four of us were welded into a close-knit unit based upon
mutual trust.)
At the time, however, Mickey was our main cause for concern and the
basis of many worried conferences. His illness seemed to have no
specific character and responded to no treatment Barbara could devise.
It seemed impossible to pin it down. With Nick as interpreter, we tried
to outline the symptoms, but it was tough going and largely dictionary
work. Sometimes it seemed to center around nausea; sometimes
constipation, or, equally often, dysentery. In general, however, it
seemed to be characterized only by a vague tiredness, occasional
dizziness, a general depression, and a disinclination to get out of bed.
“No pains?”
“No. No pain.”
“Has he been taking the medicine?” (Barbara had tried dramamine,
bonamine, aureomycin, and various other specifics.)
“Yes,” said Nick. “No good.” Mickey weakly put in a word and Nick
translated. “Mickey say, maybe better if you make rice like mother used
to make.”
“What? Like his mother? Well, how did she make it?”
“When Japanese is sick, his mother make special rice, very soft, very
good. If you make soft rice, maybe he be better.”
“Oh, dandy,” breathed Barbara, and repaired to the galley to try cooking
rice gruel for Mickey like his mother used to make. Evidently she didn’t
succeed, for Mickey’s condition didn’t improve. We discussed the
possibility of changing course and heading for Midway, in order to get
competent medical attention, but since Mickey’s condition seemed to be
chronic rather than acute, we decided to carry on.
And so, for three weeks, Mickey was a free-loader. He ate regularly but
took no part in the sailing of the ship. Not until we turned south,
heading directly for the Hawaiian Islands, and began to pick up balmy
winds, blue skies, and fair weather, did Mickey show signs of recovery.
He worked halfheartedly at the simple tasks I assigned merely to get him
up on deck, and at last he announced, through Nick, that he would take
an hour of his watch during the afternoon. We adjusted our schedule
accordingly and gradually, over a period of two or three days, Mickey
felt his way back into full participation. By the time we reached
Honolulu he was again our ebullient Coconut Boy.
Moto, through all this, remained quiet, gentle, and uncomplaining, the
ideal shipmate. His watch followed mine, and never did he fail to come
up promptly and with a smile on his face. This, in the darkness of a
cold, wet, rough night takes more than a bit of doing, and my respect
and liking for him increased steadily as time went on.
My arrangements for living aboard seemed to be working out well. From
the main cabin we could hear Nick, Mickey, and Moto carrying on animated
conversations in their own language, and Barbara, who had soon given up
her praiseworthy idea of cooking special breakfasts of sour bean soup
and cold rice, often reported exotic adaptations of cucumber pickles
with the oatmeal.
Of all the jobs on ship, Barbara’s in many ways was the toughest. Not a
boatwoman by inclination, or the typical “athletic” type of girl, she
suddenly found herself thrust into a role which demanded every ounce of
her courage and stamina. That she discharged her duty with full honors
is shown by a simple mathematical fact: in 47 days at sea, regardless of
the weather, her physical distress, or the balkiness of a temperamental
kerosene stove (which the Skipper had to keep in fighting trim), she
never failed to prepare and serve a meal—a hot meal—on schedule. Only
those who have cooked on a small boat at sea can know what this means.
As to her personal feelings during this time, a section from her diary
may give some idea:
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about people who went to sea in
small sailing ships. About Columbus, for one, who set out not just for
a six or eight weeks’ trip but for an incalculable and unknown number
of days in search of a perhaps nonexistent land. And more than about
Columbus himself, I wonder about his men, those hardy souls whose
individuality has been completely overshadowed by the glory of their
leader’s accomplishment. Columbus went because he had a dream and a
conviction—but why, I wonder, did _they_ go, all those unidentified
others?
And I’ve been thinking about the women on the _Mayflower_ and on all
the other tiny boats that set sail so confidently for a new world. No
longer are the Pilgrims a small band of cutout figures whose storybook
ships are somehow manipulated by wires across a painted backdrop of
heaving billows. They’ve become very real to me, people I’d like to
have known and talked to. I’d like to have asked Mistress White,
mother of Peregrine, “What did you think the first time you smashed
into a heavy sea, so that your ship stopped short and shuddered at the
impact? Did you think you’d run onto an uncharted rock and would go
down in a matter of minutes? Or was there someone who knew about the
sea, someone to put his arm around you and say, ‘It was only a wave,
darling’?”
Or I’d like to have asked Mistress Carver and the rest of them, “Did
it help to have other women aboard—or were you too miserable and
scared for woman-talk to be of any use?”
In one way, I’m sure I’m better off than they, for I have my assigned
duties to keep me from spending too much time in self-pity.
In addition to her job in the galley, Barbara had the personal
responsibility of taking care of Jessica. Since Jessica had no special
function on the boat, such as standing watch or preparing meals, she was
able to get a full night’s sleep and was the only one to whom boredom
during the day might have been a problem. Fortunately, her Journal had
developed from an assigned chore into a welcome challenge. She had
always enjoyed writing and now, in the absence of companions of her own
age, she spent more and more time experimenting with words and ideas.
In addition to her daily Journal entries, Jessica filled several
notebooks with imaginative stories which she illustrated in full color
and which served to keep us all entertained. One series in particular
afforded us great pleasure—her “Creatures,” complete from A (the
Alphabetabobbical Beast) to Z (the Znerrouch). The latter always left
his feelings lying about in a tangled web where they were inevitably
stepped on.
The worse the weather and the higher the waves the more fantastic (and
friendly) became the mythical creatures who had become Jessica’s closest
friends. She and Barbara were good companions as they shared work in the
galley or bent together over the day’s lessons, but when Barbara—tired
out after a sleepless night or just in need of an hour or two
alone—retired behind the curtains of her bunk, Jessica was never at a
loss. She kept herself busy and amused with reading, writing, and
studying, and when the weather got too rough to continue normal
activities, she quietly crawled into her bunk “to keep Mi-ke warm.”
Sometimes, at night, I would pass through the dark cabin and flash a
light in her direction to find her lying quiet, wide awake. She would
smile and wave, and I would go about my duties, immeasurably cheered.
These days our lives as well as our outlook were regulated by one major
influence: the weather. When the going was bad, we dug in and held on.
When the barometer rose, our spirits rose with it and we expanded
accordingly.
The great weather cycles, which flowed down out of the northwest,
carried us along with them for a few days and then gradually left us
behind, only to be replaced by the next. These cycles of alternating
barometric highs and lows lasted roughly a week each, and their nature
can best be described by brief excerpts from the log. One can begin
anywhere in the cycle:
11/23. Last night under full lowers, when heavy squall hit at 1930.
Kept on, after 1½ hours hard work changing sails, under mizzen,
trysail and storm jib. Continued so all night. Frontal passage at
0749, with sharp squall, heavy rain, and wind shift from SE to NW.
Jibed and continued E under same sails. Rain squalls passing at
intervals. Barometer rising at 0600.
11/24. Good run last night, with a slowly rising barometer and slowly
falling wind and sea—also good sleeping ... jib clew cringle broken.
11/25. A fine run last night—very slowly rising barometer, with wind
decreasing very slowly. Under mizzen, mainsail and foresail.... All
day, fast-moving, low wind clouds have been pouring out of NW, keeping
the wind up, with now and then a scattered short squall. Now under all
five lowers.
11/25 (_Number Two_). Another good run last night, barometer
continuing its slow rise. Last night’s Thanksgiving dinner great
success, socially and gastronomically. Menu: suimono, baked ham with
raisin sauce, mashed pot., candied sweet pot., creamed mixed veg.,
corn bread, pumpkin pie, ripe olives, grape juice, port wine, mixed
candies. Tonight _another_ Thanksgiving dinner (since we crossed date
line yesterday, through the excellent timing of the Skipper), but can
hardly expect it to come up to last night’s splendor.
11/26. At 0700, wind shifted to NNE, all night a series of squalls
have poured out of NW....
11/27. Same pattern as previous night ... low, fast-moving clouds,
each with a rush of wind that keeps the helmsman busy—sometimes with
rain. The seas are building ... the ship rides well. At 1000 put reef
in mizzen and 2nd reef in main. Changed course to 100° compass.
Barometer falling.
11/28. Bottom dropped out of barometer last night. (Barograph broken,
too rough for ink to stay in well.) Down 14 points overnight. Wind and
waves built up, hove to at 0800. Ship rides nicely. Had a big
breakfast and all hands turned in for some rest.
11/29. Hove to all night. Everybody got good rest. First full night’s
sleep I’ve had since trip began. Feel fine. Barometer fell slowly
until midnight (988 millibars), then rose slowly ... night clear and
stars shining brightly. Wind shifted between 2400 and 0200. Underway
again 0900.
And so, with the barometer rising, the wind dropping, and the seas
moderating, the cycle is completed, only to repeat itself during the
next week, and the next, and the next—as long as we remain in the
latitudes of the prevailing westerlies, above 30° North.
Just before the new low, there might be a day of calm:
12/2. Very quiet night—seas down and wind gentle. Today is drying and
cleaning day—first chance. Everything damp—for last several days have
slept on cabin floor, because of soaked bunk from Big Wave—so today is
a welcome respite. Started engine today, as a check, third time since
Nov. 1—started at once, no trouble. Checked food sacks. Moisture just
beginning to get to them. Will open the sacks that remain—dry and
grease where needed—should be okay for rest of trip.
Amazing odor—went on deck to find boys had got out their dried
squid—now soaked and moldy—and strewn them all over the cabintop, to
dry in the sun. Almost prefer bad weather.
Once we had crossed the date line and entered the Western Hemisphere—the
family’s part of the world—we felt that we were on the downhill run. The
morale of the ship’s company was high, where before we had been a bit
subdued and introspective, going around, as it were, with our mental
fingers crossed. Now, although we knew we still had a long way to go, we
felt that we had a pretty good example of what the Pacific had to offer
at this season and, although we did not much care for it, we had gained
confidence in our ship and in ourselves. These days we sailed through
weather that would have made us heave to earlier. This was not through
bravado, but because we now knew that it was safe to do so. Thus, our
average day’s run became encouragingly longer.
On December 5, at 163° West Longitude, we passed below the 30th parallel
and began to drop down on the Hawaiian Islands. On the chart we had
marked what we called “Position X,” a point about 60 miles north of the
island of Molokai, and for this we headed. Our plan was to round up
gradually on this point and then head directly south. Particularly, we
would be careful not to get too far west, which would put us downwind of
the islands.
Shortly after crossing the date line we had begun to pick up United
States radio stations, though we listened to them mainly to get news and
check our chronometer with a time signal. Now, as we neared our
destination, the Honolulu stations began to come in more and more
clearly. On December 8, while I was listening with earphones to the tag
end of the 1800 newscast, I heard the announcer say: “The Honolulu Coast
Guard says, ‘No word yet from the missing yacht _Phoenix_.’”
This bulletin came as a complete surprise to all of us. In fact, my
shipmates seemed inclined to believe at first that I was trying to pull
their collective leg. It seemed unlikely that anyone would be interested
in our arrival—certainly not to the extent of broadcasting our
_non_arrival. We speculated endlessly. “No word yet—” What word? Why
_should_ there be any word? How could they expect us to report when we
had no means of communication and had seen no ships for the past month?
Most important of all, we weren’t even overdue. The 45-day estimate I
had given the U.S. Navy and the Japanese Coast Guard before we left
Takamatsu had not yet elapsed, so it was too early for alarm. What did
it all mean?
We had to wait three more days before we found out.
We were heading almost due south now, pushed on by a steady, brisk
breeze out of the northeast. As far as this passage was concerned, we
went directly out of the westerlies into the northeast trades, and we
had no need of the extra drum of engine fuel we had brought along to get
us through the notorious variables and calms of the horse latitudes.
We could easily tell we were getting south, even without the obvious
evidence of sun and compass. Gradually we peeled off the woolens, long
johns, and parkas we had worn during most of the trip. The girls began
to come up on deck for sun baths, everyone went about in bare feet, and
Mickey, once more standing his regular watch, began to sing his Coconut
Song again.
Even the sea around us seemed to come to life. On December 7 we caught a
glimpse of a large marine animal, the first we had seen on the trip,
although birds had been with us most of the way. The next day
something—maybe this same creature—bit off our trailing taffrail log,
which had been turning faithfully for weeks. Fortunately, we had three
spares. That same day our first flying fish landed aboard, to be pounced
upon promptly by Mi-ke. (Although on later trips we frequently trolled a
line aft, on this passage we did no fishing, having quite enough to do
to handle our ship.)
On December 10 we reached Position X, according to our calculations, and
set our course due south. If Ted’s navigation was correct, we should
raise Molokai sometime that day. None of us voiced either confidence or
doubt, but we all spent a great deal of time on deck and there was
nothing casual in the way we searched the horizon.