his monograph on the archaeology of the Galápagos, and it was our desire
to get a surface collection of pottery shards to take back to the Bishop
Museum in Honolulu. We got the collection, all right, and it was a fine
one—but it never got out to the _Phoenix_. While we had been busy
ashore, the surf had risen and was now breaking heavily. We loaded our
knapsack of shards into the dinghy but left guns, goat and kid for a
second trip. It was lucky we did, for our first attempt to launch the
dinghy resulted in our prompt capsizing. Before we managed to get the
boat and ourselves back to shore, we took a considerable beating and
finally crawled up onto the sand exhausted. The knapsack full of pottery
ended up on the bottom, as did my last pair of glasses—even though I had
worn them on a cord around my neck in approved fashion.
The oars were eventually washed within reach and, after tying them in
securely, we managed to get the boat launched. I kept it steady beyond
the breakers while Ted waded out with the kid held high above his head.
Before he was able to deposit it in the boat, a swell went over his head
and even the baby was dunked, momentarily. However, Ted kept his feet—as
well as his head—and soon we were on our way back to the _Phoenix_ where
the girls and Nick had been anxiously watching our activities through
binoculars. The girls promptly took charge of the soaked kid, while Ted
and I, this time with Nick following in the inflatable rubber lifeboat,
returned to fetch the rest of our belongings. By keeping the dinghy out
beyond the surf while we loaded goat and guns into the rubber boat and
hauled it out on a long line, we were able to get everything safely
aboard. We examined the beach several times during the evening and again
the next morning before we sailed, but the pottery—and my glasses—were
not returned from the sea.
The poor baby goat did not look long for this world. She spent the
night, more dead than alive, in a corner of the cockpit, wheezing and
gasping painfully for air. Barbara dribbled milk, with a few drops of
brandy added, between her reluctant jaws with a medicine dropper, but
very little seemed to go inside. We expected every moment to be her
last, but she survived the night—and the next—and the next. In fact, she
not only survived, but thrived, and eventually became (Skipper’s
version) a blamed nuisance as time went on, as well as (ladies’ version)
a novel and joyous little companion—named Goatie-Goat—for all of us on
our long trip to the Marquesas.
The kid and the cats were not our only livestock at this stage. Before
leaving Academy Bay we had taken aboard a living souvenir—and a family
heirloom-to-be—in the form of a young Galápagos tortoise. Jonathan
Junior, named after the venerable fellow who had supposedly hobnobbed
with Napoleon back on St. Helena, had become ours by virtue of barter:
six packages of instant powdered milk; one can of shortening; and two
bottles of hot pepper sauce, which was apparently the going rate in the
Ecuadorian settlement at Academy Bay. This, of course, was a
comparatively small specimen, measuring only ten inches across the shell
in each direction, but we had every confidence that a few hundred years
would make a noticeable difference. Incidentally, we obtained him quite
legally, as we had a permit, issued in Ecuador, which gave us the right
to take “two of every kind” of animal.
We had one more reluctant passenger who was stowed in the bilge. Fritz
and Carmen Angermeyer had returned from a successful sea turtle hunt
with enough meat to provide the entire colony on “Angermeyer Point” with
several good meals. When we left, they gave us not only a sizable hunk
of fresh turtle meat, but a specimen “on the hoof.” This green turtle
fitted neatly beneath the floor boards in a niche near the mainmast, and
there we carried him for quite a while, sloshing him down frequently
with a bucket of sea water, until we all felt the need for fresh
turtleburger.
We would gladly have spent much more time in these islands, but we had
been at sea for three and a half years and now the end was in sight.
After only one more stop—in the Marquesas—we would be closing the
circle. Soon, instead of the perpetual routine of “hello—good-bye” which
was one of the most difficult aspects of extended cruising, we would be
meeting old friends again. In Hawaii we would be able to relax a bit and
settle down for a while in familiar haunts while we overhauled our
faithful _Phoenix_. After a bit of rest we would undertake the last leg,
back to Hiroshima.
Only one thing remained before leaving the Galápagos—our rendezvous with
_Valinda_ in James Bay. On the morning of February 16, we got underway
early and rounded the point from Buccaneer Bay into James. It was empty.
We crossed to the south side and anchored, going ashore during the day
in two groups for exploration.
Throughout the day we kept an eye on the expanse of James Bay, expecting
at any moment to see the big power yacht appear. We had a stack of
letters ready to hand over and we felt more than a little put out when
darkness fell and it became apparent that _Valinda_ had not kept our
date. By noon the next day we reluctantly put away our envelopes full of
news, and started off for the next post office on our route—3,000 miles
away.
Out of fairness to her owner, this might be the place to tell what
happened to _Valinda_. Months later (while leafing idly through a back
issue of _Life_ magazine) we learned that _Valinda_ had been there to
meet us. She had reached James Bay the night before and anchored to wait
for us. Just at dawn, while we were all asleep aboard the _Phoenix_,
five miles away around the point, _Valinda_ had been boarded by
twenty-one escapees from the penal colony on the neighboring island,
Isabela. They had mutinied the night before, raided the arsenal, stolen
a couple of small boats, and by chance had come across _Valinda_ in the
course of their escape flight.
The convicts forced her to sail for Ecuador, a trip of sixty-three hours
under power. At Puna they took the ship’s boat and went ashore, leaving
the yacht to sail north to the Canal Zone, where they gave the alarm.
No wonder they had not been there to meet us, when we arrived in the bay
some four hours later! And as I read the account, even months after the
fact, I wondered what would have happened if it had been the _Phoenix_
rather than _Valinda_ that had reached the rendezvous first.
Entire books have been written about voyages far shorter than ours from
James Island to the Marquesas, but my own memory of the 26-day passage
is of quiet seas, light breezes, and peaceful company.
Once we had rounded the north end of Isabela and put tiny Redonda Rock
astern, we knew we would see no land for 3,000 miles, and the chances
were remote, in those empty waters, that we would see another ship. Yet
that one in a million chance did happen, at midnight on the sixth day
out. Ted, on watch, saw lights and called me. We put on our masthead
light and a large ship came close to hand. We exchanged signals and I
flashed our identity. Then the liner, in a wonderfully thrilling
gesture, turned on all its lights, including the system that outlined
the name of the ship—_City of Brisbane_—in enormous glowing letters.
Although we could only turn a flashlight on our sails in reply, the
moment was deeply heart-warming, as two ships that passed in the night
made brief contact across the dark sea.
This was the only even remotely exciting event of the trip. The weather
remained constant, the trade winds steady, and my notes in the log are
the briefest of our entire voyage. During our watches Ted and Jessica
took turns reading Melville’s _Typee_ aloud, and we all looked forward
to seeing Nuku Hiva and the beautiful Typee Valley (Taipi Vai), changed
though we knew it would be. In addition, we were longing for baths in
some isolated mountain stream, for we had had no fresh-water showers
since leaving the Canal Zone, water in the Galápagos being far too
precious for such indulgence.
By noon of March 14 we were just off the entrance to Taiohae Bay, on the
south coast. We took in our log line and started the engine—which quit
on us just at the entrance. With light and baffling airs coming down
from the surrounding mountains, we continued in under sail alone and, at
1415, dropped anchor in eight fathoms off the settlement at the foot of
the bay, with 3,193 miles logged in a refreshingly relaxed passage of
twenty-six days.
Taiohae Bay is a dream anchorage. Deeply indented into the coast,
cradled by high hills, it offers perfect safety, and with a sandy coast,
groves of palm trees, and scattered huts, a setting of unequaled charm.
Nuku Hiva itself is a perfect example of a high island in the South
Seas, than which nothing is more verdantly beautiful.
The French government maintains a small office here, so we went ashore
to present our credentials. All was quickly taken care of, and once we
had mailed our long-delayed letters we were free to explore at will. As
English-speaking visitors to the island have done for decades, we
gravitated to the unofficial clubhouse of the renowned trader, Bob
McKittrick, a Britisher who had jumped ship in the Marquesas some forty
years before and had never left. He operates a small store, but the
commodity for which his trading post is most famous is sociability. We
spent many hours on Bob’s front porch, swapping yarns with other
visitors or, better, listening to Bob’s own tales, of which he had an
endless store.
Also on the island were Bob and Rae Suggs—archaeologists on a field trip
out of Harvard, who had been working up in Taipi Vai and were now
waiting for their boat to go home. Bob, who spoke Marquesan, took me on
several trips into the surrounding bush, trying to buy examples of
Marquesan wood carving, for which the island is justly famous. However,
we found that the bitter laws of economics worked here as elsewhere.
Recently a visit had been made by a ship from the U.S. Fisheries
Division, and the crew had traded ship’s stores for wood carvings—at an
unrealistically inflated price which they could easily afford, since the
ship’s stores were paid for not by them but by the U.S. taxpayers.
Moreover, the ship had promised even more lavish “trade goods” on their
next trip. As a result, all the old carvings—bowls, tikis, turtles,
ornamental swords—were being saved up and new and hastily worked objects
were being turned out as fast as possible to await the return of these
extremely generous men off the Fisheries boat. My private pocketbook
could not begin to compete.
Ted, however, had better luck. With Nick he took a trip for twelve miles
over the mountains, carrying a knapsack filled with shirts and skirts.
In Tai Oa, a quite unfrequented spot, they spent a day with the chief
and his family and presented their gifts. Before they left, the son of
the chief gave Ted a splendidly carved wooden tiki, or little man, a bit
over a foot high. The wood was magnificent and the carving perfect. Ted
didn’t want to take it, as he had nothing of comparable value to give,
but the chief insisted, stuffing the tiki into the knapsack. In addition
he gave Nick a fine carved wooden knife.
On the day before departure we planned to motor around to the adjoining
valley, Taipi Vai, and spend the day in Melville’s Typee. Word of our
plans spread like magic and by the time we were ready to hoist anchor we
had seven or eight deck passengers, including a lovely young Marquesan
woman with two small children and a six-day-old infant. Since the
engine, in spite of several hours of tinkering, again quit on us, and as
I didn’t want to crowd our luck by trying to sail in, we reluctantly
abandoned the projected side trip. We off-loaded our passengers, and
with a smile and a wave they philosophically set out along the trail
which, after a good stiff walk, would eventually get them over the
mountains to Taipi Vai.
We left two of our passengers in Nuku Hiva. Goatie-Goat, who had been
growing rapidly and eying the charts hungrily, remained behind, the
proud possession of a Marquesan family. And we bequeathed Duchess, our
disdainful Spare Cat, to Bob McKittrick. During all her months at sea
she had never learned to adapt to us or to boat life but she took to
Bob—and his plethora of unwanted rats—at once.
We sailed on March 21. I estimated about twenty days for the trip and
made Jessica a half-promise that I would have her back in Hilo for her
fourteenth birthday, on April 12. I kept my promise but the trip,
contrary to our expectations, was in sharp contrast to the peaceful
passage to the Marquesas. The log is filled with notes on torn sails,
squalls, rain, and heavy seas. We started quietly enough, but after the
first week the going began to get heavy. On the seventh day we crossed
the equator for the sixth time and celebrated by catching a 47-inch
wahoo—a member of the mackerel family—rather an unusual event for us on
the high seas, although we usually trailed a line.
Two days later we lost another rotator from our taffrail log—about half
a dozen had been taken in all—and spent a couple of days without one
while I fashioned a spare from bits and pieces of several sets. The new
rotator, when I put it into the water, worked fine—but backwards—so that
our mileage on the dial registered in reverse. Far from being
discouraged, we all thought this provided an interesting challenge, and
Ted worked out tables which made it possible for us to record each day’s
distance even with a rotator subtracting the miles.
Day after day went by with passing squalls and heavy weather. A major
part of our spare time was taken up with sail mending. The truth is that
our sails had just about reached the end of the road and required
constant repair.
On the seventeenth day out I noted: “For the first time in ten days, a
nice day—trade wind type, fresh. An Easter present?”
The next day we set the clock on Hawaii time and the following night we
saw the loom of a light to port. The following morning we sighted Hilo
and headed in.
But we were not to finish the trip without a bit more work. The engine
had given up entirely and now the sails all went on strike at once.
First the foresail split, and while we had it down and were making
repairs, a rip appeared in the main. With so much canvas spread out
useless on the deck, we made little progress even before the wind
dropped almost to nothing. Drifting idly in full view of our
long-anticipated goal, we passed out the leather sailmaker’s palms, the
thread and beeswax and sail needles. As we set to work to sew our way
in, we were cheered by a brief glimpse of that majestic landmark, Mauna
Kea, which appeared for a moment between the clouds. Twice a Coast Guard
plane flew low over us, which Jessica interpreted as “Going back to get
the leis ready!” The Skipper, however, suggested that it was more likely
that they were going back to tattle about the rotten state of our sails.
And so we spent the morning shoving needles back and forth through the
heavy canvas and fighting down our impatience. By noon the job was done,
enough to get in. The sails were again hoisted, and the wind was up a
bit. With clearing weather and an arching rainbow lying low over the
cone of Mauna Kea, we entered the bay and rounded the breakwater, making
a neat two knots.
Two hours later we dropped anchor just off Kaulaiaiwi Island in almost
the exact spot where we had anchored when we first arrived in Hilo after
our hard beat around the Kona coast. With great solemnity Jessica filled
in the red ink-line that completed an erratic circle around the
inflatable globe which had been given her for her birthday in Lahaina
three years before. The _Phoenix_—and five of her original crew—had
completed a voyage around the world—Hilo, Hawaii, to Hilo, Hawaii.
Best of all, we had got ourselves into no trouble that we couldn’t get
out of by ourselves.
We shook hands rather solemnly all around, but I don’t recall any
particular sense of jubilation, only a sense of deep and abiding
satisfaction. As we had done in over a hundred other ports, we unlashed
the dinghy and put it over the side. When entry formalities had been
completed and we finally rowed over to the dock, again we found
representatives of the Hiroshima Ken Society waiting to welcome us. It
felt wonderfully familiar. Later we took a walk. The town looked just
the same. We wandered a block or so from the dock, to the little
Japanese market center where we had done much shopping before setting
out. In the fishing tackle store the same reels, lines, and hooks seemed
to be on display in the window; behind the counter sat the same Japanese
proprietor, his grin as friendly as ever. Nothing had changed.
“You on boat?” he asked.
“Yes, on _Phoenix_.”
“Ah—_Ho-O-Maru_,” he said, giving her Japanese name.
“That’s right!” We were surprised and flattered. “So you remember us!”
“_Sure_ I remember! You came here while ago.”
“That’s right!” _Quite_ a while ago, I thought: 2 years, 10 months, and
15 days.
“Say—” the proprietor said suddenly. “You folks say you gonna sail
rounda world.”
“That’s right,” I admitted, preening myself slightly.
“Okay. Why you no do it?” he said accusingly. “How come change ya mind?”
17 THE LAST LEG:
HONOLULU TO HIROSHIMA
“Of course, there were a couple of incidents.”
After a restful two weeks in Hilo, we moved on to Honolulu, stopping en
route for a week in one of our favorite spots, Lahaina. Here in Maui is
none of the frantic scrambling to be seen on the island of Oahu. In
Honolulu new buildings are rapidly cutting off the classical sight of
Diamond Head, while automobile fumes compete with the subtle fragrance
of mimosa. But on Maui—at least for the moment—there is leisure for rest
and contemplation.
I qualified that remark because plans are now afoot to make another
Waikiki out of a stretch of beach just outside of Lahaina, so the
present description may be a requiem.
We squeezed out of tiny Lahaina harbor about noon on May 1. Making the
sharp right-angle turn, we broke through the surf and crept under power
through the narrow channel against a head wind. It was a quick overnight
trip in fresh trades to Oahu, and by midnight we were once again laying
off Diamond Head, marveling at the lights and color. This time, however,
we were looking ashore at familiar landmarks and could identify the
myriad flashes and beams.
The next morning we entered the yacht harbor, and after a couple of
temporary tie-ups were assigned to a berth, where we began leisurely
preparations for our last long leg, to Hiroshima. The yacht harbor is
jammed with craft, almost all of which never have—or never could—go
outside. Unfortunately, most of the available harbor space on Oahu is in
Pearl Harbor, and not available to private yachts.
It was our plan to leave in about a month; it was not until almost two
years later that we were able to make the long haul back to Hiroshima.
The _Phoenix_ was not quite idle during this period—she sailed over
6,000 miles during 83 days at sea—but our sailing was of a different
nature than that of a casual family cruise and does not enter into this
account. In brief, we sailed into the Bikini nuclear bomb test area,
then to Kwajalein, in the Marshalls, and finally—without the Skipper and
Jessica aboard—back to Honolulu. But, as I say, that is another story
(told in _The Forbidden Voyage_).
On April 26, 1960, we set out again, ready in all ways for our long
passage across the Pacific to Japan. The weather was fair, the trades
generally moderate, and our hearts were eager to reach Hiroshima, which
we think of as home. Our route lay just north of one we had taken in
1958, to the forbidden zone near Bikini, but this time we were
unmolested, since the bomb tests had long since been concluded.
It was on the whole a quiet trip, although there were a couple of
incidents. Also, we did a lot of experimenting with the sails, partly
for the fun of it and partly because our sails were in such delicate
condition that ingenious adaptations were necessary. We very soon tried
the jib which Bill Huntington, of the _Golden Rule_, had given us, and
it worked fine. A little later we set up for the first time a spinnaker,
which we had bought secondhand in Honolulu. It also worked well, but we
were spoiled by long years of lazy cruising and just didn’t have the
racing man’s attitude. I’m afraid we never gave the spinnaker the
attention it deserved, and when it began to demand too much attention we
just took it down.
Log entries are meager during a fair-weather passage, and the entry on
the tenth day stands out prominently: “PHOENIX’S SIXTH BIRTHDAY!” A
couple of days later, we hit our first “bad” weather—a mild line squall.
Things were so quiet, in fact, that one morning I took a nap and
officially made Jessica the Captain—for a period of two hours. She
promptly took over the keeping of the log book, and her entries follow:
0700 Cap’n Blob takes over command.
0730 Cook mutinies, refuses to get out of bed.
0825 Wind from more or less aft.
0845 Former Cap’n refuses to do dishes. Ruled guilty by Majority of
One, will be thrown in irons, if any available.
0900 Took morning shot. Presiding Cap’n goofed.
0931 Cap’n turns over all responsibility to Skipper, and resigns from
active (or inactive) duty. Sigh.
One more entry:
1700 DATE LINE crossed. (Beep, beep! J.)
So we lost May 11 out of our lives. That night we saw what must be a
very rare sight, a “moonbow.” A full moon aft and a shower forward
combined to produce this phenomenon, with actual rainbow colors quite
visible.
Of course, as was the case all around the world, we had a Cat and Spare
Cat on board—Nos. 34 and 35, I believe, although I’m quite sure Jessica,
who kept complete pedigrees, has accurate statistics in this department.
Anyway, our present Ship’s Cat was named Daimyo—so called from the early
feudal Japanese lord whose distinguishing characteristic was an
overbearingly haughty attitude. Daimyo had one trick, and one only, but
he worked it into the ground. He had learned to ring the ship’s bell
when he wanted something—and he usually wanted something. In order to
get a little peace, it was necessary to muffle the bell at night. A
_very_ early-morning log entry on several days indicates that I
forgot—and paid the penalty by being awakened by Daimyo’s ringing for
his breakfast.
On the night of our twenty-first day out we could see the navigation
light on Wake to the north and began to think about edging up to the
northwest, on a slant toward Japan. We did so, and a week later I made
this sad note: “Good-bye, Trades!”—to which Jessica added in written
baby talk: “Sank oo for free sousan’ miles!”
But we were not to reach Japan unscathed. Typhoon No. 2 (they are
numbered anew each season) was churning up from the Philippines, and as
we plotted its path through daily weather broadcasts we liked the
situation less and less. My entry of June 1:
36 days out. About 430 miles SE of Hachijo-shima. Sudden shift of wind
to N. Present course likely to take us right _into_ Typhoon No. 2.
Decided to take down main and heave to. Only mizzen up, tiller lashed.
Breeze freshening, barometer dropping, rain ...
Squalls increasing in size and frequency. Riding well.... Winds very
strong.... Heavy confused seas.
By the next day No. 2 had passed in front of us, about a hundred miles
ahead, and the weather was rapidly improving. Winds at the center of the
typhoon were force 12—hurricane. Glad we weren’t in them—we had our
hands quite full enough where we were.
Incidentally, leaving the mizzen up was a mistake—it was blown to
ribbons, and this isn’t a figure of speech; nothing was left of it but
thin strips of frayed canvas, cracking like whips in the wind.
That didn’t bother us. We were on the home stretch now and could almost
smell the land. We broke out our _topsail_—Nick’s idea—rigged it upside
down in place of the mizzen, and carried on. Only two thirds of the
original area, and it looked rather lubberly, but the yacht club critics
don’t get this far out, so it passed without comment. The important
thing was, it worked.
One day after the typhoon had passed the wind was down to “light
variables, with no visible progress.” This is what keeps sailing from
being boring.
The next day we had a visitor: “Large whale has been playing tag with us
for last half hour, swimming along just in front of our course. Saw him
40–50 times.”
And on June 8, forty-three days out, we had our last “incident”:
0955. Buzzed 3 times by U. S. Navy plane. Very low and close, once
knocking wind out of our sails.