and Japanese visitors, an event was scheduled which will forever stand
out in my memory: a baseball game, pitting the Exiles of C. & W. against
the Outcasts of Qantas. Naturally, it took place on the cricket field
and, as a special honor and because none of our hosts knew the rules, I
was appointed umpire.
The players, once the game had been explained to them (“Rather like
rounders, wouldn’t you say?”), took it very seriously indeed, but added
a certain exotic element that I never could have imagined. Pitchers were
changed every inning and, under the influence of cricket, threw overhand
with a stiff arm. Runners slid into _every_ base, regardless. And not a
single decision of the umpire was questioned—although many of them,
under the circumstances, were questionable.
Between the sixth and seventh innings a break was called and players and
spectators knocked off for a cup of tea. I happened to make a comment
about the polite restraint of the gallery, comparing it to the more
typical behavior of a baseball crowd at Yankee Stadium. In the midst of
the next inning there floated out over the field in the sweet voice of
Mrs. Bartlett, one single, gentle recommendation: “Please kill the
umpire!”
The game lasted the full nine innings and the score, for the record,
was: Exiles, 22—Outcasts, 14.
We sailed on September 9, with regrets as always, but this time with the
guarantee of further friendships to come, for we had entered into the
magic network of the far-flung Cable and Wireless system. Henceforth, we
would be passed along from one island outpost to another, introduced in
advance by the cable grapevine.
As if to make up for our unseasonable cyclone, the elements combined, on
the passage to Rodrigues, to give us some of the finest sailing we have
ever had. With a following wind and under full lowers, the _Phoenix_
racked up the best record of her trip to date—2,023 miles in 13½ days,
or better than 6 knots all the way.
There was little to record in the log other than good weather, good
progress, and good times. From my bunk, where I had leisure to spend
many lazy hours, I could catch scraps of Ted’s stories drifting down
through the afterhatch, as he kept himself entertained on watch by
amusing Jessica.
“Once there was a small kingdom—” such a story would frequently begin.
“Oh, goodie!” says Jessica, settling herself comfortably. “I _love_
small kingdoms!”
“—with a _very_ small king,” Ted continues. “About two days old, in
fact.” And he’s off.
On another occasion, I made record of a typical exchange:
Ted: “—a lady of stupendiferous bearing—”
Jessica: “_What_ bearing?”
Ted: “North by west.”
On the afternoon of September 22 we sighted the peaks of Rodrigues just
off the port bow. By 1750 we were at the port of Mathurin, but still
outside the reefs. A launch, loaded with officials, local residents, and
boatmen came out to meet us. They undertook to pilot us through the
intricate channel—and promptly dumped us on a reef. For the next half
hour, in the growing dark, there was a certain amount of confusion, with
mingled orders and oaths in English, French, Japanese, and various
Creole dialects. Finally we worked clear and were secured in mid-channel
by divers, who personally went down to set our anchor firmly in the
coral.
No harm was done to the boat, aside from a small rubbed spot at the turn
of the starboard bilge. There was also a small rubbed spot in the temper
of the Skipper, but after I had pouted a bit, we ushered our guests
below and exchanged introductions. Entry formalities were quickly
cleared away by Christian Belcourt, medical officer, and Claude
Rouchecouste, chief magistrate. Before we knew it, all seven of the
_Phoenix_ crew were in the launch, along with the reception committee,
and heading in to shore for baths, drinks, and dinner with M. and Mme.
Rouchecouste. (_Monsieur_ because, although Rodrigues belongs to the
British Crown Colony of Mauritius, it is predominantly French in
language and culture.)
On the way in we passed the only navigational light of Rodrigues—a
one-candlepower beacon marking the edge of the inner reef. We knew it
was one candlepower, because we could see the candle itself, flickering
fitfully behind its glass shade. As Ted summed it up, “If you can see
this light, you’re too darn close!”
Now began ten of the pleasantest days we have ever spent anywhere. As on
Keeling-Cocos all invitations and activities included all of us. The
veranda of the magistrate’s large house near the landing was the
unofficial clubhouse where we were made to feel at home and where good
conversation, cold drinks, and numerous newspapers and magazines—both
French and English—were always available. In the course of many
convivial afternoons and evenings, we began to feel that, through the
interest of our hosts of Rodrigues, we were learning more about our
Japanese companions, their backgrounds and their impressions, than we
had ever been able to elicit during the two years of our relationship.
Rodrigues itself is an island of unusual attractions, not the least of
which is its inaccessibility. There are only two practicable ways to
reach it: you can go on the supply boat from Mauritius, which makes the
trip three or four times a year and stays about three days, or you may
visit the island on a private yacht.
Although the island is only 42 square miles in area, it is densely
populated. Most of the 16,000 people are of African or Malagasy racial
stock, many are descended from slaves brought in from Mauritius by the
French, while others trace their ancestral lines back to Breton or
Scottish families.
Mauritius is the hub of their universe and the supply ship, also named
_Mauritius_, is the connecting link. “Have you ever visited Mauritius?”
Barbara asked one of the teachers in the Port Mathurin school.
“Oh, yes!” she answered eagerly. “We go on board every time it comes!”
There are no newspapers on Rodrigues, no telephones, no radio stations,
no banks, no movies; there is no airport or commercial shipping, no
harbor, no railway, no buses, and no taxis. There were, however, five
horses (“three cobs and two mules”), a number of bicycles, and two
jeeps. The jeeps, one of which belongs to the magistrate and the other
to the Catholic priests, are recent acquisitions and have already
accounted for one traffic fatality. Within the first week a cyclist
tried to go _between_ the headlights of an oncoming jeep, in the
mistaken impression that they were the lights of two bicycles. By the
way of instilling caution and avoiding further accidents, there is now a
large, hand-lettered sign over the gate that leads from the schoolyard
onto the road. STOP! LOOK! LISTEN! JEEP!
Each night we had dinner at a different house, but always with a nucleus
of the same group: the magistrate and his wife, the two doctors, the
meteorologist, and various members of the Cable and Wireless
installation on Rodrigues.
As they came to know us better, the Rouchecoustes in particular became
more frank in their eagerness to learn all they could about America and
Japan while Exhibits A and B were available. M. Rouchecouste confided
that, although he had studied for several years in Europe, we were the
first Americans, as well as the first Japanese, that he had ever met—and
the first of either, to his knowledge, ever to visit Rodrigues.
“Tell me, Madame Reynolds,” he asked, “would you say you were a typical
American woman?”
Barbara, obviously nonplused, looked helplessly at me.
I came to her rescue. “I should imagine,” I stated judicially, “that
she’s certainly the typical American woman who goes around the world on
a Japanese-built yacht.”
This response seemed to be entirely satisfactory.
By contrast with our first week on Rodrigues, which was peaceful and
relaxed, the last three days gave us a taste of the furor that surrounds
the rare visits of M.V. _Mauritius_. The sleepy town of Port Mathurin
woke up. From all over the island, people converged on the town. Boats
from villages along the shore began to arrive, piled high with produce
and livestock. Impromptu pens were knocked together and the waterfront
was transformed into a squealing, bleating, and cackling open-air market
where traders, who came over from Mauritius on the boat, could wander up
and down to inspect and bid on the available stock.
The day the boat arrived was given over to landing the cargo, including
two mares to swell the equine population. Letters and packages were
distributed in a daylong ceremony of mail call from the porch of the
administration building.
The second day saw hundreds of empty oil drums ferried out, to be
refilled and brought back on the next trip. The produce of the island,
principally garlic and dried octopus, was sent aboard in a never-ending
procession of lighters that were towed out through the channel in
strings of three or four to deliver their cargo and then return, under
sail, at their own convenience.
On the final day, with a proficiency obviously developed from much
practice, the animals were loaded. The cows, lassoed expertly and forced
onto their sides by the seemingly painful expedient of twisting their
tails up between their legs, were trussed up by their four feet and
loaded upside down into the open boats. Eight or ten were carried at a
time, rolling their eyes in patient misery until they had been hoisted
aboard the _Mauritius_ by crane and released into the hold.
The goats were all driven out to the end of the dock, their retreat was
blocked off with movable barricades, and then they were relentlessly
herded off the edge into the waiting lighters, some of the recalcitrant
ones being tossed in by a couple of legs. Arrived at the ship, a huge
wicker basket was lowered by crane, ten to twenty goats at a time were
tumbled in and lifted aboard to be dumped into deck pens.
Last of all went the pigs—and the passengers. The pigs, “who always get
seasick,” according to the captain, were stacked on deck in the same
kind of tubular wicker container we had seen in Bali—with a snout
protruding from one end and a tail from the other. For the sake of the
passengers, we hoped their bloodcurdling shrieks and squeals as they
were rolled down to the boats would eventually diminish.
We sailed a few hours before the _Mauritius_, knowing she would pass us,
probably during the first night, and would be waiting when we reached
Port Louis. The only unusual circumstance of our departure was our
decision, on the advice of the pilot, to slip our hawser rather than
risk maneuvering among the reefs while attempting to get it aboard.
“We’ll take it out to the supply ship,” he assured us, “and you can get
it from them in Mauritius.”
The trip to Mauritius, 400 miles to the west, was routine and we made an
easy entrance into the inner harbor of Port Louis at 1000 on October 5.
By 1130 we had been cleared by the harbor office, doctor, and
immigration officer and were free to explore the homeland of the now
extinct dodo.
Our first impression of Port Louis, even before going ashore, was of a
harbor more bustling and colorful than any we had yet visited. Work
began early in the morning and lasted, with much attendant shouting and
seeming confusion, until late at night. A procession of Indians in brief
loincloths, coifed like Egyptians of ancient tomb paintings, marched
back and forth like industrious ants between the docks and a
never-ending succession of barges. The coif arrangement was formed by
heavy material wound turbanwise around the head and hanging down the
back in a thick pad, making it possible to distribute the immense weight
of their loads evenly between head and shoulders.
The island itself is a beautiful sight from the harbor. A range of
deep-green mountains, dominated by the distinctive peak of La Pousse
(The Thumb), forms a dramatic backdrop to the low red roofs of the
warehouses along the shore. We anchored well out hoping to ensure a bit
of privacy, but it did us very little good. Local water taxis, flitting
about like bugs, were all too available and many curiosity seekers came
out for the ride and boarded us with no advance warning other than a
hail as they clambered over the gunwales.
One of our first callers was M. Appavou, the Indian ship chandler who
has earned for himself a well-deserved reputation among yachtsmen. He
gave us a bottle of the local rum with his compliments, and urged us to
make use of him in any way. His representative would call daily to pick
up our shopping list and our orders would be delivered on board in the
afternoon. “No extra charge.”
I warned M. Appavou that he could expect little profit from us, but that
didn’t seem to worry him. _Anything_ we might need, he would be happy to
get. Barbara decided to test him out and ordered a fez. (My birthday was
coming up.) That afternoon the fez was delivered, a handsome one in
maroon felt. Its cost, we discovered, was less than we would have paid
in the market.
Thereafter, we made full use of M. Appavou’s advice and services. In
addition to keeping us supplied with meat and vegetables, he guided us
to the best barbershop, arranged to have a suit made for Ted, gave us
tips on the races (we broke even), located beautiful saris for the
girls, and contracted for the building of a new small boat. Moreover, we
became very good friends. At New Year’s, in South Africa, we were both
pleased and touched to receive a warm personal response to the
mimeographed letter we had sent out to announce our arrival.
No doubt you must be proud of accomplishing such a cruise, and you
must be thankful to God for your luck of what I call a trouble-free
track, but for a few odds. You have seen oceans, seas, countries, and
peoples of all sorts. Makes my mouth water, so to say. You have made
friends everywhere, because sympathy is not merchantable: it is born
in Earle, Barbara, Ted, and Jessica; you are such a charming group,
you are.
Well, Capt., God give you en famille, His gifts in galore—which spell:
HEALTH, BLISS, HAPPINESS, and most happy conclusion of the marvellous
cruise of the gallant “PHOENIX.”...
During our stay in Mauritius we met a number of yachtsmen, both cruising
and local. One of them, planning a cruise shortly, came aboard “for
advice.” It seemed strange to have another asking advice of _us_ and
making eager notes of such bits and pieces of hard-won experience as we
were able to pass along!
Another small-boat sailor was Jacques Rousset, an eager young chap who
appointed himself our guide and mentor. Piling us into his car amid
cases of soft drinks and hampers of lunch, he set off at top speed along
the narrow, winding roads of his island. Cows, goats, chickens,
children, and ox-drawn cane carts kept appearing unexpectedly around
curves and kept all of us, who had just come in from weeks on the
uncrowded ocean, in a constant state of nerves. In vain we hinted that
we would much prefer a more sedate pace. As Jessica put it, “We want to
see everything—but we want to be able to _remember_ it, too!”
Perhaps Jacques thought we were old fuddy-duddies, but I managed to take
the sting out of my eventual ultimatum by rhapsodizing over the charm of
Mauritius, not only its beauty, but the novelty of the sari-clad women
we passed along the road; the rows of sugar cane that alternated in the
fields with rows of rock; and the two-wheeled carts pulled by
broad-horned oxen.
“Don’t you have those in America?” Jacques demanded, astonished. From
then on he drove circumspectly, deriving wonder and pleasure from our
comments about his homeland and plying us with questions about our own.
Three yachts arrived while we were in Port Louis, rather more than
usual. First was _Jeanne Mathilde_, a 40-footer out of Singapore, with
“Rex” King aboard. In our yacht register King merely notes that he left
Great Nicobar with a crew of one and “arrived alone.” The actual story
is dramatic. While at sea, his companion developed acute appendicitis.
By rarest good luck, they met a passing ship and Rex was able, by means
of flares, to attract their attention and have the ill man taken off. In
the process of signaling, however, one of the flares exploded and King
was badly burned. He refused to leave his ship and sailed on alone. When
we met him in Mauritius his face still bore scars and powder burns.
The second yacht to arrive was _Marie Thérèse II_, with singlehander
Bernard Moitessier, a very likable Frenchman. He, too, had known the
rigors of the sea. In his own words, written in our log, his first
_Marie Thérèse_, a Chinese junk, was “lost in a reef in the Chagos
Archipelago during her attempt to reach the Seychelles Islands from
Indonesia. Reason was no chronometer, no radio, lost, no binoculars, and
probably too much cheek from the skiper” (sic!).
King and Moitessier, obviously, were not usual types, but the third
arrival was the most bizarre of all, as well as the least communicative.
This was a lone Australian on _Kate_. His brief entry in the register
says merely: “Best wishes and regards from Bill Geering of _Kate_, 21
ft. L.O.A., and 60 days out of Fremantle to Mauritius. Bon Voyage.”
The voyage, as we were able to piece it together, was less routine.
_Kate_, on a coastal cruise from Fremantle to Darwin, had been caught
offshore and blown out to sea. With the strong trade winds and westbound
current against him, Geering had no choice but to carry on across the
Indian Ocean. He had tried for Christmas Island, but missed it. He had
tried to find the Keeling-Cocos, but without success. At last,
fifty-three days out, he had made a landfall at Rodrigues and then
sailed on to Mauritius. He was not in too good shape when he arrived,
having been on short rations of food and water for several weeks and
without standing room in his tiny ship. In addition, he had managed to
injure his back. When we asked him how long he expected to stay in
Mauritius, he replied succinctly, “Maybe forever!” Shortly thereafter he
sold _Kate_ to a local resident and flew back to Australia.
Mauritius, rather pretentiously known as “The Crown and Pearl of the
Indian Ocean,” proved to be a fascinating island but with a social and
economic situation that is highly confused and potentially explosive. It
is made up of many racial groups: English, French, Malay, African,
Indian, Chinese, and many admixtures—and these groups are further
divided by religious or social prejudices. The Hindus feud constantly
with the Muslims; the Chinese are divided into Communist and Nationalist
factions; while the 15 per cent that make up the remainder of the
population include a scattering of British, who come on temporary
government appointments and feel superior to the locals, and a residue
of French-Mauritians, who regard themselves as the entrenched
aristocracy.
A single observation summed up, to my mind, the self-consciousness of
the entire racial scene. As in other countries, Jessica made contact
with the Girl Guides and found them, as in Fiji, divided into mutually
exclusive troops on the basis of race. The daughter of a British civil
servant thus explained it, “We don’t even call the younger Guides
‘Brownies’ here—because of the Indians, you know. We call them
‘Bluebirds.’”
In almost every port we received applications from would-be
adventurers—of all ages and several sexes. I always listened to their
pleas with sympathy, for I have never forgotten the day I spent at the
yacht harbor in Honolulu on my way out to Japan, too timid to ask if I
might take a look aboard a yacht. It must be admitted that the vast
majority of applicants had little to offer aside from a vague desire to
get away from it all. Moreover, I noticed that the peak of these
requests always came on a beautiful Sunday afternoon when a gentle
breeze ruffled the waters of the bay. I have yet to have an applicant
row out to offer his services in some dark predawn at the height of a
williwaw, while we’re bouncing all over the place and trying to get a
second anchor out.
Many of our applicants, of course, were under the impression that we
employed a paid crew. The fact that Nick, Mickey, and Moto were yachting
companions rather than hired hands was a source of constant
astonishment, although we never failed to emphasize the relationship. As
for us, we took increasing pride in the fact that after two years and
more than 25,000 miles, the original _Phoenix_ crew was still together
and still, we felt, good friends.
There was one type of applicant, however, whom we sometimes signed on
for a short hop. Such a one was Jean de St. Pern, an ebullient young
French-Mauritian who begged to sail with us as far as Durban. He
volunteered to help Jessica in her struggles with beginning French and,
the clincher as far as Barbara was concerned, expressed a willingness,
nay, an _eagerness_, to cook. We took him along.
We sailed from Mauritius on October 19, bound for South Africa. Though
our visas had been granted without difficulty, we were more than a
little dubious about our visit because of the government’s well-known
racial policies. Our relations on board had been pleasant and
increasingly friendly since leaving Indonesia and we rather dreaded
entering an area where color and nationality would again assume false
values. However, it is difficult to go around the Cape without calling
somewhere in South Africa, so we hoped for the best.
Once again our life fell into that routine which is so difficult for
landsmen, day sailors, or even passengers on an ocean liner to
comprehend. The land one has left falls behind, the pleasures and
friendships that await are in some indefinite future. All that exists is
the present—the sea, the ship, the ship’s company, and the little
happenings of each day. Local events, such as the loss of a whole bunch
of bananas over the side, become tremendously important, while world
events recede into the background. Intellectually we could comprehend
and keep these things in perspective, but emotionally the here and now
has more impact than the there and then. From the log:
Listened to five-minute summary of news. First sentence, trouble in
Hungary; 2nd, trouble in Singapore; 3rd, trouble in Tunis; 4th,
hydrogen bomb test.—Angrily, I turned the radio off.
On the seventh day out, when far south of Madagascar, we could smell the
land, literally. Suddenly all eight of us were on deck, breathing
deeply. There was a different quality in the wind—a warm, dry, slightly
dusty odor, faintly spiced, like the scent of a distant campfire.
Manuia, too, sniffed deeply upwind, her front paws on the bulwarks. Moto
grinned appreciatively. “Maybe mouse on Madagascar,” he observed.
Jean, true to his promise, showed great prowess in the galley. He had
brought aboard a mysterious carton of bottles and jars, and from these
he added a spoonful of this or a dash of that to whatever he had on the
fire. No matter what the contents of a jar _looked_ like—a spinach-green
paste, a catsup-type sauce, or something lumpy and yellow like mustard
pickles—it was all, according to Jean, called “piment” and was
invariably _hot_. One or two of us acquired a taste for this fiery
seasoning of Mauritian cooking (in moderation), but the rest found it
hard to be too unhappy when a sudden roll of the boat sent Jean’s carton
of condiments crashing to the floor in a welter of broken glass.
Desolate, he picked over the mess and scooped up spoonfuls, insisting
that a _little_ glass wouldn’t hurt anyone, but the Skipper was firm and
insisted that all food thereafter must be seasoned by the individual.
Jean could really cook, but in the tradition of great French chefs. His
talents ran to directing, concocting, adding, stirring, and tasting.
With one of us to hand him utensils, another to cut up onions, and the
Skipper to restrain his too lavish use of piment, he turned out a number
of delectable dishes. As he explained seriously, “Eef I cook eet, eet
_has_ to be good!”
Like his condiments, Jean added interesting variety to our shipboard
life. Although a British subject, he was completely French in language,
personality, and gestures. He delighted the family and both delighted
and bewildered Nick, Mickey, and Moto.