dared call attention to it, but when it did not change shape or melt
away but grew, instead, larger and more distinct, someone at last found
the temerity to voice the fact: “Land ho!”
There was no doubt about it now. As we drew closer we could discern the
jagged white line of a waterfall marking a dark cliff, and later still a
pencil-thin structure, obviously man-made, standing out against the
somber background. A quick check of our light list identified it as the
Molokai Lighthouse. Almost simultaneously, as the navigator let out a
triumphant shout, the light began to flash in the early dusk. We jibed
to the west, to run along the coast, and set a course for Makapuu Light,
the gateway to Honolulu.
By midnight we had closed in on Makapuu Light, passed through the
Molokai Channel, and were lying off Diamond Head in full view of the
lights, the beautiful lights, of Honolulu. Throughout the day small boat
warnings had been broadcast repeatedly, but to us, sailing in the lee of
Oahu after seven weeks on the open Pacific, the seas seemed as gentle as
a millpond. We had no desire to attempt the harbor entrance in the
darkness, so for the rest of the night we tacked, just offshore, from
Diamond Head to Pearl Harbor and back again.
Throughout the night Nick, Mickey, and Moto came up to take their watch
whenever they were called, but neither the sight of land nor the lure of
the unknown seemed to stir their Oriental calm. Smiling at us gently,
each one finished his job, took a casual look around, and went below to
sleep out the remainder of the night.
But for the family there was no desire to sleep. A full moon lighted a
path across the water; dramatic mountain silhouettes loomed darkly
behind the fairy-land lights of a thousand human habitations; and a
heady, never-before noticed scent of _land_ drifted out to us on the
offshore trades.
We sat together in the cockpit, singing Christmas carols and smelling
the flowers, the closest, happiest family in all the world.
4 ON TO THE SOUTH PACIFIC:
FROM HAWAII TO TAHITI
“Banzai!... Banzai!... Banzai!”
In the morning we entered Honolulu Harbor under power and were directed
to Pier 7, in the heart of the city. Quite a crowd had collected and
what with officials, newsmen, radio and television operators,
dockworkers, yachtsmen, and curious strangers, we found the confusion
intimidating after forty-seven days of isolation.
Even before the lines were made fast, reporters were shouting questions,
a television crew had asked us please to go out and come in again for
the benefit of their cameras (we didn’t), and our good friends the
Bushnells—who had spotted us from their home on the heights and rushed
down with fragrant leis—were breaking the news that Barbara’s mother had
flown in from Wisconsin only a day or two before and was awaiting our
arrival.
As the _Phoenix_ nudged the dock, an imposing individual cleared a space
around him and prepared to board. Our first American visitor. I
remembered my manners—we were back in the States, where one doesn’t bow,
but shakes hands. I extended mine. He promptly put his briefcase into
it, stepped aboard, and ordered all hands below. At once. No accepting
of leis. No conversation with well-wishers on the dock.
The reporters howled; the bystanders jeered; and Barbara, in the midst
of eager arrangements for getting in touch with her mother, had to be
dragged down the companionway. We went below.
Our first visitor did not announce his function, but we soon gathered
that he was the port doctor. We rather wondered why we could not at
least have spoken to the people on the pier. What obscure disease can be
transmitted by voice?
As the doctor left, Immigration arrived. We were delighted to produce
the hard-won passports and U.S. visas for the Japanese men. Next in line
was an agricultural inspector who apologetically threw overboard a
couple of tired potatoes. We didn’t want them anyway.
A truck arrived, with the ominous lettering “Animal Quarantine” on it,
and Mi-ke was snatched from Jessica’s arms and whisked away to a cell.
We could have her back in four months we were told—and, no—the time
spent at sea could _not_ be applied on the quarantine period! It was
evident that whatever terrible germs might find their way into Honolulu
they wouldn’t include rabies. As an anthropologist, my own feeling was
that these precautions, while commendable, were a bit late, since a far
worse disease, the white man, had long ago taken a firm grip on the
islands.
At last the officials moved on and we were free to come and go—but not
before the location of the Customs Office had been pointed out to me,
with instructions to report there as soon as possible. We had just been
introduced to a new aspect of cruising: the inevitable bout with
officialdom, just when you are longing to get ashore after weeks at sea.
Necessary, perhaps, but infinitely frustrating.
Taking a deep breath we went up to join our patient friends—and ran into
the second land-based hazard of cruising: reporters. Frankly, I was a
little surprised to find the press in Honolulu so interested in our
arrival. After all, boats by the hundreds come in here and they have to
sail a good long way to get to the islands, no matter which land they
set out from. Then why all the excitement about us?
I answered questions from reporters with half of my mind and tried to
carry on a conversation with friends with the other. All of us gathered
together when told to and smiled when asked and waved upon request—and
breathed a sigh of relief when at last the reporters and photographers
left.
Hours later, on my way back from the Customs Office, I bought a paper
whose headlines screamed: LOST YACHT ARRIVES! _What a coincidence_, I
thought. _Another yacht—and on the same day!_ Only after I looked at the
accompanying picture did I realize that the “lost yacht” referred to was
the _Phoenix_!
This news took a bit of digesting. Gradually, as our friends filled us
in, we learned that for more than a week we had been the subject of a
running story started, perhaps, when friends who were expecting us had
called the Honolulu Coast Guard to ask for news.
“Yacht _Phoenix_?” The C.G. had no information. “Coming from Japan?
Never heard of her, but we’ll see what we can find out.”
A query was sent to the Japanese Coast Guard who, checking back, noted
that a heavy storm had lashed Japan shortly after we sailed. Further
research dug up an early news story indicating our original intention
to sail up the coast before heading out to sea. A belated search of
coastal waters turned up no wreckage of the _Phoenix_, no coastal
station reported having seen her after her departure from
Takamatsu.—Reluctantly, Japanese officials notified the U.S.C.G., “No
trace of yacht _Phoenix_”—and the panic was on.
Conflicting reports began to crop up and were given international
publicity. One, from an “authoritative source,” said we had “undoubtedly
gone down with all hands”—a nicely flavored nautical phrase. Barbara’s
mother, approached for comment, expressed confidence that all was well.
A “Japanese naval expert” (our old friend Takemura?) was next quoted as
saying that our ship was “built for the Inland Sea and would never
withstand the rough waters of the North Pacific,” while another “expert”
was found to maintain that a sturdier, better-built boat had never
existed. “They’re safe”—“They’re lost”—“Hope dims”—“Hope
revived”—headlines argued back and forth.
One article, the most bizarre of the lot, reported that a radio
communication from the _Phoenix_ had been received in Hiroshima to the
effect that we were safe and would reach Hawaii “in a few days.”
Eventually we tracked this down. A message had been received—of a sort:
Moto’s mother had visited a shrine, where she had received assurance
from On High that all was well with the _Phoenix_. She had passed the
word along to the anxious relatives of the other men, the word had
spread, and the newspapers got hold of the story. When the overseas news
service picked it up, however, they failed to recognize that a “message”
could be heavenly as well as electronic. In their own version, they
presupposed a radio contact without bothering to inquire whether we
actually had a radio transmitter aboard.
When we protested the inaccuracy—and the cruelty to anxious friends and
relatives—of such irresponsible reporting, a newspaper acquaintance
shrugged off our indignation.
“It’s just formula stuff,” he assured us. “Yacht sails—yacht has
trouble—yacht does (or doesn’t) arrive. Sometime during the trip there
has to be a crisis—a big storm—a man overboard—or just, as in your case,
no word at all. That’s always good for at least a couple of ‘overdue’ or
‘lost’ stories. If the boat is _really_ lost, the accuracy of the press
is upheld. If it turns up—so much the better, because everyone feels
good and we can do follow-up stories, general rejoicing, and big
headlines.”
“Like ‘LOST YACHT ARRIVES’?”
He shrugged. “Anyway, it sells papers.” And then he added, a bit
defensively, “Our paper hasn’t any objection to reporting the truth—so
long as it doesn’t interfere with our circulation.”
In our case the news value was enhanced by the interracial character of
our crew and the tremendous interest in the _Phoenix_ which was felt not
only in Japan but throughout the substantial Japanese-American community
of the Hawaiian Islands. The two Japanese-language newspapers gave the
story a big play. The Japanese Consul General paid his respects within
hours of our arrival. The Hiroshima Ken Society (composed of hundreds of
first-generation immigrants from Hiroshima Prefecture) scheduled a
Welcome Banquet in honor of our men. And a cable from Japan informed us
that a “Yacht _Phoenix_ Supporters’ Association” had been organized,
with Governor Ohara of Hiroshima Province as President.
This unexpected interest and publicity impressed us forcefully with the
fact that our voyage was no longer a private affair. Whatever we did or
said would be magnified by the press, both in Japan and locally. This
put the problem of Mickey in a different light. Our instinct against
washing one’s dirty linen in public had kept us from saying anything to
press or public about Mickey’s failure, but the problem still had to be
faced among ourselves.
My own feeling was that we should send him back to Japan, and the family
felt the same. We had proved we could manage without him during the
worst that we were likely to encounter in the way of weather and it
seemed foolish to carry as supercargo someone who might at any time
become a liability.
To my surprise, when I mentioned the subject to Moto and Nick, I found
them unalterably opposed. My point of view was the narrow one of the
skipper of a boat trying to make a successful circumnavigation; but my
men were no longer thinking merely as yachtsmen. They had been greeted
as representatives of Japan and they felt the responsibility keenly. A
loss of “face” was involved. If one of them were to be sent back, the
failure would reflect upon them all. In fact, there was the definite
implication that if one went they would all feel obliged to go.
As is usually the case, no decision could be entirely satisfactory. If I
kept Mickey, I felt he would be a constant threat to our success—not
just from the standpoint of a weak stomach but because of his
personality. Nick and Moto, however, were emphatically positive that he
would turn out all right. We talked it over at tedious length and
finally decided to keep Mickey—on sufferance—at least for a while.
After several days at the commercial dock, we were given permission to
move to the Ala Wai Yacht Harbor, near Waikiki. Here we quickly made the
acquaintance of fellow yachtsmen and, for the first time, had the real
joy of visiting other yachts, of inviting friends aboard for coffee and
yarns, and of hearing at first hand the experiences and opinions of
men—and women—who had sailed all over the Pacific. We learned that the
trip from California to Honolulu, or from Honolulu down to Tahiti, is
considered the “milk run” by local seagoing yachtsmen. They had a
certain respect for our Japan to Honolulu crossing, however, and we were
human enough to be gratified.
Our _Phoenix_, with her rugged build, heavy masts, and massive tiller,
looked a bit crude among the chrome and varnish of her sleek neighbors
but, as Moto said in a series of articles he was writing for a
Japanese-language paper, “Our boat is the roughest looking boat in the
yacht harbor, but one of the most respected.”
All seven of us were made honorary members of the Hawaii Yacht Club,
which Barbara and I later joined officially. Earlier, while still in
Japan, I had joined the American Yachtsmen’s Association, which gave us
outstanding help throughout our entire voyage. Soon we added still
another burgee—that of the Seven Seas Cruising Association, composed of
cruising yachtsmen who live aboard their craft and keep in touch with
one another by means of a monthly bulletin to which all the S.S.C.A.
“Commodores” contribute.
Every day brought visitors to the _Phoenix_. Some of them, naturally,
were friends of ours, or friends of friends, but so many were people of
Japanese ancestry who bowed and chatted in their native tongue with
Nick, Mickey, and Moto that I sometimes wondered whether we weren’t
still tied up to the dock in Hiroshima.
“I thought you said you didn’t know anyone in Honolulu,” I remarked to
Moto, after several days had passed with no slackening in the steady
stream of callers.
“Yes!” Moto agreed happily. “We don’t! But Hawaii people very kind, very
_friend_.”
Indeed they were “very friend.” Day after day shiny black limousines
drew up at the docks and discharged Japanese-speaking callers bringing
gifts: clothes, cartons of cigarettes, baskets of fruit, flowers, cakes,
Japanese delicacies of all kinds—and invitations without number.
Thus began a period during which we were treated to a hospitality such
as few tourists, I am sure, have ever experienced. Our own list of haole
(white) friends grew rapidly and we had no lack of invitations, which we
could accept without qualms, knowing that our Japanese companions also
were having a fine time. Only three or four times did our paths cross:
once when we were all invited to a most enjoyable family dinner with the
Japanese Consul General, Mr. Hatoyama, his charming wife, and three of
their ten children; once when I was speaker at a Hawaii Yacht Club
dinner; and once for a never-to-be-forgotten “Welcome Party” given by
the Hiroshima Ken Society. All the guests were male (except Barbara and
Jessica), and the food, utensils, and speeches were entirely Japanese.
Mickey had apparently been elected spokesman for the _Phoenix_ crew and
he made a stirring speech, complete with gestures and bravado. For the
first time we experienced the rafter-raising Japanese cheer, a chorus
shouted at top voice from over two hundred enthusiastic throats:
“Banzai!... Banzai!... Banzai!” and we were proud that our Japanese
companions should be so honored.
In spite of an active social life and my own commitment for a series of
three articles about our trip, we managed to make time for a great deal
of work on the boat. In addition to drydocking and doing a routine
overhaul, we put in a number of improvements based on our hard-earned
knowledge of what was needed most. With the proceeds from my articles, I
was able to install a 12-volt electrical system, which only those who
have returned, however briefly, to the onerous, overheated, and smelly
age of kerosene can appreciate. Not only did this remove the necessity
for reaching for one’s flashlight before trying to move about at night,
but it made it possible for each of us to enjoy the infinite luxury of
reading in our bunks. It was an improvement, too, from the standpoint of
safety, for it became a simple matter to flick on masthead light or
sidelights at the first sign of an approaching ship. I also installed a
Navy surplus radiotelephone which, although we had no intention of using
it routinely, was a comforting thing to have around.
Changes were made in the galley, too. Previously, Barbara had had to
wire her pots to the stove—a tricky and sometimes dangerous maneuver in
rough weather. Now we set up the stove in gimbals so it would always
remain level—a sometimes fantastic sight at sea when it often appears as
if the pots on the stove are the only things tilting and that liquid
must remain in them by some kind of magic. We put in sink pumps for both
fresh and salt water—the latter, as Moto described it, connecting us to
“the biggest water tank in the world.” And we put in two more bilge
pumps, one off the engine and one which went out to the turn of the
bilge and also served to empty the sink. These changes, naturally, had
the enthusiastic endorsement of the cook as well as of Ted, whose galley
boy work was thereby considerably lightened.
Shortly after our arrival a Mr. Yotsuda from the northern island of
Kauai, had flown over to welcome us. He was a brother of the Yotsuda-san
in Japan who had built the _Phoenix_ and he had extracted a promise from
us that we would visit a little “The Garden Isle” before we sailed for
the South Seas.
By March Art Nelson, the local sailmaker, had completed the genoa jib I
had ordered for the fair-weather trade-wind sailing we hopefully
anticipated and, with all the rest of the work done, we felt we were in
fair shape for sea. It seemed high time to keep our promise to Mr.
Yotsuda and give the _Phoenix_ (and crew) a chance to try her wings
again.
Early in March we set sail for Kauai, a hundred miles to the northwest.
The trip, which we had hoped would be short, routine, and enjoyable,
turned out to be otherwise. The channel was rough, the wind was fickle,
we were soft—and it took three days. On the last evening a stiff breeze
sprang up that threatened to pile us onto the unknown lee shores of
Kauai. Ted and I had an uneasy time of it until we sighted land, but it
was too late to go in, so, once again, we tacked back and forth all
night. What with keeping an eye on the lights and rousing the men every
couple of hours to come about, we got little sleep as we waited for
daylight to arrive so that we could round the breakwater and enter the
beautifully protected bay of Nawiliwili. Happily exhausted, we dropped
the hook a few hundred feet from shore and crawled into our bunks.
Within five minutes we had visitors—the East Kauai Hiroshima Ken
Association, led by Mr. Yotsuda, who had a full program lined up for us.
Under his direction we turned on the engine and motored into the dock
where a place of honor had been reserved. On shore, a caravan of cars
was waiting and in no time we were on our way.
That day we saw all the points of natural beauty or historic interest on
the east side of the island—and they are many. A full day ended with a
formal banquet and many speeches.
It was after midnight before we were returned to the boat. At seven the
next morning we were aroused by more visitors—this time, the _West_
Kauai Hiroshima Ken Association who did the honors for the other side of
the island, including the banquet—and the speeches! If, that night, we
were all a little sleepy, there was general agreement that it had been
well worth it!
We also received an invitation from the Kauai Yacht Club, but because of
club policy it was extended only to the haole members of our group. This
gave rise to a situation we had discussed at some length: the
probability that in the course of our world cruise we would run into
discrimination. It was distressing, however, that it had arisen first in
the friendly Hawaiian Islands—and particularly that it should be a yacht
club which excluded certain yachtsmen on the basis of race.
The family’s first inclination was to decline but Nick, Mickey, and Moto
were more realistic. As they pointed out, they had already received more
invitations than they could accept, many of which did not include us.
The most sensible course, they seemed to feel, was for all of us to take
things as they came and enjoy whatever hospitality appealed to us. We
accepted the invitation, therefore, and tried, by our attitude and
conversation, to sow what seeds of tolerance we could.
While we were in Kauai, Mr. Yotsuda continued to consider himself our
official host. “Did brother build you a good boat?” he asked, one day.
“Is there anything you would like to change?”
I assured him that we were well satisfied with his brother’s work, but
we would like to extend the stern sprit someday, in order to set up a
permanent backstay for the mizzen. The next day Mr. Yotsuda appeared at
dockside with his own tools and stayed until the job was done.
Boatbuilding, it appears, runs in the family, and the _Phoenix_ had
become a family affair.
After two pleasant weeks we headed back to Oahu and Honolulu. As it
happened, the return trip was rougher, if possible, and took a day
longer than the passage up. Our initiation into trade-wind island
hopping had been unfortunate, and I could see signs of disillusionment
and rebellion among the women—particularly when we had to spend two days
within sight of Honolulu, beating our way in. It was a hard lesson in
the vicissitudes of sailing upwind and I discovered that Barbara and
Jessica had a tendency—regrettable in those who must depend on the
wind—to chafe a bit when land was in sight.
We spent only a few days on Oahu, during which time we loaded aboard
canned goods in case lots for an estimated six months. Then, bidding
farewell to the many friends we had made, and with promises to return
“in a few years,” we moved on to Maui. With us we took, as guest
“hitchsailor,” Alan Pooley, the son of Wisconsin friends, who provided
welcome companionship to Ted.
In Maui the Japanese community again took us to its heart but this time
they had to compete with the hospitality of Al and Verity Collins, known
throughout the cruising world as hosts to visiting yachtsmen. Did we
want some laundry done? Bring it on up to the house and dump it in the
machine. Hot baths? Come on over—any time! Shopping to do? Here’s Al, at
the dockside with his car, ready to take you anywhere you want to go.
The climax of our stay on Maui was the two-day trip into Haleakala, the
world’s largest extinct volcano crater. With us went our young guest,
Alan, enjoying his last adventure before returning to the mainland,
despite the minor inconvenience of a broken arm, obtained by falling
down our forward hatch. (This was the first accident aboard and we
sincerely hoped it would be the last.)
Our last memory of Lahaina is of the farewell party and hula show put on
for us at dockside just before our departure. As we cast off the lines
to the strains of “Little Brown Gal,” we suddenly noticed that Jessica
was still sitting on the edge of the dock, her back to the _Phoenix_, so
engrossed in the performance that she was quite unaware of our
departure. Hastily I put the engine in reverse, Moto tossed a line to
shore, and willing hands boosted her up over the stern sprit—together
with three more cakes and another stalk of bananas in case we should get
hungry on the overnight trip to the Big Island (Hawaii).
Sailing on down the Kona (leeward) coast of Big Island, we spent
several days in Kealakekua Bay, where Captain Cook was killed. The
bronze plaque which supposedly marks the place of his death was under
a couple of feet of water, a short distance offshore. We could never
have found it without the help of “Cap’n” Glass, a salty-looking old
landlubber-turned-yachtsman. Even Cap’n Glass, however, could not tell
us _how_ the marker had managed to end up in such an unusual spot.
Water risen? Land sunk? We’d still like to know the details.
At Napoopoo we decided to make a further test of our new equipment by
beating around South Point and up to Hilo, against both wind and
current. I had good reason to believe that the trip would be rugged and
some instinct made me suggest that the women go across the island by
bus, a trip of only a few hours, to wait for the rest of us in Hilo.
Barbara acquiesced with mixed emotions. In her diary she noted:
“Deserted the _Phoenix_. It was a queer, rootless feeling to watch her
moving out of the harbor far below us while we were driven along the
upper road on our way to the station wagon-cum-bus.”