read about that time, by a yacht owner who had kept a record of the work
done on his boat over a period of thirty years. He pointed out that,
labor costs aside, _the time taken to do the same job_ had more than
doubled, and as I thought of the pouting workman, lounging in the shop
and contemplating a green smear on his finger, I could understand why.
Another problem was slower to become apparent, but no less real, and
couldn’t be solved by paying a bill. During our absence, Mickey and Moto
had become friendly with a very fine family in Rowayton, who on our
return immediately extended their hospitality to us all. It was the
first time in our travels that we had spent so long a time in one place
and achieved such an easy intimacy with any one group, and perhaps we
should have been prepared for the tragicomic consequences.
Mickey and Moto, quite unfamiliar with the camaraderie of American
girls, became enamored of the daughter of the family. Jealous of each
other, they promptly joined ranks against Ted on his return to the boat,
while he, completely unaware of the situation, began to compete for the
attentions of the young lady.
Not until the day before we sailed from Rowayton did we realize that we
had been sitting on a powder keg. Ted came home from a sail with the
girl, to be greeted with a torrent of loud and tearful abuse from our
usually quiet Moto, who had obviously been drinking. The unleashing of
this apparently long-buried hatred and resentment was an unnerving
experience, since we had come to like and respect Moto very much. His
very real torment was obvious, and although at this time we did not
fully realize the cause, it was impossible to write it off as the empty
rantings of one in his cups.
We took off the next day, September 7, with a rather subdued and
introspective crew. During the next several weeks, only gradually did we
fit the story together. Just how involved the various men of our crew
had been we will never know, but there is no doubt that bits and pieces
of a number of hearts had been left behind in Rowayton. How deeply
embedded were the suspicions and bitterness only slowly came to light in
experiences such as the following:
Weeks later, in the course of a violent outburst, Mickey accused me of
“spying on him.” It took considerable patience and much probing to get
at the origin of his belief, but eventually it was traced back to
Rowayton and an incident that had occurred during our stay.
One evening, arriving late, and looking for Barbara and our hostess, I
had wandered into the small sitting room reserved for television. All
was darkened except for the TV screen, and I had asked, referring to the
program, “What’s going on?”
Someone had answered and, not being attracted by the program, I had gone
on to another part of the house. Now, weeks later, it developed that
Mickey and the young lady in question had been watching TV together, and
Mickey had interpreted my commonplace remark as suspicion of his actions
and a desire to spy on him.
In any event, our trip up Long Island Sound, around Montauk Point, down
to the entrance of the Delaware, and on through the Chesapeake and
Delaware Canal into Chesapeake Bay was not noted for its jollity. Nick
was moody and Ted and Mickey unusually withdrawn, but Moto was
particularly pathetic. In complete contrast to his former cheerful,
wryly humorous self, he sat for hours in the bow, staring moodily at the
water, or wove rope into intricate designs with all the withdrawal
symptoms of a paranoid. We felt that he had lost so much face by his
outburst that he did not know how to get back to our former friendly
relations, and we did everything we could to assure him that we wanted
to let bygones be bygones. What we did not realize, yet, was that his
spirit was completely broken.
This trip was an introduction to a different type of cruising, where we
used the engine much of the time and measured our progress not by noon
shots but by markers as frequent as street signs in a city. By night we
anchored: at Reedy Point, Delaware; Sassafras River, Maryland; and
finally, in Whitehall Creek, near Annapolis, where we lay just off the
back yard of Bob and Billy Phelps, guiding lights of the American
Yachtsmen’s Association. If anything was calculated to repair shattered
morale and raise the drooping spirits of our crew, the two weeks we
spent with the Phelpses was it. Their instantaneous, homely welcome, the
freedom of their pleasant home, the effervescence of their two lively
dogs, and the easy exchange of yachting reminiscences were all fine
medicine.
During this period we made one more inland trip, to our old haunts at
Yellow Springs, Ohio. Once again we had intended to take the entire
group, but once again, at the last moment, plans were changed. Mickey
decided he would rather go to “see friend,” who lived near Schenectady
or Syracuse, or, at any rate, “somewhere in state New York.” And Nick,
at the last minute, announced that he would remain on board to “write
letters.” It seemed unlikely that he had enough letters to last a week,
but we accepted his decision.
Our return to Yellow Springs, although hectic and far too brief, was a
highlight of our stay in the States. We could recognize now how unique
was the community spirit we had taken for granted during our eight years
at Fels Institute and on the Antioch campus. When a public meeting was
organized to welcome us “home” and permit us to meet old friends, as
well as give a talk about our travels, we were very much moved.
Jessica and Joan had renewed their former friendship so completely that
nothing short of a major operation could successfully separate them, so
we postponed that problem by packing Joan into the station wagon with us
and taking her back for a short trip on the _Phoenix_ and a week of
sightseeing in and around Washington.
At Annapolis we took on fuel and supplies and I gave a slide talk to the
members of the Yacht Club. It was an enjoyable stay except for one
fierce day with torrential rain, and wind speeds up to 80 mph, which
shattered a large window on the club veranda. At the height of the
storm, poor Joan and Jessica finally had to part, and the weather
provided a dramatically satisfactory background as we put Joan on the
bus for Ohio, as per arrangement with her folks.
On October 9 we left Annapolis, sailing down Chesapeake Bay. It was a
quiet and pleasant interlude, during which we made four stops—at Oxford,
where we picked up our new genoa jib, and at Solomon’s Island, Indian
Creek and Horseshoe Shoals. At Hampton, Virginia, we stopped for a
slightly longer stay. Here we discovered old friends—Hugh Gloster and
his family, of Hampton Institute. Hugh had been in Hiroshima as a
Fulbright fellow at the university during our stay.
Also, I’m sorry to say that once again we found ourselves in an area of
segregation. When we visited the local Marine Museum, I was deeply
ashamed to see the look on my men’s faces when they saw “White” and
“Colored” on the rest-room doors, here in my own country.
The tension caused by such incidents possibly triggered another
flare-up, which developed just before our departure from Hampton. It
began as a fairly routine issue between Mickey and myself over one of
his derelictions but quickly developed into a confusing verbal
free-for-all. It was obvious even to the most obtuse that Nick, Mickey,
and Moto were badly divided. Mickey and Moto accused Nick of being
“troublemaker,” while Nick retorted that they did not really care about
the success of the voyage, but were always complaining—of the food, of
the routines, of the Skipper. Mickey and Moto demanded that Nick be sent
home, and I myself, remembering the many times he had been my outspoken
critic, wondered if he might not welcome an excuse to get out. When I
asked him, however, he maintained he wanted to finish the trip as
planned. It was a disturbing impasse. The three seemed to be at complete
loggerheads, and I could see no compromise.
At last, after a heated debate, we emerged with a temporary course of
action: (a) Moto, who confessed that he had not felt well for some time,
would be given a thorough medical examination at the first
opportunity—and here Mickey chimed in with “Me too! I not feel so good!”
(b) We would continue without any crew changes, at least as far as the
Canal Zone, at which time we would have another session.
Only after the conference had broken up did I realize, with a kind of
baffled double-take, that I had started out by taking Mickey to task,
and ended by putting Moto on the sick list and asking Nick if he wanted
to go back to Japan!
From Hampton we sailed past numerous naval ships at anchor and into
Norfolk Channel. At Great Bridge we pulled alongside a dock, told the
attendant to “Fill ’er up!” and then docked nearby for the night, a
procedure we were to repeat a number of times. Again we were
experiencing a new kind of cruising, along narrow channels, into locks,
and through drawbridges where maneuvering was quite difficult for our
underpowered boat. Our only safety lay in making plans well in advance,
knowing the chart perfectly, and anticipating problems. Even so, we had
several tense moments when a bridge seemed to lift with agonizing
slowness while we were bearing down on it, urged on by the current and a
following wind, with our puny reverse doing no measurable good. Also,
although we followed the channel faithfully, we ran aground three times
between Hampton and Morehead City, North Carolina. Each time we were
able to get ourselves off without help, using sail, motor, and kedge.
Our last grounding was, humiliatingly enough, right in Morehead City,
only half a mile from our destination. Going by the chart, which
indicated a sufficiently deep channel up to the Yacht Club, we entered
and immediately grounded. With a strong tide setting across the channel
and a fresh north breeze, we were unable to budge. While we relaxed and
waited for high slack, a Coast Guard vessel came alongside and offered
to pull us off. I admit I was tempted.
“Well ...” I said.
“You just sign these papers in quadruplicate,” the officer said briskly,
handing them to me.
“Well,” I continued, “I’ll tell you. So far we’ve never asked for
help—I’d like to try to manage by ourselves.” Somehow the sight of all
that paper work seemed to turn a kindly offer into a government project.
In Morehead City we tied up for two weeks at a gas dock near the center
of town while we made final preparations for heading back out to sea.
Also, we gladly accepted an invitation from our good friend, Dr. Warner
Wells, surgeon at the University of North Carolina Medical School in
Chapel Hill. I had written Warner from Hampton about our health
problems, asking about a medical checkup for Moto and Mickey. For
several years Warner had been on the research staff of the Atomic Bomb
Casualty Commission in Hiroshima, where he had been well liked and
respected by the Japanese community. He now had Japanese-speaking
doctors on his staff, and I knew that Warner, if anyone, would be
sympathetic with the psychology of our ailing men.
Moto and Mickey entered the university hospital, where for three days
they were given an exhaustive series of examinations. The results,
except for a slight vitamin C deficiency, were negative. The charges,
although I had written in my letter that I would pay all fees,
laboratory expenses, X rays, and the like, also were negative!
We in the family were enjoying a holiday with the lively and interesting
Wells family. We would all have been perfectly content if the
examinations had taken a week or more. But I had one more trip to make,
back to Washington. At the request of the National Academy of Sciences,
I attended meetings at which ongoing and future research programs in
Hiroshima were discussed. There it was finally decided that the
prospective follow-up of my studies in Hiroshima would not be
“reactivated,” due to a change in research emphasis and the presence of
a new director of ABCC in Hiroshima. My understanding that I would
continue my research program in Hiroshima, on our return, had been very
clear, and all our plans had revolved around this fact. However, I had
no formal, written contract to that effect, only a gentleman’s
agreement—and now, apparently, a new gentleman was in charge.
I was advised, however, to consult with the new director when we reached
Hiroshima, as he would be “most sympathetic” to my plan for a
continuation of my study on the effects of atomic radiation on the
surviving children of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I appreciated the offer of
sympathy, but I would have preferred something more definite, as I felt
strongly that this promising line of research should be continued—if not
by me, then by someone else.
We sailed from Morehead City on November 15, happy to be on the way once
more. On a couple of mornings we had seen a light frost on deck, and the
evenings had become too chilly for our blood and our wardrobes, both
thinned by extended tropical living. Pulling away from the dock, we
waved to the handful of friends we had made and headed out the channel,
setting a course to the southeast as soon as we cleared the last buoy.
By midnight we were well away from land and on our way to Jamaica, by
way of the eastern Bahamas and the Windward Passage.
The two-week trip to the Bahamas was rather rugged, with a variety of
weather that ranged from glassy calm to winds strong enough to cause us
to heave to for half a day. The first part of the passage was mostly in
southerlies, and not until the thirteenth day out did we have what might
reasonably be called “trade wind” conditions. Even then, hesitating to
tempt fate, I made the notation in the log in quotes.
On November 28, at 0900, we sighted Mayaguana Island, dead ahead,
rounded the northwest point, and came to anchor just southwest of the
lighthouse in five fathoms. We were fourteen days out of Morehead City
and very glad to be back in the trades after a slow and vexatious
passage. The direct distance was 763 miles, but we had logged over 1,000
due to the large percentage of adverse winds.
We spent the day—Thanksgiving—at Mayaguana. Like most of the Bahamas, it
is low. The lighthouse, we learned, was automatic, with no sign of life
around it. A wide sand road had been cleared through the surrounding
growth of cactus and scrub trees, but our first shore party followed it
for several miles without seeing any sign of habitation. They
returned—having left me aboard to do some necessary work on the
engine—with their arms full of booty: yellow fan coral, marble-white
brain coral, a round fisherman’s float of blue-green glass, and numerous
shells to add to Barbara’s collection, which she had persistently been
building throughout our trip, in spite of our disinterest, gibes,
and—when an occasional uncleaned shell smelled to high heaven—active
protest. This time, however, no one said anything unkind, for we
remembered that it was Thanksgiving and wanted our cook to be in a good
mood.
She was. Relying entirely on canned goods, we had quite a feast,
including shrimp cocktail, glazed ham, asparagus tips, potatoes (both
mashed and sweet)—and, for dessert, mince pie! The prize dish, however,
was neither the pie nor the ham, but a loaf of honest-to-goodness
home-baked wholewheat bread which Barbara somehow managed to whip up in,
of all things, a pressure cooker.
The next day Barbara and I went ashore to explore in the other
direction, this time with more success. After following the road for
four miles or more, we reached a small settlement—ten or twelve boxlike
houses built of whitened coral stone, each with a wooden door and two
wood-shuttered windows painted in blue, green or pink. The place looked
deserted, but we could hear the voices of children at play and finally
found a group of them. They stared at us for a moment with awe and then
went tearing for the houses, yelling the news at top voice:
“Ooooooh—white mon! Oooo—white mon!”
We gathered that Mayaguana was not a tourist island!
We were very hot and thirsty, but although there were some coconut trees
growing in most of the dooryards, and all of them loaded with good
drinking nuts, we had no coin of the realm and had not even thought to
bring cigarettes or a candy bar. Several women came out to look at us
and smile shyly, but no refreshment was offered and, as we had no
bargaining power, we had to make the long walk back without refueling.
How nostalgically we recalled the islands of the South Seas, where
native hospitality had provided cool coconuts, open, ready and waiting,
by the time the stranger had arrived!
In the afternoon we weighed anchor and set out for Great Inagua, some 70
miles to the south, arriving in Mathew Town late the following morning.
It was Saturday, and the mail-and-supply boat had just arrived, so there
was a considerable stir in the village. Five of us rowed ashore and
spent several hours wandering around. As on most British islands, the
buildings on Great Inagua were neat and freshly painted. The streets,
paved with crushed white coral, were well laid out and carefully tended.
We found the one store overflowing with people who had just received
their monthly pay checks from the town’s No. 1 employer, Morton’s Salt
Company. We took our turn in line, and at last were permitted to
purchase seven tomatoes and one (1) loaf of bread, both items having
just arrived from Nassau.
On the way back to the dock we called—by request—at the office of the
sole government official on the island, and forked out $8 (American
money was graciously accepted) for “harbor and landing fees.” Clutching
our unexpectedly costly purchases, we rowed back out to the _Phoenix_,
and left for Jamaica the next morning.
The four-day trip, which took us through the Windward Passage between
Cuba and Haiti, was uneventful from a sailing point of view, but
climactic in terms of our crew relationships. Only a brief entry in my
log refers to the incident:
Mickey refused to obey order to steer by standing in cockpit while
boat was passing, so relieved him of duty.
The actual happening was somewhat less dry. In the afternoon while
Mickey was on watch and I was below, I could hear a boat’s engines. I
went up, and found Mickey lounging on the starboard side of the cockpit,
steering with his foot. Overhauling us rapidly from astern was a motor
vessel, probably a coastal trader, somewhat larger than we were. I spoke
to Mickey.
“There’s a boat coming,” I said, indicating aft. He paid no attention,
and did not move. “Mickey, stand up and steer.”
No movement. I repeated the order. Mickey said, without moving, “Why?”
I answered, “Because it’s dangerous and also it doesn’t look good.” No
move. “Are you going to stand up and steer?”
“This is a yacht and I don’t have to.”
“Are you going to stand up and steer?”
“No.”
I stepped into the cockpit. “I will take the tiller.” Mickey left the
cockpit, as I began to steer. The boat passed us close to port. I said,
“Mickey, you are through.”
He went below. In a short while Nick appeared. “What is trouble?” he
asked.
I explained the circumstances. “Unless Mickey is willing to apologize
and make some effort to cooperate from now on, he is through,” I added.
This time I felt, and the family agreed with me, that the time had come
for a showdown. Mickey knew how earnestly we hoped to finish the voyage
with our original crew, but we felt that, more and more, he was taking
advantage of this knowledge, confident that we would condone anything
rather than break up the crew. Usually, however, his behavior took a
more subtle form, such as shirking in his work, coming up late for “all
hands on deck,” calling his relief watch five minutes early, and so on.
He had seldom been, like Nick, openly in opposition, but on the other
hand, I knew where I stood with Nick, although I didn’t welcome his
spots of defiance. At least they cleared the air.
For the first time in our entire relationship we determined that Mickey
must admit his error, apologize, and make some gesture of
reconciliation. (In private I decided that even a very small gesture
would suffice—but I, too, had my face to save.)
We completed the trip to Jamaica, with Mickey relieved of duty. By noon
on the fourth day out we were off Kingston harbor but, rather than enter
the busy harbor, we decided to pull in to the docks at Port Royal. We
were still well out when a launch approached and we were boarded by
officials who efficiently went about clearing us while we were still on
the way in. By midafternoon we were safely tied up, had been cleared and
given such a cordial welcome that we never did get around to moving the
_Phoenix_ over to Kingston.
But casting a shadow over the friendly ministrations of Sir Anthony and
Lady Jenkinson, who were living aboard their yacht _Fairweather_ while
operating the hospitable Port Royal Beach Club, was the uncomfortable
knowledge that the “clearinghouse session,” which I had put off until we
reached port, would have to be held that night, and would be definitive.
We all dreaded it, but unless Mickey was willing to meet me halfway,
admit his error, and make a genuine promise to mend his increasingly
insolent ways, we would have to part company. I said as much to Nick,
who was doing what he could as go-between, but Nick brought word that
Mickey would not apologize, that he considered it an “insult” for me to
tell him what to do.
The meeting that night was brief and bitter. I stated my position, in
clear and simple words. Mickey stood firm. I told him that in that case
I would have to send him back to Japan.
He said, “Good!”
As had been the case in Hawaii, it was the other two who went to bat for
Mickey. Their argument was that Mickey’s defection was harmless and
that, since we were so near the end of our trip anyway, we should simply
ignore the whole thing. I refused, saying it was neither safe nor
prudent to continue with someone in whom I could have no confidence and
who continued openly to defy me. As we talked, it developed that Mickey
had given Moto a completely inaccurate version of the episode: (1) I had
made an unreasonable demand; (2) he _had_ complied with my order, but I
had sent him below anyway, for some unknown reason.
There was only one flaw in Mickey’s account: Jessica, who had been in
her cabin below, had heard the whole incident and remembered it
perfectly.
I could only repeat that, under the circumstances, I had no other choice
than to send Mickey home, by the first available ship.
There was a dead pause. Moto then said, in a low voice, that he would
go, too, if Mickey went; then Nick, not looking at me, said he also
would have to go. I said I was sorry that was their decision, but that I
would make the arrangements. I left the boat and went ashore.
I walked aimlessly in the dark, in the vacant lot by the docks,
trembling with frustration and disappointment. In a few minutes I saw
dark forms approaching. It was the family, and I called out in blind
anger, “I suppose you’re going to desert me too?”
They came over. “We just wanted to tell you,” Barbara said quietly,
slipping her hand into mine, “that you were right and we’re with you all
the way.”
“There was nothing else you _could_ do,” said Ted, who had always been
our mediator and balance wheel. “You’ve always put the safety of the
voyage first and you mustn’t be influenced now by that dream of
finishing the trip with the same crew. Even if we did give in, and take
the boys back, it would be a kind of lie to pretend we had succeeded in
finishing the trip as friends.”
“We’ll get along all right,” said Jessica. “I can take a watch.”
With tears in my eyes, I embraced them all.
The next morning, while I was making ready to go over to Kingston with
Sir Anthony to see about boat schedules for shipping the men back, Nick
approached me. “Skipper,” he began hesitantly, “if you would have me, I
have changed my mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want to finish voyage. I want to stay on _Phoenix_.”
“I’ll talk to the family.”
I did, and we decided to accept Nick’s offer. So Nick stayed on with us,
and from that moment an entirely new relationship began. Having thrown
in his lot with us, breaking completely with his mates, Nick now came
over wholly to our side, giving us unswerving loyalty and warm
friendship. It was an amazing transformation.