morning to help get a drum of fuel on board. Mickey, as usual, was slow
to respond, and I called him rather sharply a second time. Almost at
once, he emerged from his forward hatch, clad only in a pair of gaudily
striped underpants.
“Go below and get dressed!” I commanded sharply, thinking he was being
deliberately insolent.
“You never mind!” Mickey flared, unable to express himself in English.
“You can’t come up here in your underwear!” I spoke hotly, furious at
what I considered an insult to the ship and family.
Immediately Nick, as hot-tempered as I, flung himself into the fray.
“Not your business what Mickey wears!” he challenged.
My own problems with Nick had been many—open insurrection, like the one
in the North Pacific, or simply sullen withdrawal, when he disapproved
one of my decisions. Since he was, technically, first mate, and at most
times a good and responsible shipmate, I felt the need of his
cooperation. I decided that now was as good a time as any to have it
out, so I called a conference of all the men in the hope that, somehow,
we could achieve a meeting of minds.
We began with the immediate source of irritation, Mickey’s underpants.
As was so often the case, the whole incident turned out to be the result
of a misunderstanding. Mickey, who had had little experience in Western
dress, had been given the briefs in Hawaii, along with various other
articles of clothing: socks, shirts, bathing trunks, and neckties.
Mistakenly assuming them to be sportswear, he had donned them for the
first time that morning as being more presentable than the patched khaki
shorts he’d been wearing at sea.
This was finally settled and, with the ice broken, a great many other
grievances came out. Primarily, they stemmed from two sources: the
Japanese interpretation of quite innocent actions as slights (as when we
had once or twice omitted introductions all around when some quite
casual visitor came aboard); and their continued feeling, in spite of
everything we did to combat it, that we did not treat them as “equals,”
as fellow yachtsmen. Nick showed us a local newspaper report which
referred to the “Reynolds family with crew of three Japanese,” and
seemed to feel it was my fault because I had not properly briefed the
newsman responsible. In this instance, as in many, it was Ted who
quietly stepped into the breach, pointing out that the reporter in
question had come aboard when only the three Japanese were there and
that any information he had or had deduced must have come through them.
Ted, I might add, was a very important member of our conferences if only
for his rare ability to remain objective, aware of all points of view
and partisan to none. More than once, after a more than usually
acrimonious debate, he would manage to sum up the entire controversy in
a simple and direct restatement of viewpoints which often had the effect
of soothing and pointing the way to agreement at the same time.
So it was in Cairns. Gradually our various points of disagreement were
dredged up and disposed of, the air was cleared, and good relations were
re-established—or so we liked to believe. Now we could hope for smooth
sailing, for a time at least, until the next accumulation of resentments
boiled over.
Two days after leaving Cairns we reached Cooktown, a veritable ghost
town, whose glory, like its gold, has long since played out. From the
days when it was the third largest city in Australia, with some 30,000
population, Cooktown has dropped to 400 individuals, who live quietly
amid the ruins of the past.
We tied up at a dilapidated dock and walked to town along wide streets
lined with deserted mansions and tumbledown hotels with rotting floors
and elaborate wrought-iron balconies. The few existing shops close
during the heat of the day, so we wandered the streets until four
o’clock, inspecting the inevitable monument to Captain Cook (he had been
_everywhere_ before us, from Hawaii on through the South Seas) and
musing over the memorial drinking fountain (dry) which commemorated the
heroism of a woman who had died of thirst in 1883.
When the shops reopened, we located an enterprising baker who regretted
his almost-empty shelves—“Hardly ever get strangers here, and Cooktown
people know what _they_ want!”—but who agreed to bake whatever we cared
to order. It was our last chance to get fresh supplies until we reached
Thursday Island, beyond the still-extensive reef, so we ordered a dozen
loaves. The baker also suggested a couple of pies and I, thinking to
surprise Barbara at her birthday dinner that evening, slipped back to
close the deal in secret.
“What kind do you have?” I asked, my mouth watering at the possible
choice between apple, cherry, and lemon meringue.
The baker greeted my question with stupefaction. “_Meat_,” he answered,
implying, Natch—what else?
For Barbara’s birthday dinner we had a pie apiece—meat.
With our departure from Cooktown began the serious part of our trip
through the reef. Above this point, the coral closes in, the channel
narrows day by day, the trade winds sharpen, the tides and current
strengthen. We would have to thread our way with great care during the
next 400 miles for, unlike the larger ships that ply up and down, we
could not follow a radar course from one beacon to the next.
Ted and I consulted the charts and laid out anchorages in advance for
each night: Lizard, Bewick, Hannah, and Night islands; all uninhabited,
of course. The last 200 miles we planned to do in a final stretch from
morning of one day until afternoon or evening of the next.
Back of our planning was the knowledge that better men than we had come
to grief in this treacherous region, including Captain Cook himself.
Even the old master, Slocum, had nicked a coral reef with the _Spray_,
“while going full speed.” He was a lucky man, in that a six-inch
difference in the tide would have put a sudden end to his voyage.
There was no settlement along this stretch, no emergency telephone or
first-aid station, nor any outside help. To me, it seemed somehow more
isolated than mid-ocean and many times more dangerous. The area offers
fabulous beauty, endless variety, wonderful sailing, and just below the
surface—treacherous, lurking danger. Even cloud shadows playing across
the surface of the blue-green waters could be nerve-racking, suggesting
the presence of underwater coral heads.
Our fears were not without justification. On the evening of June 15 we
approached Hannah Island, whose automatic light had already begun to
flash its signal through the dusk. Under mizzen and foresail, we came in
slowly from the south, staying well west of the light and taking
soundings. Suddenly events kaleidoscoped.
“Eight o!” called Moto, swinging the lead up forward. Almost
immediately, on the next cast, his report changed urgently. “No!
_Cannot! Yon dake!_—Four!”
“Hard to port!” I shouted. Ted, at the helm, pushed it hard over but
before we could even begin to swing around there was a shock of impact.
With an ominous crunch we ground to a stop.
“We’ve hit!”
No further words were needed. Barbara and Jessica huddled on the deck
box, keeping out of the way while the men sprang to drop the sails. I
went below and started the engine, but already the moment was past.
Pushed by the current, the bow of the _Phoenix_ swung gradually and she
drifted free astern. Unbelievably, we felt again the gentle rise and
fall of the deck beneath our feet.
Hardly daring to credit our luck, I kept the engine going as we drifted
and sounded until we had reached eight fathoms. Then we dropped the
hook. We checked immediately and pumped out, but so far as we could tell
only the keel had hit and we were taking no water.
In the morning—after a restless night in which treacherous coral heads
intruded into my dreams—we checked our position and tried to estimate
where we had been the previous night. As far as we could determine, we
had been nowhere near the reef as indicated on the chart. It seemed
likely that we had happened on an isolated coral head, as yet unmarked,
and we made careful notes so that the maritime agency could check
further.
In any event, the sound of our keel crunching on coral in that desolate
section of the Great Barrier Reef is a sound none of us ever wishes to
hear again!
More than ever I became convinced that in every successful
round-the-world cruise a certain amount of luck—or, at least, the
absence of bad luck at a critical moment—must play a part. Pidgeon, who
twice sailed around the world singlehanded, went ashore while asleep,
just after sailing from Cape Town. He landed on a small, sandy beach,
the only such on a rocky coast that extended for scores of miles.
Moreover, he had miraculously gone over a rocky ledge, passable only at
high tide, in order to have landed there! Slocum himself, in addition to
his brush with Moody Reef, went ashore on the coast of South America,
but was fortunate enough to escape without damage to the _Spray_. Every
voyager, I am sure, can recall some incident which could have meant the
end of his trip had not good fortune—or Providence—intervened.
So intrigued did I become with these speculations that, during a stay in
Cape Town, I gave a talk on the subject, calling it “The Fifth
Ingredient”—the other four being a well-found ship; a good crew;
adequate preparation and maintenance; and seamanship. Regardless of the
other four essentials, it is my contention that a generous portion of
this fifth ingredient is essential if success is to be achieved.
During the afternoon of June 17 we knew we were truly in the neck of the
funnel. From deck level we could see the discolored water of the
fringing reef closing in, mile by mile, as we sailed northward.
Occasional blackish coral heads of the white mounds of sand shoals
humped above the surface at low tide, only to disappear treacherously as
the tide rose. Low-lying reef islands broke the surface of the waters
ahead as the channel grew progressively narrower. We _knew_ there was a
passage, but it was easy to understand how early voyagers, with
square-rigged ships that were unable to beat back against the wind, must
have trembled when they reached this spot!
The final approach to Thursday Island was a harrowing finale to a
sleepless night, during which we had to pick our way from beacon to
beacon. Our entry into Ellis Channel was complicated by brisk winds, a
heavy tide, and a sharp rain squall which hit just as we started through
and forced us to turn and head out again until it had passed. No one was
in sight when we finally entered the harbor and drifted down on the
Thursday Island dock, so we continued past and dropped anchor in three
fathoms just beyond the wharf in the midst of a fleet of pearling
luggers, sailing ships like ourselves.
Only then, as Jessica filled another red line on the map of our trip,
did I dare to relax and draw a deep breath of relief. Another phase of
our apprenticeship had been successfully completed: the passage of the
treacherous and awe-inspiring Great Barrier Reef.
9 INTO INDONESIA:
THURSDAY ISLAND TO BALI
“Our life at sea was teaching us....”
The importance of T.I., as it is called, is out of all proportion to its
size and population, for it is the focal point for the thinly settled
Cape York peninsula and for the many islands of Torres Strait. Its
principal products are pearl shell, crocodile skin, and tall talk. Among
other tale spinners we met a team of two young men who had made a tidy
stake out in the bush, shooting crocs. They had started their venture
with only a gun and a flashlight apiece, their method being to stand in
a stream, with water up to their armpits, and shine their lights until
they attracted a customer. The technique seemed to be to shoot the croc
between the eyes before it got close enough to grab one of them, but not
so soon that the valuable carcass would be swept away by the swift
current before they could get to it.
After they had spent a season in this way and collected enough skins the
enterprising hunters took their trophies to town and invested the
proceeds in a boat. As one said, the hunting was drier that way.
Our location at anchor was well out from shore and had its drawbacks.
Rowing in presented no difficulties, as tide and current set strongly
toward the shore, but getting back was a different matter. The first
night, when we went ashore for our celebration dinner, we met a genial
old codger who was just full of anecdotes.
“Terrible current out there,” he told us proudly. “Hardly a month passes
but what it puts some ship on the reef—or takes them off to sea.
Wretched holding ground—slick—nothing for an anchor to grab. And as for
getting out to your ship—why, just a couple of weeks ago two men were
rowing out to their lugger—got caught by the current and swept off to
the westward somewhere....” He gestured broadly. “They sent out a
powerboat, but never caught up with them.... Yes, it’s a terrible
current!”
I resolved to make arrangements as soon as possible to bring the
_Phoenix_ up to the dock. Meantime I spoke to the proprietress of the
Royal Hotel, where we were dining, and reserved a room for my womenfolk
for that night. They deserved a night ashore—and I had no desire to risk
getting them back to the ship after dark.
Barbara’s diary account of their accommodations was well worth the pound
I paid for their one night’s lodging-with-breakfast:
First you try to _find_ the entrance to the overnight accommodations.
(The façade of any Australian hotel is all Pub and every visible
entrance leads to one bar or another.) Finally we were rescued by
“Miss Marie”—pronounced Mahry—the manageress, and escorted up a
creaking stairway which led from the lower side veranda to a wide
upper one, off which opened all of the bedrooms. Every door was wide
open for ventilation and most of the guests seemed to be sprawled on
their beds in full view, in various states of _deshabille_.
Our own room was at the extreme end of the front porch, next to a room
marked “Ladies’ Bath.” How very convenient, I thought, looking forward
to an extra dividend in the form of a Hot Bath.
Jessica and I waited on the porch until we saw the masthead light wink
on out in the harbor. Then, knowing the men had made it safely to the
boat, we prepared ourselves for bed: a simple job, since we had
brought no nightclothes and not even a toothbrush.
The Ladies’ Bath turned out to be nothing _but_ bath—and with cold
water, at that. No soap, either. And there were no other facilities
visible, so I had to go downstairs and seek out Miss Marie again to
ask about the W.C. Greatly embarrassed, she led me back up the stairs,
along the two sides of the upper porch to our own room and
there—presto!—she crawled under my bed and produced a porcelain
chamber pot, child’s size!
My night ashore, to which I had looked forward for many weeks at sea,
turned out to be anything but a restful one. The bed was considerably
harder than my bunk on the _Phoenix_, and the snowy mosquito netting
which we were driven to drape around us shut off most of the air.
Since the “Ladies’ Bath” was the only room beyond ours, I left the
door open at first, but after two or three very raucous males had
wandered past and spent varying lengths of time in the Ladies’ Bath, I
pulled the half-curtains across the opening, even at the risk of
losing what feeble breeze there was.
The night was hot and stifling, although we had been assured that this
season is _pleasant_ compared to the summer months (November to
March), when the wind blows from the other direction and puts this
side of the island in the lee. Every time someone walked across the
porch—or even when Jessica turned over in her sleep—the floor shook as
though an elephant were doing a fandango. I couldn’t help thinking how
ironic it would be if we had sailed thousands of miles and survived
the North Pacific and the Great Barrier Reef, only to die in the
shambles of the Royal Hotel in T.I., on the night the upstairs
sleeping porch collapsed into the Pub below.
In the morning, we were awakened with cups of tea at an ungodly hour.
Some forty-five minutes later, a little girl of about seven—who was
entranced with our American accents—came up to lead us down the stairs
and through a rabbit warren of interconnected parlors, dining rooms,
halls, and porches to a small breakfast room where we and the nine
other guests of the hotel had breakfast en famille. All along the way
we kept stumbling over cats which our guide told us belonged to the
establishment, but the five fat dogs who sat about the breakfast table
and waited for scraps were, she insisted, “only strays.” Better fed
strays I never hope to see.
Our anchorage continued uneasy. The trades funneled through, the oceans
held a daily tidal tug of war, and the holding ground was slick. Twice
in the first three days we dragged and had to sweat mightily to keep off
the shore. Finally, room was found for us at the dock. There was some
confusion as we approached about how they wanted us to lie and, while we
were still maneuvering in the channel, we were caught by the change of
the tide and swept against the pilings and were pinned there for over an
hour. Finally we were able to work free and tie alongside _Cora_, a
small coastal vessel trading between T.I. and the Gulf of Carpentaria.
Safely berthed at last, we checked the damage: four bent lifeline
stanchions, a big dent in the deck water tank, paint worn off the stern
sprit, and a very ruffled skipper. At that we were lucky, for a broken
section of the pier was pointed out as testimony that, only a few weeks
earlier, a much larger boat had been caught by the tide and current and
pushed straight through the dock, carrying all before it.
Provisioning with fresh supplies in T.I. was a bit of a problem.
Vegetables and fruits were brought in once a month, on the supply boat
from Brisbane. The cost was high and the selection limited. Any number
of people bemoaned the fact that they “used to have” plenty of fresh
vegetables, grown locally, before the war but that nothing seemed to
grow any more. They seemed to think that the climate or the soil must
have changed as a result of the hostilities and no one drew any
conclusion from the fact that the Japanese, who had made up a part of
the T.I. population, had been repatriated after the war.
On the night before our departure we were invited to a church supper
where the pièce de résistance was turtle, served up in its own enormous
shell. It was a gay party, but midway in the proceedings I grew so
restless that I excused myself and returned alone to the boat. The next
day’s departure was very much on my mind and I wanted to go over the
charts once more. Before entering or leaving ports Ted and I made it a
practice to familiarize ourselves with the layout in advance, for when
an emergency arises it’s too late to run below and start reviewing.
In addition, I needed leisure to go over my list of Things to Do Before
Sailing, a written check list of more than thirty items which experience
had taught me was the only way to avoid overlooking some perhaps vital
detail. It ranged all the way from checking such items as radiotelephone
and engine to making sure that everyone, including the cats, was aboard
at take-off.
The next day, June 27, I signed the last of several hundred forms which
had been shoved at me during our stay in Australia, we took on our final
supplies and the farewell gifts of pearl shell, magazines, and cake
(always welcome!) that were put into our hands by friends of whose very
existence we had been unaware two weeks before. Then, with the beginning
of the west-going tide, we made an easy exit. By midafternoon we had
passed the Carpentaria Light Boat and were well underway in the Arafura
Sea.
Throughout most of our trip the breezes were light and the seas
moderate. By night we were treated to a breath-taking spectacle of that
phosphorescence for which the Arafura Sea is famous: sheets of gleaming
silver covered vast areas of the ocean, while in others the dark surface
was broken with eerie patches of light that danced on the slow swells
like reflected moonbeams, though there was no moon. Sometimes the bow
pushed aside only black water, but again we would enter a stretch where
the entire ocean would be broken into shimmering patterns of cold
radiance and the bow wave would become a sparkling, foaming crest of
light.
Mi-ke and her all-black daughter, Manuia, also were fascinated by the
phosphorescence and spent hours sitting near the bulwarks and staring
into the depths. On July 2 my log gives brief mention of an event which
we all felt deeply:
0700. Mi-ke is missing. Jessica saw her last, yesterday afternoon,
sitting on an oil drum on deck. No sign since. Did not report for
supper last night. Did not show up for breakfast.
1200. _No sign._
This was the obituary of a companion who had signed on with us the day
the _Phoenix_ was launched. How she came to go over the side we’ll never
know. Perhaps the block of the genoa sheet, alternately slacking off and
jerking upward in the light airs had snapped up and caught her unawares,
stunning her and flipping her over the side.
Jessica, consoling herself with Manuia, said little, but it was obvious
that this break in our security had affected her. In fact, the event
served to bring home to us all most forcefully how vulnerable we were.
We had begun to regard the _Phoenix_ as a safe little world in the midst
of the vast ocean, a kind of magic circle within which we were safe,
where nothing could touch us. Yet now one of our group had slipped out
of that world and was gone—quietly, irrevocably, and without even the
man on watch being aware of her leaving.
As we moved slowly westward, it was both fascinating and frustrating to
study the charts and to realize that to each side of us lay great areas
that begged for exploration, areas we would never see, since we knew we
were not likely to pass that way again. To the south lay the Northern
Territory of Australia, of which very little is known even today, with
Melville and Bathurst islands still the home of Stone Age man. To our
north, past the wilds of New Guinea, stretched islands we knew only from
their bewitching names: Aru, Tanimbar, Sermata, Damar, Watubela, Ceram,
Misol.... It made us wish that time were never-ending. We could only
mutter, with no real conviction, “We’ll see ’em next time around.”
Finally, on July 6, the island of Timor rose out of the haze off the
starboard bow—a birthday present for Mickey, this time, but not one he
could pack away under his bunk with his other trophies.
All the next day we cruised westward, with the land growing more
distinct. By late afternoon we were sailing just off the southern shore,
but it was obvious that we could not reach Kupang that night. The coasts
of islands in the Indonesian archipelago are not marked with coastal
beacons as was the case along even the most deserted stretches of the
Australian shores and I had no desire to feel my way along a dark and
unknown coast by night and then grope through an unlighted channel on
the way to Kupang. Telok Bay, Sakala, seemed to offer a protected
anchorage, so we dropped the hook there in eight fathoms, half a mile
offshore. It was a restless night, with considerable swell, so I
insisted on keeping anchor watch once more.
This time Barbara, who had been sharing the extra daytime hour at the
tiller with Jessica whenever we set the clocks back, volunteered to take
an hour of night duty. Later, she confessed that the experience had
given her a new respect for the job of the man on watch!
Every time we pitched, the anchor chain jerked, making the most
frightful noise—as if it were going to break or rip out of its
fastenings at any moment. I kept studying the points of land on each
side of the bay, trying to decide whether or not we’d shifted
position, which would mean the anchor was dragging and I ought to call
Skipper. What a burden of responsibility! There’s nothing like
darkness—and being on duty all alone—to magnify one’s fear!