we felt strongly that he didn’t _want_ to go but that some force
stronger than himself compelled his action. He brooded for long hours,
obviously miserable; and yet he either would not or could not revise his
decision.
I learned in town that it would be almost impossible for me to send
Mickey and Moto back from Kingston, as ships bound for Japan rarely
called there. It would be far easier, I was told, to carry them on with
us as far as the Canal Zone, where arrangements could easily be made.
Mickey objected so violently to this suggestion that I told him he had
full authority to go to town and make his own arrangements for the
passage. He and Moto spent several days in town, but Mickey finally had
to admit that my information was correct and they agreed to go on with
us to the Panama Canal.
However, I made it very clear that they would travel as passengers and
would have no hand in sailing the _Phoenix_. The family and Nick would
handle the boat alone.
While here, it seemed wise to haul out once more, making use of the
rather primitive (but cheap) marine railway in the old Naval Dockyard,
instead of waiting until the Canal Zone, where prices, under American
administration, were likely to be high. Sir Anthony enlisted the
services of about twenty men from Port Royal to lend us a hand for a
day—at 10 shillings apiece—and we all turned to on the huge cranks of
the massive, hand-operated winch, taking an entire day literally to inch
our thirty tons up the incline.
During our stay in Port Royal we went into the city only two or three
times. There was no bus service between Kingston and Port Royal, and the
tiny ferry-launch ran only one trip each way a day. The town was hot,
dirty, and not too colorful. Although the Christmas season was in full
swing, we found little that tempted us to buy.
Port Royal, however, we liked very much, and after a day’s work on the
boat we would often take a stroll through the old town, with its ancient
stone houses, narrow streets, and vital air of history. We knew that in
the waters just off the dock, buried in the earthquake of 1692, lay the
remains of most of the town, with its warehouses still full of booty
taken by the pirates. Here, in the middle of the seventeenth century,
was the city acknowledged to be the wickedest in the world.
Old Fort Charles was still active, now the training ground for the
Jamaican constabulary. We recalled that Nelson was in command here
briefly in 1779, and his quarterdeck, where he was wont to pace and
watch for French ships, is still preserved.
At the church we had a chance to see a Jamaican wedding, which is often
solemnized only after many years of preconnubial bliss and large
families. As a matter of fact, the two little flower girls in flouncy
white dresses, who escorted the bride with her magnificent ruffled train
dragging in the dust as she came up the dirt road to the church, were
daughters of the bride and groom. This state of affairs is due not to
lack of morals but lack of funds, as a wedding must be celebrated in
proper style. If the length of the procession that accompanied the bride
was any indication of the length of the guest list, the financial outlay
must have been staggering.
The party following the ceremony went on all night, just beyond the wall
that separated the dockyard from the village of Port Royal, but the
music, unfortunately, was not calypso or West Indian, but a particularly
penetrating selection of canned American hit tunes.
We sailed for the Canal on December 18, hoping to make it in time to
pick up our Christmas mail. Nick, Ted, and I shared watches, two on and
four off, while Barbara and Jessica, between them, accounted for three
hours during the day. The system worked very well.
Our two passengers remained below decks most of the time. Nick was
patently being ostracized by them, but he refused our suggestion that he
join the family at meals, stolidly eating in silence in the main cabin,
ignoring and being ignored by his former companions. We all felt the
strain. Since it was now too late to go back, and even surface
formalities had ceased to exist, we looked forward to the time when we
could part company.
On the morning of the 22nd we sighted land, very faintly, off the
starboard bow. Later in the morning a number of ships passed in the
early mists, all heading in the same general direction, so we knew we
couldn’t be too far off course. We headed south-southeast to pick up the
coast more firmly, then turned south along the coast to the harbor
entrance. By midafternoon we had passed the breakwater, noting that the
four buoys at the entrance, shown on our “up-to-date” chart, were not
present.
Dropping anchor in the merchant anchorage near the channel, we flew our
flags and awaited developments.
15 GALÁPAGOS:
HOME OF THE LAST PIONEERS
“Those delicate souls whose coffee must be just so....”
We were at anchor, awaiting further orders, by 1530. Five hours later we
were still waiting. During this time, ships arrived, were boarded,
cleared, and allowed to move on toward the entrance to the Canal.
Several times official launches passed, the officers gazing curiously at
us and sometimes waving.
Finally, just as we had decided to turn in for the night, we were
boarded by a very cheerful Canal officer. He said quite frankly that the
central office just hadn’t noticed us out here, and none of those going
back and forth on official business had thought to report us. He didn’t
look at our papers, passports, liquor, or cigarettes (all laid out for
inspection) but merely told us to move over to the “East Flats” and gave
us some forms to fill out. Then he shook hands briskly, got into his
launch, and shot away.
We checked the chart, located East Flats, weighed anchor, and worked our
way over there, across the Canal channel, dodging the harbor traffic
which was moving busily even during the night. It was almost midnight
when we reached the Flats, and dropped the hook. I got to work on the
papers at once, but we were boarded again before I had finished. This
time we had two visitors who took out the tape measure and solemnly,
using flashlights, began to take measurements, inside and out, for all
the world as if they were going to give our _Phoenix_ a new suit—of
sails, I hoped!
Because of their industry, I now have official figures on the size of
our “Engine Room”: 3 ft. × 3 ft. × 3 ft. 6 in. They told me, while
working, that they had just come from an eight-hour job of checking a
tanker (which they had also measured with a tape measure). Surely there
must be an easier way to do these things!
We were told that I should report, in the morning, to the port captain,
Immigration, and Customs. It was already well into tomorrow by this
time, and when the instructions for arriving at the protected anchorage
off the yacht club began to involve getting permission from the Port
Captain to request permission from the yacht club, whose permission must
then be reported back to the port captain, I began to get a bit fuzzy.
By the time the measurements had been completed, I had the forms
properly filled out and was able to hand them over. The two officials
waved us a cheerful good night and took off—on their way to another
boat. Work here goes on around the clock.
The next day we put the dinghy over the side, and Barbara and I went
ashore. It was a stiff 40-minute row, and the harbor was choppy, so we
arrived in a rather soggy condition. However, we started our rounds of
the offices while we were still drying. After getting permission, etc.,
we walked the mile to the Panama Canal Yacht Club, where a very friendly
manager received us and said it would be quite all right to anchor off
the club, but had we asked permiss— I said that we had. “Then go back
and tell them it’s okay with us!”
We motored at once to the yacht club, where we found a berth in quiet
and protected waters only a lifebuoy’s throw from cold drinks and good
old American hamburgers!
There we remained over the holiday season. We found that arranging
passage for Mickey and Moto, contrary to our expectations, was a
difficult and time-consuming task. Day after day, I made the rounds of
various agencies, went on board Japanese ships—of which there were
many—and talked to various officials. We got nowhere. At last I
contacted Governor Potter, in charge of the Zone, to whom we had a
letter from friends back in Yellow Springs. He very kindly put us under
the full-time protection of Jim Barrett, who immediately put into motion
wheels I had been unable to budge. Very shortly we had secured two
reservations on the _Eishin Maru_ due to pass through the Canal on
January 6, bound for Yokohama. It was the earliest available date, but
the men would have a private cabin and first-class accommodations.
During this period relations were strained on board. It was bitter for
us all to face the knowledge that one of our aims—to complete the voyage
with our original crew intact—had failed. But, as Ted so logically
remarked: “Suppose we did complete the trip with all the men. If you
ignored all the troubles, evaded all the issues, and kept secret all the
fights, just so we could boast we had completed the voyage with the same
seven people—just what would we have proved?”
I located a nice hotel in Cristobal for Mickey and Moto and was willing
to underwrite their expenses while they were waiting for their boat, but
the Canal Zone officials had other ideas: the men must stay on the
_Phoenix_ until transferred to the _Eishin Maru_.
Christmas was quietly observed by the family, with none of the gaiety of
previous years. However, we did have our Christmas mail, which had been
piling up for us on the other side of the Isthmus, and we had a most
interesting introduction to the Canal when we went across by train—“Span
a Continent, Atlantic to Pacific, in One Afternoon!” Skirting the Canal
and Gatun Lake, we could catch glimpses of great steamships which seemed
to be moving sedately through the jungle. Occasionally, as the track ran
closer to the Canal, we saw them pausing at one of the locks, to be
raised or lowered, or wandering as if along an inland stream, looking as
lost as if they had been cast up from the Flood.
Back in Cristobal—the narrow American strip which borders the sprawling
Panamanian city of Colón—we went ahead with arrangements for making
transit of the Canal as soon as Mickey and Moto were on their way. On
the day after Christmas I went “across the tracks” to Colón, to order a
new foresail from a sailmaker whose address I had been given. It was
depressing to walk through the narrow, dirty streets, which contrasted
so markedly with the solid buildings and clean, broad streets on the
American side. Only the children were out as I wandered through the
seemingly deserted town; the elders presumably were still recovering
from Christmas. In the alleys, as I passed, little boys were futilely
snapping silent cap pistols guaranteed only yesterday to give forever
five thousand bangs a day; while little girls were mourning over the
cracked heads of their unbreakable plastic dolls.
On January 6, early in the morning, the _Eishin Maru_ arrived and Mickey
and Moto transferred themselves and their belongings under the eye of
the authorities. The log makes the final entry:
Jan. 6, 1958. Mickey Suemitsu and Moto Fushima sailed today for Japan,
on _Eishin Maru_. All family agreed Mickey must go, but feel sorry
Moto went along. However, for months he has been in very poor spirits
and losing weight, though thorough medical examination shows nothing
wrong, so perhaps all for best.
Now only five in party.
On January 9 we made our transit of the Canal. We were told we would
need extra “linesmen” aboard—either hired or volunteered—and Jim
Barrett, who with his family had given us help and friendship far beyond
the call of duty, promptly offered to take a day off and lend us a hand.
In addition, the pilot himself, when he reported aboard in the drizzly
predawn darkness, brought along a companion, an apprentice pilot getting
his first experience of taking a yacht through the locks. The weather
was rainy and windy—the worst we had had since our arrival. At 0600 we
got away from the anchorage and headed for Gatun Locks in a driving
rain.
Well padded with fenders, and with one line forward and two aft, we
entered the first lock, slipping in just behind the freighter _Santa
Olivia_. We had elected to go through by tying alongside the walls,
rather than tying to another boat or being held by lines in the middle
of the lock. The walls stretched high above our heads. It was much the
worst lock, but even so, when the water started pouring in, I was
surprised at the turbulence. With a man on each line, we strained to
keep our position. Suddenly a heavy surge hit us, and with a loud
popping sound the two after lines snapped. Out of control, the ship
plunged almost across the chamber, with only the forward line still
holding.
At once our pilot, Captain Torstenson, blew a whistle and the incoming
flow of water stopped. We hauled ourselves back toward the starboard
wall by our remaining line, fending off as we came in, and leaving a
slight mark where our bowsprit ground a light patch in the slimy
discoloration of the lock wall. Fresh lines were broken out and made
fast, and we tried it again, this time with the water coming in at a
more sedate rate. The lift proceeded without further incident, and soon
we were floating on a level with the men who had peered down on us a few
minutes before. A great chain was dropped across the lock behind us, the
heavy double gates ahead swung open, and we proceeded cautiously behind
_Santa Olivia_ into Lock No. Two. Each succeeding lift became easier,
but because of our lack of power, the closest attention was required
throughout the transit.
From the third lock we emerged into Gatun Lake, and a completely new
type of sailing—in a fresh-water lake 90 feet above sea level where our
course, marked by buoys at regular intervals, led past the skeleton tops
of long-submerged trees and the peaks of hills which had learned to be
islands. _Santa Olivia_ moved rapidly out of sight, and many other
vessels passed us going in both directions during the day. All the way
across the lake we had unsettled weather, but the wind was fair, so I
suggested using the sails to help out in the open areas. Captain
Torstenson was a power man, however, and vetoed the idea. He seemed to
be in no hurry. In fact, he and his assistant, Captain Fetherston, were
both amiable, easygoing chaps who seemed to consider this job as a sort
of picnic. They regaled us with lively stories of the Canal and its
operations, and their relaxed attitude was infectious. We all took it
easy and enjoyed the trip.
Our only other tense spot was at the second, and last, Miraflores lock,
where the current is fast. Here we had to be out and away under full
power even before the gates were fully opened, in order to beat the
surge of the incoming sea.
By 1830 we were anchored off Balboa Yacht Club. The pilots and Jim left
to catch transportation back to Cristobal and the rest of us settled
down to savor the knowledge that we were once again in the Pacific—our
own ocean.
The next morning we went ashore to check in at the Balboa Yacht Club and
once again were accorded a friendly welcome and taken in tow by one of
the old-timers. Our ten days in Balboa were taken up with preparations
for the 6,000 miles of Pacific which lay between us and the Hawaiian
Islands. We planned to make two stops, in the Galápagos and in the
Marquesas, but in neither of these places could we expect to get
supplies or provisions, so it was necessary to be completely
self-sufficient for an indefinite number of months. Like Cristobal, on
the Atlantic side, Balboa is attractive, self-contained, and completely
American, catering only to government employees. We were distressed to
learn that, contrary to advance information, we were not permitted to
shop at the American commissaries in the Canal Zone and as for “free
port” shops, such as those we had found so tempting in St. Thomas, they
don’t exist here.
Adjoining Balboa is Panama City, capital of Panama, sprawling, colorful,
and very Latin. Lovely old cathedrals front on verdant squares; wide
main streets peter out into winding, thin alleys; Moorish-type
architecture and free-flowing, highly expressive Spanish reminded us
constantly that Panama has been and will remain far more simpatico to
Latin ways than to the often-irritating American influences which exist
in the Zone. While we were there, there was considerable grumbling,
especially among the university students, at the control of the Canal by
the United States; and there was a constant agitation for a greater
share of the profits. It was easy to see that here, in times to come,
will be one of our country’s trouble spots, and it is not impossible
that the time will come when the Panama Canal, along with the Suez and
others, will have to be internationalized.
Our most difficult job here was getting permission to enter the
Galápagos, which belong to Ecuador. Marie and Jerry Trowbridge, on
_White Seal_, had been quoted a dollar a foot and had reluctantly
decided to skip those islands. We knew, however, that there was no hard
and fast rule for getting a permit, or the amount of the fee, so we
again pulled rank and asked Governor Potter to put in a word for us. He
kindly contacted the Ecuadorian Ambassador and we obtained permission
with remarkable ease, at a very modest fee.
While we were getting ready for sea, a number of visitors called because
they had “heard we were going to the Galápagos.” Each would start out by
extolling one particular island in the group, and when we had been sold
would casually remark, “I wonder if you’d be willing to drop off a few
things for us”—packages, letters, foodstuffs—even a sizable
wood-and-coal stove, which we had to lash on deck. We were happy to take
all we could carry, because we knew that the passing yachtsman was a
major factor in supplying the pioneers on these isolated islands. Also,
on the advice of old-timers, we took reading matter for the
islanders—books, magazines, and newspapers—as much as we could collect.
We sailed on January 18, bound for Wreck Bay, San Cristóbal, the port of
entry for the Galápagos. The islands are on the equator, about 860 miles
southwest of Panama, and we were warned to expect a slow passage. Yachts
have taken as long as three months for the trip and some have managed to
miss the islands completely. This had, in fact, happened to the Carrs,
on _Havfruen_, who had preceded us by a couple of months and had also
been carrying a respectable load of supplies for the colonies. They had
carried on to the Marquesas, where they had unloaded their cargo to be
shipped to Tahiti. From there, eventually, it would have to travel up to
Hawaii, over to California, and back down to the Panama Canal, there to
await another yacht bound for the Galápagos and willing to take on the
mission of good will. The entire circuit would take upward of a year and
we could only hope that none of the cargo had been perishable!
We had no intention of missing the islands, no matter how long it took
us, and to our delight we started out as if we were going to make a
record passage. On the second day out, we made a noon-to-noon run of 197
miles, better than eight knots, which we knew was accurate because we
could check our position with Malpelo Island. This delightful state of
affairs was soon over, however. We ran into the area of light
southerlies, where we had to work our way alternately west and
southeast, slowly making good our course. My log on the ninth day out is
representative:
Midnight. Very quiet. Moon just down. Two knots, course west. Many
dolphin about, snorting and leaping. Phosphorescence all around.
We weren’t worried about our slow progress. The peace on board was so
wonderful that I personally felt a two-month passage would have given me
just that much more time to soak it in. We three men continued our
two-hours-on-four-off system, with the girls sharing three daylight
hours, thus shifting the watch each night. Nick ate his meals with us,
sat with us in the cockpit, joined in our discussions, entered fully
into our family life. It was a happy ship.
On the tenth day out Ted and I tackled a navigation problem that had
been baffling us for several days. Obviously we weren’t making all the
distance we were sailing. In the past two days, for instance, we were 62
miles short of the spot where we estimated we should be. We knew there
was an adverse current in this region, but the loss seemed excessive.
Ted and I set to work studying charts and books, and found a clue in a
footnote of our _Ocean Passages_. It mentions “The Holy Child Current,
which runs from January to March, but is not equally definite in all
years.” It certainly seemed to be definite this year, and our position
on the chart was right on the dotted line that represented this
inconstant current, called “El Niño” in the pilot books.
The weather was generally fair and the seas light, but we had one sudden
blow which caught Barbara on the tiller. I had hesitated to give her a
night watch, knowing it would not result, as she fondly hoped, in giving
me more rest. Actually I had learned to snatch needed sleep at any hour,
day or night, and in fact slept more soundly during the day, when the
others were awake, than I did at night. But she wanted to try it, so we
compromised, and I gave her an hour after supper, from 1900 to 2000, so
that she could learn to judge weather conditions after dark.
It was during one of these evening watches that she gave me a call:
“Squall coming!” She was absolutely right. It hit us at once, the wind
changing in an instant from south to west, accompanied by heavy rain. We
took down staysail and genoa and tacked to the south under mizzen, main,
and foresail. For the first time Barbara had the experience of keeping
the tiller during the passage of a “front” and was very proud,
afterward, of “her squall.”
Two days later, another incident was worth recording:
Jan. 29. Terrific bubbling all about, like a giant kettle. Can hear it
quite easily—like crossing Amazon Bight, but in Amazon bubbling was
bigger and color brown.
On this same day I had the bad luck to break my reading glasses, the
spares—having already lost the originals over the side—and faced the
poor prospect of a long passage, with plenty of time for reading, and
broken lenses. However, I patched them together with transparent tape,
and became quite adept at reading through the chinks in the patches.
On February 1 we knew from the number of birds about that we were close
to land. Our morning shots seemed to indicate that we were south of the
island, so we edged a bit to the north. At 1123 Ted sighted land through
the haze off the starboard bow, and soon we were rounding the southwest
corner of San Cristóbal, keeping well out because of swells and the
onshore current. We passed Freshwater Falls, on the south side of the
island, where the old-time sailing ships were wont to water. On an
exposed shore, with heavy surf and a square-rigger to handle, this must
have been a feat that demanded real seamanship, not to mention plenty of
nerve.
At 1900 we entered Wreck Bay. Coming up to the anchorage, we pulled in
our log line and discovered that there were barnacles on it. If so many
had attached themselves to us in two weeks, how many, we wondered, must
have signed on with those ships that have drifted two or three months
between Panama and the Galápagos!
Within half an hour we had been boarded and cleared by very efficient
officers, and I had brought the log up to date and summarized the
passage.
We had eagerly looked forward to our visit to the Galápagos, having read
everything we could about the islands, from Darwin on. We had been
intrigued by the accounts of the weird geological formations, of unique
and strangely fearless animal life, of rugged individuals who had
pioneered here. But too often the accounts that one reads are of a
bygone era and do not accurately describe islands as they exist today.
Now we would have a chance to see for ourselves.