All in the same boat

The Forbidden Voyage

ALL IN THE SAME BOAT An American Family’s Adventures on a Voyage around the World in the Yacht _Phoenix_

By

EARLE and BARBARA REYNOLDS

DAVID McKAY COMPANY, INC. New York

All In The Same Boat

Copyright © 1962 By Earle And Barbara Reynolds

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or parts thereof, in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

Published Simultaneously In The Dominion Of Canada

Library Of Congress Catalog Card Number: 62–18969

Manufactured In The United States Of America

Van Rees Press · New York

Introduction

At a party, celebrating the passage of the _Phoenix_ through the Panama Canal, the master of ceremonies introduced our group as follows:

This is the crew of the yacht _Phoenix_, now on a voyage around the world.

First we have Jessica Reynolds, who is the first little girl, to my knowledge, to have attempted this feat.

Then there is Ted Reynolds, probably the first teen-age navigator of a globe-circling sailing yacht.

The third member of the crew is Nick Mikami, from Hiroshima—the first Japanese yachtsman to sail around the world.

Beside me is Barbara Reynolds, surely the most charming circumnavigating yachtswoman I have yet had the pleasure of meeting.

Finally—here is Dr. Earle Reynolds, whose sole claim to distinction is that he is the first, and _only_, skipper ever to sail around the world with all these wonderful people.

Fellow yachtsmen, both deep sea and dry land, both cockpit and armchair, here we are—all in the same boat.

Dedicated To

“All those men who want to go to sea and never do—” (Jessica’s Journal) and to their long-suffering wives.

Authors’ Note

For simplicity, this collaboration is presented from the point of view of the Skipper

Contents

Introduction v

1. THE RISE OF THE _PHOENIX_ 1 “Between a dream and a deed lie the doldrums.”

2. PREPARATIONS FOR A VOYAGE 20 “Cruising is walking, talking, buying, scrounging ... but cruising is also sailing.”

3. FROM JAPAN TO HONOLULU 39 “The long shakedown ... a seven-week course in How to Sail.”

4. ON TO THE SOUTH PACIFIC: FROM HAWAII TO TAHITI 61 “Banzai!... Banzai!... Banzai!”

5. TAHITI AND THE ISLANDS UNDER THE WIND 81 “Money? What I do with money?”

6. WESTWARD THROUGH THE SOUTH SEAS: RAROTONGA, SAMOA, FIJI 100 “A broad reach, a quiet sea, a full moon....”

7. DOWN UNDER: NEW ZEALAND AND AUSTRALIA 115 “Ah-h-h, yes-s-s!...”

8. —AND BACK UP: THE GREAT BARRIER REEF 133 “Better men than we had come to grief....”

9. INTO INDONESIA: THURSDAY ISLAND TO BALI 151 “Our life at sea was teaching us....”

10. BALI, JAVA, THE KEELING-COCOS 169 “A sense of uneasy anticipation....”

11. ACROSS THE INDIAN OCEAN: COCOS TO DURBAN 189 “You have seen people of all sorts. Makes my mouth water....”

12. SOUTH AFRICA: BEAUTIFUL, UNHAPPY LAND 207 “What will you do when that day comes?”

13. ACROSS THE ATLANTIC THE LONG WAY: CAPE TOWN TO NEW YORK CITY 225 “Beautiful night, new moon, slow progress, who cares?”

14. EVERY KIND OF CRUISING: NEW YORK TO PANAMA, BY THE CORKSCREW ROUTE 247 “A man must stand up for what he believes.”

15. GALÁPAGOS: HOME OF THE LAST PIONEERS 267 “Those delicate souls whose coffee must be just so....”

16. BACK TO HAWAII 286 “How come change ya mind?”

17. THE LAST LEG: HONOLULU TO HIROSHIMA 297 “Of course, there were a couple of incidents.”

Index 305

Illustrations

(_between pages 182 and 183_)

Map of the journey around the world The _Phoenix_ under full sail in the waters off Hawaii In port, Wellington, New Zealand Arrival in Honolulu, 1954 Japan, buying scrap iron to use as inside ballast The timber is cut Shaping the hull Full-size patterns for the ribs The Captain and his ship Launching day Bora Bora, French Oceania Skipper and Mi-ke Sextant shot on a quiet day Mickey: Portrait of a seasick sailor Galley scene, April, 1955 Jessica and her journal Lassoing albatross Rough day, Tasman Sea Repairing sails Marina, Staten Island Ted refurbishing figurehead Jessica sewing on Girl Scout badges Reynolds family

1 The Rise Of The _Phoenix_

“Between a dream and a deed lie the doldrums.”

The yacht _Phoenix_ stood poised on the launching cradle. The ways were greased, the tide at spring high, and only a single wedge restrained our newly built ketch from sliding into the waters of the Inland Sea of Japan.

Standing on deck, I looked at the crowd below, at the Shinto priest chanting a blessing at the bow, and at Yotsuda-san, my long-suffering shipbuilder, waiting alongside for my signal.

Across the bay I could see the mountainous island of Miya Jima, green and beautiful in the bright May sun. Over there, in her famous shrine which at high tide seems to float upon the surface of the sea, sleeps the goddess, Itsukushima-hime-no-mikoto, famed and feared for her jealous nature. I could only hope she would not begrudge us our brief moment of glory.

When the priest had finished, I made a short speech, and then mochi—pink and white rice cakes of ceremonial significance—were tossed to the crowd. The moment had come: it was high noon. I caught Yotsuda-san’s eye, and nodded. He smiled, bowed, and signaled to a workman. I suddenly thought, Well, Yotsuda, if this launching is a bust, I’ll be busted, too—but you’ll probably have to revive the good old custom of harakiri.

“Ikimasho!—Let’s go!” I shouted. Then everything happened very fast. Jessica, standing on tiptoe, cut with a tiny golden ax the ribbon which symbolically bound the _Phoenix_ to the shore; Barbara swung mightily and broke the traditional bottle across the bow, cutting her finger in the process; a workman knocked out the last block. We paused for a breathless moment, and then began our slide, picking up speed as we descended rapidly, until we hit the blue waters of the Inland Sea with a grand and noble splash.

From the boat Ted and I could hear mingled American cheers and Japanese banzais floating out across the water, as our _Phoenix_ glided, riding free on the placid bay—where she promptly rammed into the side of a Japanese sampan, and spilled the too curious occupants into the drink.

So now we had our boat, and she floated. It was another stage in a long-term dream, a dream which had been born in my seventeenth summer. With my first pay check from my first job I had bought a book: Joshua Slocum’s account of the building of the beloved _Spray_, and of his singlehanded voyage around the world. That was the beginning.

But between a dream and a deed often lie decades of doldrums.

During the next two decades I lived what might be called a normal academic life, acquiring three degrees (all in anthropology), one wife, a daughter, two sons, a growing waistline, and a suspicion that life was pulling a fast one on me.

It was not until 1951 that my dream of ocean cruising returned in strength. At this time I was associate professor of anthropology at Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio—where the nearest body of water is the local pond, three feet deep—and head of the department of physical growth at the Fels Research Institute.

That year the National Academy of Sciences asked me, as an expert in the field of human growth and development, to set up a scientific study in the atom-bombed city of Hiroshima. I accepted and went to Japan, together with Barbara and our three children: Tim, now fifteen; Ted, thirteen; and Jessica, seven. For the next three years I studied the effects of atomic radiation on the growth of the surviving children of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Now, for the first time in my life, I lived within sight and sound of the sea, even though it was the relatively gentle Inland Sea of Japan. Every day, as I drove to the laboratories of the Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission, I passed busy shipyards, where wooden ships, both large and small, were being built with age-old skills. Oyster boats, fishing sampans, and trading schooners dotted the blue waters of Hiroshima Wan. Gradually, as I settled into my research and got my bearings, I began to look about with a very specific purpose in mind.

There is a poem by Browning whose lines are haunting: “Never the time and the place and the loved one all together!” At last it seemed that these three magic elements might possibly be combined. We had the time—a two-year contract, with an option to extend it for a third year. This was certainly the place—the magnificent Inland Sea, unrivaled for beauty, with plenty of opportunity for sailing—while just beyond lay the vast and challenging waters of the Pacific. Moreover, there were skilled Japanese shipwrights here, with centuries of tradition in the building of wooden craft.

As for the loved one—she existed as yet only in the notes, sketches, and pictures I had stored over the years, but which I hoped might be assembled into the plans for the ideal boat.

Finally, for the first time in our lives, we had a chance to accumulate some capital. At last, and for once—the time, the place, and the loved one seemed to have met.

The type of craft that evolved in my mind was a heavily built ketch, stressing the factors of safety and simplicity. I knew about the pros and cons of light-versus-heavy displacement cruising boats, and had compared modern and old-time designs, rigs and methods of construction. One fact was all-important: styles in boats, like everything else, may change, but the sea doesn’t. Boats built along traditional lines have made long voyages in safety and relative comfort in years past, and they can do so today, even though they may be scorned as “old-fashioned.”

With this idea in mind, I made a few contacts with stateside designers and ordered a number of stock plans. I came across some very fine designs, but none completely suited me. One very real problem was the particular circumstances under which this boat would have to be built. I would have to use materials and equipment now available in Japan. The boat would have to be built of Japanese woods. Would a foreign designer know which to recommend? Also, there was the matter of the local boatbuilders, who didn’t take too kindly to plans and blueprints, to say nothing of the English language. Would an absentee designer be able to anticipate and provide for all the problems that were bound to arise?

Reluctantly I had to face the facts: if I wanted a boat built in Japan, by local shipwrights, I would have to design it myself and supervise every detail of its construction. If I didn’t think I could do it, it would be better not to start.

I settled myself to the task. For the next year all my time and energy outside the laboratory were devoted to the labor of designing the boat. It was entirely a “library research” type of job, based on my studies, collected materials, and the books I had brought to Japan with me.

I drew up the plans for a double-ender, along the lines of the early Colin Archer designs. It was to be 50 feet over-all, with a 14-foot beam and a draft of 7½ feet, displacing about 30 tons.

The ketch was to have a straight keel, high bulwarks, gaff main, topmast, inside ballast (6½ out of a total of 9 tons), and a flush deck forward of a small after cabin. Her accommodations would attempt to combine the best features of an open design, so necessary in the tropics, with the essential privacy for each member of the crew, which could make all the difference on a long voyage.

With the plans well along, we hit a real snag. For months all efforts to find a satisfactory boatbuilder, at a price we could afford, drew only blanks.

A major problem was language. I could speak enough Japanese to get a hot bath, to find out when the next train left, or to agree that the scenery was out of this world—but this was a long way from being able to discuss technical phases of boatbuilding. I began to enlist help from among my Japanese friends, and before long had built up a working team, which we called the “four-man parlay.”

Man No. 1 was Yasuda-san (“san” is a suffix meaning Mr., Mrs., or Miss). Yasuda-san was a teacher in the local high school; his knowledge of English was excellent but he knew nothing whatever about boats.

Man No. 2 was Takemura-san, key member of the Hiroshima University Yacht Club. He was a former officer in the Japanese Navy, an expert navigator, and a keen sailor of small boats, though not a deep-sea yachtsman. His interest in the venture was as a potential member of the crew. He spoke not one word of English.

Man No. 3, whom we called the catalyst, was Niichi Mikami, a fellow employee at the Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission. Nick (as he quickly became known) spoke fair English and had a good understanding of “how to get along with Americans.” He was also a fine small-boat sailor and a member of the local yacht club. He filled in the gaps in the chain of communication.

Man No. 4 was myself, who thought I knew what I wanted but was hard put, at times, to get it.

Whenever the team could be assembled, we toured the boatyards of the surrounding areas, but without success. The builders either refused outright, or quoted such a fantastically high price that there was no point in dickering, or—more in character—were so devious in their discussion that this amounted, in Japanese terms, to a refusal. Not until the search was widened well beyond Hiroshima, to the region near Miya Jima, did I find my man. One cold, wet morning in December, our four-man team set out for Miya Jima Guchi, thirty minutes by standing-room-only train from Hiroshima. From here a short walk took us to the small shipyard of Mr. Yotsuda.

As we approached we could see Yotsuda-san himself, silhouetted against the terraced rice fields of an adjoining hillside. His kimono waving briskly in the breeze, he was repairing his roof—and judging from the looks of it, none too soon. At a hail, he scrambled down, and I bowed through the rituals of introduction, via Yasuda-san, via Takemura-san, with help from Nick.

Yotsuda-san impressed me favorably when I met him, and I had a feeling he liked me. He was a cheerful, shrewd-eyed, honest-faced man of middle age. He had been a busy and prosperous shipbuilder in Manchuria until after the war, but now, repatriated to Japan, he had been able to bring back only his family and a few hand tools. At present, the Yotsudas were living precariously from hand to mouth, or rather, from fishing smack to oyster boat.

The workshop consisted of an open shed, with living quarters behind, and a nearby pile of scrap lumber. The shop had a bare and austere appearance to American, gadget-accustomed eyes. There were no high-speed tools in evidence, no laborsaving devices, no power saws or sanding machines, not even a brace and bit. There were only the traditional hand tools of Japanese boatbuilding—adzes, chisels, hammers, augers, saws. I noted that the saws functioned by pulling instead of pushing. As I later discovered, so did the workmen.

Our group was ushered into the Yotsuda living-sleeping-dining room, with its bare tatami mats and the family shrine in the corner. There we knelt about the hibachi, trying to warm ourselves from its core of glowing charcoal. The family had apparently been banished to the earthen-floored kitchen. While the wind whistled through the plainly visible cracks, the “team” discussed with Yotsuda-san in tortuous fashion the possibility of bringing to life, in wood and iron, my sketches and notes. And I thought doubtfully to myself, When this man can’t even plug the holes in his own walls, how could he ever be able to build a good boat?

At any rate, I showed him what I wanted, bringing out my plans and pictures, and discussing notes and construction. Hours passed. Yotsuda-san looked and listened quietly. Behind his impassive smile—that famous Japanese smile!—there began to glow a spark of genuine interest and understanding. Through the interpreters he began to ask pertinent questions and make sharp comments. There was no doubt this man knew his business, and that he saw, in the designs, a challenge that intrigued him. Suddenly I found myself thinking that, cracks or no cracks in the wall, this man _could_ build our boat!

So I knelt there, with legs long ago gone to sleep, and shivered silently in my overcoat, while a long and vigorous discussion took place in Japanese. At last there was a pause, a question from Takemura-san which could be recognized as climactic, and Yotsuda-san’s answer, ending in the phrase, “Dekimasu—Can do it.”

The team summed up the four-hour meeting succinctly: “He say ‘Okay’!”

Now we had to come to grips with reality. A dream on paper is no risk at all, but the time had come to back it with a sizable wad of cash. Even though the price agreed upon was remarkably low, by American standards, it would take all the money we had and could raise. I had to face the fact that, if anything went wrong, we might be financially wrecked before we even got the boat in the water.

The contract, when completed, was a magnificent document, embodying every item and clause I could cull from legal terminology and textbooks on boatbuilding (I had eight of them). It protected us (or so I thought) from every imaginable disaster or delay, whether from act of God or from error of Nippon.

Even so, the contract contained, as I later discovered, two flaws. First, when translated into Japanese by Mr. Yasuda, the language somehow lost the force of the English version, so that the verbs “will” and “must” came out “it would be nice if” and “it would be good to.” Months later, when I came to know both Mr. Yasuda and the Japanese language better, I asked him why he had so softened the original version.

“Reynolds-sensei,” said Mr. Yasuda (“sensei” being a term of respect accorded professors and the like), “Reynolds-sensei is a very polite man.”

“Oh, I am?” I asked politely.

“Of course. And Reynolds-sensei would never say anything to make Yotsuda-san unhappy.”

“No?”

“Because then Yotsuda-san maybe not work so well.” Mr. Yasuda smiled. “So I do not translate what Reynolds-sensei _say_; I translate what he _mean_.”

“Oh.” I thought this over for a moment. “Mr. Yasuda—the boat—it’s still to be fifty feet long, isn’t it?”

“Of course!” said Mr. Yasuda, shocked. “Everything just like you say in contract!”

The second flaw in the contract was a very simple one. The time stipulated for the completion of the job, to be started in December, 1952, was June 15. The contract merely neglected to mention _which_ June 15.

In any event, having made the down payment, as per contract, so Yotsuda-san could begin to buy the materials, I retired to the bosom of my family for Christmas. Perhaps there was something in the gifts I had shopped for so lovingly—heavy brass ship’s candlesticks mounted in gimbals, a ship’s bell with a truly mellow tone, a bright orange life jacket for each member of the family—that made the kids realize that, although this boat might be another of daddy’s whims, it was a whim that was going to affect them directly. They began to take a mild interest in the project and to look at my plans with more respect. Jessica, in particular, asked to be shown _her_ place in the boat, and wanted it distinctly understood that she would have no part in it unless room was made for _all_ her dolls. This was managed by simply labeling one locker in the plans, “Jessica’s Dolls.”

Shortly after New Year’s Day I returned to the shipyard, eagerly expectant. I looked forward to seeing the piles of lumber, redolent with promise. Perhaps the keel had already been laid. At least the lines of the boat would have been laid down, full size, as directed.

I was alone this trip, so as I trudged the muddy road from the station to the boatyard, I went over my meager Japanese vocabulary. But after all, I wanted only to look at the progress of the work, and surely no technical problems would come up this soon.

None did, for when I arrived I found the shop, in its original condition, together with Mr. Yotsuda, in his original condition, and nothing else. At a disadvantage, I began a conversation in my best pidgin Japanese.

“Ohio gosaimasu—Good morning,” I said, as an opening gambit.

Mr. Yotsuda bowed. “Ohio gosaimasu. Shinen omedeto gosaimasu!” This meant not only good morning but also Happy New Year, which put him one up.

“Boat,” I fumbled. “Not begin?”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Yotsuda happily. “Not begin!”

“Ah so desuka?” This is the Japanese equivalent of “You don’t say?” “Why not—begin?”

“Ah—now New Year!” Mr. Yotsuda seemed vastly surprised at my ignorance.

“But, Yotsuda-san, New Year—three days before!”

“Ah, yes!” agreed Mr. Yotsuda. “Also today—and tomorrow—and tomorrow.” His gestures indicated a vast array of tomorrows. “Many, many days.”

So I learned a new thing about Japan—that New Year’s is not a day, it is a season.

However, when we visited the yard again, together, late in January, things looked more promising. Much lumber had been assembled; nearby were many curved logs of keyaki, comparable to oak, from which the frames would be made. Set upon a foundation near the shore was a massive log of kuromatsu (black pine) which the awkward-looking adzes of the workmen were rapidly transforming into a long, gleaming white keel. As I ran my hands lovingly over the fresh, smooth wood, I knew that at last we were on the way.

The methods of the workmen never ceased to fascinate us. In one corner of the shipyard was a sight that was to become very familiar: a solemn little man in a black fur cap who, sawing horizontally with an enormous curved saw, steadily, day after day, reduced huge logs to two-inch planks. Every bit of lumber on our boat was to be hand sawn. All the workmen handled their tools with consummate skill, an ease which was deceptive when one tried to use the same instrument. For example, after the deck had been laid they smoothed it to perfection by removing almost transparently thin shavings with the swing of an adze—an operation in which a fraction too much follow-through would have removed a toe or a miscalculation in depth would have left an ugly gouge. Neither gruesome alternative ever happened.

The men worked mainly by eye, even when operating within the confines of measurements, but the completed job was always amazingly accurate. An example was the fitting of the planking which, forced into position by huge vises, was fastened to the frames with handmade, hot-dipped galvanized boat spikes, through-bolted at the butts, and then, for additional strength, edge-nailed from the inside. The planking was begun from the bottom up and completed from the top down. It remains one of the mysteries of the inscrutable East how that last plank was so cut as to fit exactly into the space that awaited it. No crack of light could be seen between the finished planking, even before calking.

Both planking and deck seams were calked with oakum. When the job was done, the cooperation of the local fire department was enlisted and a hand pump set up on the sea wall. A contingent of volunteers spent hours pumping the Inland Sea into the hull, while workmen on the scaffolding outside marked the few small leaks with chalk. At the end of a busy day, a hole was drilled in the bilge and the sea allowed to drain out.

The chief exceptions to traditional Japanese methods were in my insistence on the use of wood preservatives, marine glue and American putties and paints. Such procedures are not a part of normal sampan-building activities. A certain preliminary confusion was also caused by the fact that Japanese shipwrights do not operate in terms of feet and inches, but with shaku and sun, which are only rough equivalents. Eventually, I discovered that the work proceeded much more smoothly if I adapted to their measuring system and translated my figures into Japanese dimensions. I became quite casual, as time went on, in the use of shaku and sun, not to mention bu, ken, kan, kin, tsubo, sho, to, and koku.

We never did become casual, however, about the manner in which the workmen smoked on the job and tossed their butts and matches—sometimes still aflame—into nearby piles of trash and shavings. Naturally, there was a fire clause in the contract, but we were realistic enough by now to know that if the job came to a fiery and untimely end, Yotsuda-san would be profoundly distressed, but absolutely without means to rebuild our boat. Insurance? Just the thought of beginning negotiations made my head reel. No, the men must stop smoking on the job. I told them so, and they smiled and bowed politely. From then on, each time we came out to the boatyard, they smiled, bowed, and carefully put out their cigarettes. We smiled and bowed also, and hoped for the best.

Nevertheless, these months were happy ones for us all. The work progressed steadily, if slowly, and although we had gradually reconciled ourselves to the fact that we would not launch in June, we felt that surely by July—or, at the latest, August.... We still had much to learn.

During this time hundreds of problems arose, and each, after its own nature, had to be met and surmounted. Scores of items, major and minor, had to be hunted down, designed or made, or contracted for. A principal source of supply was in the junk and secondhand marine shops that lined the waterfronts. The nearby city of Kure had during the war been a mammoth shipbuilding center, and even then in some half-forgotten bin at the back of a shop one could sometimes make rich strikes. I would emerge sneezing, dragging out a length of galvanized chain or an assortment of bolts. The proprietor, knowing quite well who I was and what I was up to, would grin amiably. The conversation usually went like this:

“Kono jonku wa—ikura desuka?—This junk—how much?”

“Jonku!” he exclaimed in mock indignation. “Jonku nai! Yotto no mono desu!—Not junk! Yacht equipment!”

“Iie! Jonku dake! Ikura?—No! Only junk! How much?”

He laughed. “Hokay. Sekai isshu no yotto kara, jonku desu.—Okay. Because it’s for the round-the-world yacht, call it junk.” He weighed it up, I paid for it at the rate of scrap iron, and hauled it down to the boat.

In Kure also was an offshoot of the Korean War, the BCOF—British Commonwealth Occupation Forces—salvage depot, which was a high-class name for another junk yard. War materiel poured into this depot in bewildering abundance and a wide variety of conditions, from completely unused to completely useless. Climbing the mountainous piles of scrap in the yard, or delving into the bins in the sheds, I would sometimes make a fine haul, as on the day I picked up two new 65-pound plow-type anchors for one pound Australian ($2.25) apiece.

Sometimes, however, the find would turn out to be fool’s gold, as it was the time I bought a 1,200-foot coil of condemned one-inch manila rope for 10 shillings, sight unseen, only to discover that it should have remained sight unseen, forever.

In time the officers in charge of the depot became interested in our activities, and set aside items which they thought we could use. In this way we acquired such things as a ton of truck springs (for inside ballast), an Air Force compass (which we used all the way around the world), a big bilge pump (still in use), an aluminum gas tank from a crashed plane (our deck water tank), and dozens of other items, great and small.

No amount of searching, however, would dig up the outside keel we had to have cast by a foundry, or a marine engine (ordered from America), or our sails (made in Yokohama), or the many special deck irons, or the rigging. In cases such as these, I had to do it the hard way.

By September, work had progressed far enough so that we felt it was high time to decide on a name for our craft. My preference was for Daruma, the Japanese doll with a rounded bottom and the well-known ability to bounce upright every time it was pushed over. The Japanese have a saying about the daruma: “Nana korobi, ya oki!—Down seven times, up eight!” I liked those odds very much. So, when our Japanese language teacher and very good friend, Mr. Yamada, next visited us, we broached the subject.

“Daruma....” Mr. Yamada said, slowly tasting the word. “Yes-s-s ... very good.” From his tone we knew he really meant not worth a plugged yen. What we didn’t know at that time was that to the Japanese the daruma also connotes a lady of easy virtue, for obvious reasons.

“Maybe something else would be better?” Barbara said, giving him an out.

“I think so—maybe something else,” agreed Mr. Yamada. “I will think about it.”

On his next visit Mr. Yamada did not bring up the subject of the boat’s name directly. That was not his way. But he did produce a 10-yen note and point out to us the mythical bird engraved across its face, the phoenix. And during the rest of the evening the word “phoenix” seemed to recur frequently in our conversation. “We Japanese hold phoenix in very great esteem.... One of the rooms in the Imperial Palace is called Phoenix Room. It is most beautiful.” More importantly, Mr. Yamada had written out for us, in his amazingly neat script, an account of the place of the phoenix in Oriental mythology—“He is legendary king of the birds appearing to reign only in time of universal peace.” In turn Mr. Yamada seemed both awed and incredulous when we told him of the Western concept: that the phoenix is eternally born again from the ashes of its own destruction.

“Perhaps—world peace—shall rise from the ashes of Hiroshima,” he murmured.

“Mr. Yamada,” I asked, “what would you think of the name of _Phoenix_ for our boat?”

“_Phoenix_....” Mr. Yamada echoed the word softly. “Yes.... I think—maybe a very good name. Very—auspicious.”

And that was that.

The next step was to arrange for a suitable figurehead—naturally a phoenix. A local wood carver submitted an ambitious design. We managed to tame his enthusiasm somewhat, but our present compromise, carved from a solid block of camphorwood, is still a very impressive bird.

By now it was fall and we had begun to adjust our sights to a December launching. After all, that would be only six months late! The work was going along well and all seemed serene when suddenly, like the collapse of a pricked balloon, everything stopped. On several consecutive visits we saw no workmen, no progress, no signs of life. Yotsuda-san seemed not to be available.

There was only one thing to do. Rounding up the “team,” I called a conference. Mrs. Yotsuda was sternly warned to have her husband there.

Yotsuda-san came to the meeting, but it was only after long prodding that the reason for the delay came out. Yotsuda had run out of money. Without pay, the workmen—even though they were his relatives—wouldn’t work. Therefore, he needed money—not more than the contract called for, but the next installment in advance of the due date.

After getting this straight, I advanced the sum needed. When Yotsuda-san, bowing his apologies all the way out of sight, had departed, I asked the natural question.

“Why didn’t he tell me at once? Why waste so much time?”

“Yotsuda-san was very much ashamed,” Mr. Yasuda explained.

“Ashamed because he needed money?”

“Yes. Contract says, ‘Next payment when masts stepped,’ but masts not stepped yet, so Yotsuda-san is ashamed to ask for money. It is a great disgrace to the Japanese people.”

“To the Japanese _people_?”

“Yes. You are foreign gentleman. You have made very careful contract. To foreigners, contract is important. So Japanese people much disgraced if Yotsuda-san cannot keep contract.”

“Don’t Japanese people have contracts among themselves?”

“Of course!” said Mr. Yasuda. “They _have_ contracts, but do not _use_ them. If contract is no good, they forget it.”

“Mr. Yasuda,” I said, “tell Yotsuda-san to forget the contract and build the boat.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Yasuda happily. “I think it would be much better.”

With the threat of disgrace from contractual obligations removed from Yotsuda’s shoulders, together with judicious advances of small sums at regular intervals, work again proceeded slowly and happily, interrupted only by the prolonged O-bon festivals of the fall months, the bad weather in November, and of course by the expected hiatus at New Year’s.

By early March the work was far enough along so that I thought we should discuss a definite date for the launching, but I was determined that this date, once set, would not be postponed, and stressed this strongly at the next group meeting.

Mr. Yasuda seemed surprised. “But date for launching is already decided.”

“Ah so desuka!—You don’t say!” I remarked. “Who decided it?”

Mr. Yasuda consulted his companions. “The priests at Miya Jima shrine,” he announced.

“Oh—naturally. And the date—may I ask when it is?”

“The fifth of May, a very good day. The priests say this is a lucky day. Also, it is big spring tide and you cannot launch except at highest tide. And it is Boys’ Day—Japanese national holiday—so everyone will come!”

This seemed to be an unbeatable combination, so May 5 was set as L day. In the meantime, we were busy as never before. We hung the rudder—a big, barn-door affair, on which the ironwork alone weighed 500 pounds. We sanded, puttied, and painted. And we stepped the masts, an all-day job using manpower alone. For this task the Hiroshima University Yacht Club, of which Nick and Takemura were members, turned out in a body to help. Even the press took notice, reporting that “A gigantic yacht is building near Miya Jima Guchi.” Compared to the snipes and sailing dinghies of the local yacht clubs, the _Phoenix_ did indeed look gigantic as she reared up in her makeshift cradle, towering above the roof (now repaired) of Yotsuda’s humble home-shipyard.

As the date approached, our craft, superficially at least, began to take on the appearance of a boat. For the moment we refused to think of the work yet to be done: all the interior joiner work, the engine installation, the tanks, the deck-iron work, the standing and running rigging, the sails. And beyond this, such items as clothing, supplies, stores, navigation equipment, charts—literally hundreds of individual items to be obtained. And at the end of it all, the cruise itself, for which the entire undertaking was merely preparation. Of this last stage I dared not, at the moment, even think.

In the last hectic weeks before launching Barbara took over a number of items that had been added to the already lengthy list of Things to be Done. She located an upholsterer who could cover the frames for our seats and couches; she arranged for our weekly “sewing girl” to shift her talents from shirts and dresses to such necessary items as mattress covers, canvas cushions, and a complete set of signal flags.

All in all the family didn’t see too much of each other as we moved into the home stretch, but we consoled ourselves by thinking that once we moved aboard we’d be together constantly. This prospect was not one of unalloyed bliss, however, especially when Ted and Jessica tangled in a brother-sister dispute. At such times we were inclined to agree with Tim, who had announced violently, “I simply couldn’t _live_ with my family on a fifty-foot boat!”

Soon thereafter Tim announced his decision to return to the States and go to college, rather than accompany us on our voyage. Barbara was disconsolate.

“It was one thing when I thought we’d all be in this together,” she tried to explain, “but with Tim in the States—and the rest of us out of touch for weeks at a time—possibly months—” She paused, and we both finished the thought silently, Maybe forever.

“Families,” wailed Jessica, “ought to stay together! I don’t want Tim to go!”

None of us did, but it was his decision to make. We let him go with our blessing, and went ahead with our plans. Barbara determined to do everything possible to draw the rest of us even closer together.

The last forty-eight hours before launching was a time of continuous work, accompanied by the hammering of shipwrights, who removed most of the scaffolding and poised the _Phoenix_ in her launching cradle. They also had to demolish a portion of the heavy sea wall so that the ways could be extended out over the water. On the last night work continued long hours after dark, by the light of bonfires. The men themselves were considerably lit up by several cases of beer, so it was a tired but musical gang who saw the sun come up as the job was finally completed.

During the night Takemura-san, Nick, and I completed our preparations for the launching ceremonies, which had blossomed until they were far more elaborate than anything I had ever imagined or wanted. Much of this was due to the activities of Takemura, the prospective first mate, who had shown himself a bit unreliable in the matter of solid work but now proved himself to be a born master of ceremonies.

Among other things he had arranged elaborate king-size badges, to be worn by all participants. It was during the preparation of these badges that the first faint signs of future complications put in an appearance. At four in the morning Takemura approached and through Nick indicated that he needed to consult with me. Nick’s English, which had improved remarkably during the months we’d known him, was still strained a bit when conversations got beyond the realm of the strictly functional.

“Takemura-san wants to know what to write on badge,” said Nick.

“Do we _have_ to have badges?” I asked desperately, but I already knew the answer to that one.

“Of course,” said Nick. “Always have badges—very important.”

“Okay,” I said resignedly. “On Oku-san—Mrs. Reynolds’ badge, write Cook.”

“Just—Cook?” repeated Nick, aghast.

“No—better make it Chief Bosun’s Mate,” I hastily amended.

“Ah, taihen ii desu—Very good!” approved Takemura when Nick translated. The title was duly brushed in, in beautiful Japanese ideographs.

I was getting warmer now. “And on this badge—” taking up Ted’s—“write Assistant Navigator, and on Jessica-san’s badge write Cabin Girl.” This was done, and Nick, who had been officially signed on, was given the title of second mate. Then there was a pause, and I could sense some sort of crisis.

“Reynolds-san, your badge. Takemura-san asks what to write.”

“Why, Captain, I should think. Unless you want something fancier?”

“Captain. Ah so desuka!” Takemura sucked air and bowed very low. All at once I got it.

“Yes,” I repeated firmly, “Captain. And on your badge write First Mate or Navigator in Chief—or both. Just as you please.”

The last two titles were recorded in a rather tense silence. I realized for the first time that Takemura had coveted the senior title and that this entire build-up may have been designed solely to establish that one point. Well, it’s been established, I thought. It’s settled, once and for all. As I discovered later, it settled something, all right, but not what I expected.

By dawn a crowd had begun to arrive, and we shared breakfast coffee with a dozen early well-wishers. The family came soon after, driven out in a truck along with the housegirls, the sewing girl, the gardener, and any number of large paper fish (for flying on high during Boys’ Day), ceremonial rice cakes, and various bottles of sake which had been dropped off at the house during the preceding evening. The most _appreciated_ present, bar none, was the three-colored kitten which Jessica was clutching tightly in her arms.

“Miss Uchida says a three-colored cat is lucky on a boat,” Jessica announced. “Its name is spelled m-i-k-e—Mee-kay, not Mike—and that _means_ three-colored, and it will catch rats when it gets big.”

“Just what we needed!” we managed to proclaim, to her intense relief.

In spite of my forebodings, Barbara had not forgotten to bring the champagne and a bag of netting to cover it, so the glass wouldn’t be sprayed at the critical moment. The bottle was promptly hung from the bow, convenient to the platform that had been erected for the ceremonies. Beyond this we had barely a moment to exchange a conjugal word (“Did you remember to bring the lanterns I left on the porch?” “Yes.”) before we were surrounded by friends who shoved bouquets and gift-wrapped parcels into our hands and asked us to pose, together with reporters, who held microphones of portable tape recorders in front of our faces, and press photographers, who begged for “Just one more, please!”

Long before noon all the choice vantage points, including nearby hills and the roof of Yotsuda-san’s house, were filled with people. By eleven o’clock there was no room left on shore, and very little left on the water. At 11:30 the program began, and promptly at the tick of noon the _Phoenix_ was launched.

2 Preparations For A Voyage

“Cruising is walking, talking, buying, scrounging ... but cruising is also sailing.”

It was almost dark before visitors ceased to stream aboard the _Phoenix_, now riding at anchor in the bay. Then it was time for me to go ashore for a conference with the owner of the sampan we had wrecked during the launching.

After that, I told Barbara, Ted and I would attend a party ashore, given for everyone even remotely connected with the building of the boat—except, of course, females. For the first time Barbara appeared recalcitrant.

“Do Jessica and I stay on board here alone?” she asked.

“No, you go on back to the house. The Yacht Club boys will keep anchor watch. Come back out tomorrow.”

“It was nice knowing you,” Barbara said, climbing down into the dinghy. “I hope you and the _Phoenix_ have a wonderful honeymoon.”

Only after Barbara had left did it occur to me that she had really _wanted_ to stay on board, even without bunks or conveniences. I suddenly realized that my actions must have revealed my misgivings about the family, their adaptability and willingness to “take it.”

The conference with the sampan owner was protracted. His boat, badly holed, had been hauled up on the beach, a mute testimonial to the ruggedness of the _Phoenix_, which was barely scratched.

The victim readily admitted his responsibility. He had been warned to stand clear and had ignored the warning. On the other hand, it was the _Phoenix_ that had been launched. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been there. If he hadn’t come he wouldn’t have lost his sampan. Obviously, it was nobody’s _fault_—it was the will of the gods. However, since the captain of the _Phoenix_ was a rich man—

I hastened to correct that statement.

—Well, anyway, richer than the sampan owner, and since this was an auspicious day when everybody should be happy, perhaps a sympathy offering....

“How much sympathy would the sampan owner need?” I inquired cautiously.

This required a long conference, but it came out to 2,000 yen—about $5.50 American. I announced that I could be _that_ sympathetic, and the offering was duly made. With mutual expressions of esteem and satisfaction the conference broke up, and we moved on to the evening’s festivities.

This party, for which preparations had been under way for weeks, cast me in the dual role of guest and host. As guest, I was given the seat of honor; as host, I was expected to foot the bill. I hasten to add that I was by no means being victimized; it is the custom of the country. Besides, the whole affair came to less than a hundred dollars, including a bonus to each worker in proportion to his work.

It is also worth mentioning that Yotsuda-san never so much as hinted that a bonus should be given to him or that he should be paid more than the contract called for. This, in spite of dire predictions by fellow Americans—“old Japan hands”—who had warned me gloomily throughout that I’d be “taken for a ride.” What they failed to recognize was that Mr. Yotsuda was a completely honest man.

Late that night, after the party, Ted and I relaxed on deck, listening to the rustling of the tide as it slipped gently past the hull. Our first night aboard our yacht! In fact, I mused ruefully, it was the first night I had ever spent aboard _any_ yacht. Ahead of us lay an unknown future but here, tonight, lying on deck and watching the stars overhead swing slowly in gentle arcs, I was at peace.

Early the next morning the _Phoenix_ was towed to Hiroshima harbor, and the next stage of work began. A cabinetmaker and three workmen, complete with tools and lumber, moved aboard and began to carry out our plans for the interior accommodations.

Four main areas had been laid out. There were to be seven permanent bunks, each a tiny unshared domain. Two bunks were in the forecastle, just aft of the forepeak and chain locker. Between the forecastle and the main cabin an area was laid out to starboard for the head (American fixtures) and to port for a large and waterproof sail locker.

The large central cabin contained two more bunks, the main companionway, galley, lounge, and food and storage lockers.

Aft of the main cabin, and raised two feet, was the “ladies’ cabin.” It was to be finished in Oriental cabinet woods and ornamented with a ramma, or carved bas relief, and a miniature tokonoma, a replica of the family shrine that graces the main room of every Japanese home. Beneath the floor of this cabin was a large area for food storage.

At sea, there would be no traffic through the ladies’ cabin, everyone forward using the main companionway. Aft of the ladies’ cabin was a small cabin for the skipper, with navigation table and chart drawers. Beneath the floor was the engine space, and a small hatch led directly to the cockpit abaft the mizzenmast.

The entire arrangement seemed well adapted to our needs, giving adequate ventilation, but allowing a certain amount of privacy.

Once the _Phoenix_ was afloat and nearer the house, family participation picked up. Barbara took a particular interest in the galley, and made a number of changes in cupboard and drawer arrangements. She and Jessica also ran a series of experiments in food preservation and provisioning, including a number of methods of preserving eggs. Each egg was carefully marked as to process used and date, and every few days one of the batch was tested—naturally on me. In the end we found the simple practice of greasing the eggs with oleo to be the most practical.

Meanwhile, most of my free time was spent away from home, working on the boat or roaming the streets and alleys of Kure and Hiroshima, with a few jaunts as far afield as Kobe, Osaka, and Yokohama. Only too well did we learn that cruising is not just sailing—it is walking, talking (in halting Japanese), buying, planning, scrounging, compromising—for months and months—and all on dry land. Nevertheless, we did manage to save several thousand dollars by these efforts.

Our sails were made up by the Ohara (that is not an Irish name!) Company of Yokohama and required, before negotiations were completed, three trips upcountry—a day’s journey each way. Drawing up the sail plans was a task on which I had burned a lot of midnight oil, and after the contracts were let I could only hope there had been no slip of the pencil.

At last the day came when a dozen bundles, carefully wrapped in rice straw, were dumped on the Hiroshima dock. Eagerly we opened them, to be greeted by an exciting odor of canvas, manila, and tar. Inside were the sails, gleaming white. One by one we checked them, stretching each in its appointed place. Outwardly businesslike and matter of fact, I was tremendously relieved to see that each sail had been properly designed.

We now had a mainsail, mizzen, forestaysail and jib (these four lowers giving about 1,000 square feet), plus a mizzen staysail, topsail, top jib, storm trysail, and storm jib. We had spares for the main and foresail. (Later, in Honolulu, we added a genoa.)

The arrival of the sails was a high spot during a time which was otherwise rushed, uncertain, and confused. Crew problems were beginning to emerge. We had been aware that Takemura-san was becoming increasingly uneasy. Instead of moving aboard to help with the rigging and final fitting-out, as we had agreed upon, and as Nick had done, Takemura became less and less dependable and often failed to show up at all. One night, after a long conference which put a heavy strain on both Nick’s English and his loyalties, the two men went up on deck and talked for several hours.

The next morning Takemura-san came to me, shook hands long and earnestly, and with real tears in his eyes, said “Sayonara.” He rowed ashore and out of our lives, leaving us not only without a mate, but without a dinghy, as this had been his contribution to the _Phoenix_.

Well, we thought glumly, we can always buy a new dinghy, and at least we still have Nick.

This was the cue for Nick to appear and explain that, under these changed circumstances, he would have to reconsider his decision to join us. Since he had been Takemura’s protégé, constant satellite, and uncritical admirer, we were sure we knew what that meant.

“Okay, Nick,” I told him. “We understand.” I held out my hand.

Nick looked a little startled. “I will go home, talk to family.” He was obviously trying to let us down easy, passing the ultimate responsibility to his parents.

“Fine,” I said, “you do that. Good-bye—and thanks for everything.”

Hailing a passing launch, Nick too went ashore. We sat on the deck and watched the harbor traffic, too dispirited to talk. Below decks, Ted and Jessica were shouting at each other, in an overheated sibling dispute. Here we are, I thought—what remains of my crew. One woman—with only half a heart in the venture. One son, age fifteen—willing, but a bit absentminded and not too good with his hands. One daughter, ten years old and small for her age, expert at handling dolls—but what good will she be on the mainsail? And myself—an armchair sailor, an untried skipper, who can cope fairly well with things mechanical but has little finesse with human beings, even his own family.

The inescapable conclusion of my gloomy inventory was: You’ve had it. A foreign country, a half-finished boat, a dwindling bank account, a divided family, and your crew has just walked off. I hardly noticed when Barbara reached over to slip her hand into mine. Nor did I note that the wrangling below had stopped of its own accord—as it always did—and that Ted was now busily entertaining Jessica with a story.

The rest of the day passed like a funereal dream. In the afternoon I went ashore and bought a secondhand rowboat. That evening we sat on deck and were uncheered by the nightly visit of the local sightseeing bus, which had added to its itinerary a visit to the docks to see the American “Around-the-world-boat.” “Around the world!” I muttered bitterly. “We couldn’t even go around Hiroshima harbor.”

Early the next morning we were aroused by the sound of oars and by voices alongside. Onto the deck clambered Nick, grinning broadly, and with him were two young fellows I recognized as members of the Yacht Club.

“Ohio gosaimasu!” Nick greeted us cheerfully. “Good morning! My father said, You promise to go, you go. So—I go. Okay. Oh—and these my friends—Fushima-san and Suemitsu-san. They will help make boat ready. They both want to go with us, which one do you want?”

From that day on, Motosada Fushima (Moto) and Mitsugi Suemitsu (Mickey) slept and worked aboard the _Phoenix_, splicing rope, wrapping blocks, and in general competing, in a completely friendly fashion, for the berth vacated by Takemura. In the end, unable to decide between them and perhaps feeling that we might make up in manpower what we lacked in experience, we took them both. Now all our bunks were filled, with a ship’s complement of seven.

We were an oddly assorted group: two sexes, two races, two languages and nationalities—and _seven_ personalities, with a wide age range. How these personalities would act—and interact—would, I knew, have as much to do with the success or failure of our voyage as the seaworthiness of the boat itself. At the moment we could only guess—and hope.

Our crew selected, there remained the matter of obtaining the consent of their families, which proved not too difficult; and of acquiring Japanese passports and American visas, which turned out to be very difficult indeed. We finally got them, but it took several weeks of correspondence, several trips to Kobe, and several times the amount of patience I normally possess.

During this summer we had still another problem to contend with, and it was one we couldn’t do much about. This was the weather. In three years in Japan, only one typhoon had come close enough to Hiroshima to cause any real concern. However, in the summer of 1954, after the _Phoenix_ took to the water, no less than four typhoons paid us an unwelcome visit.

Typhoon June, the third of the unwonted—and unwanted—series, was the worst of the lot. At the advice of the Coast Guard we took refuge in a sheltered cove behind the island of Eta Jima. On the way we tried out our newly rigged mainsail and, for the first time, had the experience of heeling. As we tilted in the breeze, Barbara, who had been making lemonade in the galley, began to pick up broken glass and lemon peel, while Jessica, a bit shaken, took refuge in the cockpit. “I don’t like it,” she said. “I’d rather live in a house where things don’t fall around!”

That night, however, she slept unconcernedly through the worst of the blow, and by the next day was ready to brag of her experiences and feel more than a little superior to her shorebound friends.

For the rest of us, however, the night of Typhoon June is one that will not soon be forgotten. Around midnight, with the center of the typhoon less than twenty miles away, the wind shifted abruptly. We were no longer in the lee of the mountainous island, but much more exposed, and the waves in this little bay built up to enormous heights. Suddenly Nick, on anchor watch, let out a shout in frantic Japanese. I rushed on deck, and though I couldn’t understand Nick, could see at once what had happened. Our anchor chain had snapped. Endless minutes passed, as we drifted inexorably toward the nearby shore, while we struggled to get the spare anchor over the side. Only a few feet short of grounding, the anchor caught—and held.

Two souvenirs remain of that wild initiation night: the broken link of our brand-new half-inch anchor chain and a sheet from our recording barograph, which charts the pattern of Typhoon June. The line of barometric pressure descended sharply until, at the passage of the eye of the typhoon, the ship was bucking so wildly that the ink was spilled out of the pen, and the record stopped.

We also gained some valuable information and experience from this episode. First, we began to appreciate the difficulties in communication that were to plague us in time to come. Regardless of how well the men improved their English, and I my Japanese, in a crisis they lapsed into “man’s talk”—rapid, peremptory vernacular—which conveyed nothing but a sense of extreme urgency. The normal, formal Japanese language, which we knew a bit, was gone with the wind.

Beyond this I learned the absolute necessity for anticipation if this voyage was to be a success. At all times we must expect the worst, and try to be ready for it. Had the second anchor been ready for instant use, precious minutes would have been saved. On the credit side, I profited, because never again were we caught without ready anchors.

Typhoon No. 4, Marie, caused no great damage in our area, but roared past us and northward to Hokkaido, where she overturned a seagoing ferry with the loss of over a thousand lives. Locally, however, she did play havoc with the tides, and drowned out the machinery in the local shipyard, so we had to postpone our haul-out, for bottom painting, more than two weeks—another unavoidable delay.

However, by September, in spite of typhoons, troubles, and tape (red), we were far enough along to be thinking about a date for our departure. We still lacked such extras as electricity, running water, gimbaled stove, radiotelephone, and a host of minor items, but we ignored these and concentrated on the absolute necessities. Provisioning, of course, led the list, and Barbara took the brunt of this terrible task. Now that she had a better knowledge of the crew’s daily food consumption, she doubled her original estimates of rice, fruits, and canned foods, and then doubled the amount again as a safety factor. The total was prodigious. Day after day, carrying yardlong lists, she set out in a taxi-jeep, to return in the evening with a mountain of supplies to be hauled aboard and stowed.

Ted, meanwhile, when I informed him that he had been promoted to chief navigator on the defection of Takemura, redoubled his studies. With a textbook and the help of a navigation officer friend, Ted gained a competent grasp of at least the theoretical aspects of his assignment. However, when we worked out our practice sextant shots, we often found the _Phoenix_ not in Hiroshima harbor but somewhere up the slope of Fujiyama.

Jessica, too, had been given an official role, that of ship’s historian. She took her assignment seriously and, from the day we moved aboard, she kept a daily record of our activities—as she saw them (a _very_ important qualification). I might add that this diary was continued without a break for the next six years, and by the time we had completed our voyage around the world she had filled seven large ledgers with about 200,000 words. Unprompted and uncensored, Jessica’s Journal provides a detailed, refreshing, and sometimes chastening picture of our rather unconventional family life.

Time had now become an important element in our plans, for it was late in the season. After many conferences with family and crew, after a careful (and prayerful!) study of the North Pacific Pilot Charts, and after consultation with the Japanese Coast Guard, we finally decided that November was the very latest date we could leave Japan and still have a good chance of a successful crossing to Honolulu, over 4,000 miles to the east. This would put us at the tag end of the typhoon season and, we hoped, ahead of the worst of the winter storms which roar down out of the far north Pacific.

We decided upon Honolulu as our first landfall, because it was an American port, where we could have the _Phoenix_ registered as an American ship and could obtain certain supplies and equipment lacking in Japan.

The numerous unavoidable delays had made it impossible to fit in the shakedown cruise in the open ocean, which we had planned, but by leaving Hiroshima early in October we could have a short cruise up the Inland Sea and give ourselves and the boat at least a smooth-water test. We could then complete our fitting-out at a northern port, make any adjustments that seemed necessary, and still depart by the appointed date. It was not an ideal plan, perhaps, but it was the best we could do. For a number of cogent reasons, mainly financial, it was impossible to lay over until next June, the optimum month for crossing the North Pacific under sail.

Our departure was set for October 4, and throughout the day gifts poured aboard: flowers, candy, fruit, rice cakes, a painting of the _Phoenix_, a new heaving line, a can of metal paint, a gallon of used oil (“to pour on troubled waters”), and most formidable of all, a magnificent Japanese doll for Jessica, complete in a fragile glass case. This present brought Jessica exquisite joy and the captain exquisite pain, for he knew tears would flow when he had to jettison the case over the side—in anticipation of the inevitable.

We grew more and more harassed as we found our last-minute preparations and stowing of supplies continually interrupted by the need for greeting another well-wisher, making a short statement to yet another gentleman of the press, or posing on deck for one more group picture. To load last-minute supplies, we had come alongside the dock. All our friends, many of whom had never been aboard, now wanted a tour of the ship. They charitably assured us that they didn’t in the least mind if everything was a mess, and asked us literally hundreds of well-meaning questions, to most of which we didn’t know the answers. “How long will the trip to Honolulu take?” “Won’t you be bored?” “But isn’t it _dangerous_?” “How will the children go to school?”—all very good questions.

But the one most frequently asked, and the one we were least able to answer, was “But won’t you be seasick?” All we could reply was that we never had been—which was perfectly true. On board the _President Wilson_, en route to Japan—our only other experience on the high seas—none of us had been in the least sick. Of course, this wasn’t _quite_ the same thing.

Shadows were already long when we left the dock, with all the ceremony of tossing bright paper tape, singing “Auld Lang Syne”—in Japanese—and shedding copious tears. The tears, I might add, were all in the eyes of those who saw us off. We ourselves were much too busy to have time for sorrow or regret—then—but to our hundreds of friends the whole venture was nothing less than a gallant form of suicide—for which no one has a more subtle appreciation than the Japanese.

A fleet of snipes and sailing dinghies from the Yacht Club accompanied us halfway across Hiroshima Bay, while a plane circled overhead to drop a tiny silk parachute carrying a hand-lettered scroll of good wishes and prayers for our safe return. One by one, our escorts waved and turned back until at last we were on our own.

Our first day’s destination was not far—the shrine of Miya Jima, just across the water from where the _Phoenix_ had been hatched. There, while Barbara started supper and the men tried to find places to stow the piled-up gifts, I made my first entry in our nice new logbook:

Dropped anchor at Miya Jima Guchi harbor, opposite the shrine. Itsukushima is one of the famed “Three Most Beautiful Places in Japan.” All secure by 1900. Big spaghetti dinner to celebrate—too busy at noon to eat. Decks in good shape, but considerable of a shambles below—2 tons of last-minute ballast, now on floor of main cabin—169 iron pigs.

Many last-minute gifts—even a stack of old newspapers for Mi-ke. Poor Mi-ke—her box was forced to give way, in its nook under the starboard water tank, to a pile of iron pigs. The box is now in the aisle of the main cabin, where she is doing her business in the middle of traffic. Doesn’t seem to worry her too much.

That night, while the rest of the crew slept, I went on deck. Across the bay the shrine gleamed faintly in the moonlight. The _Phoenix_ stirred gently in the swells from a distant ferryboat. Above were the heavy masts, the intricate web of sturdy rigging, the white sails, furled now but ready to be raised at our command. We had our boat, and though she had not yet proved herself at sea, I knew she would, and proudly. This was not entirely a matter of wishful thinking. During her construction, a number of experts had looked her over, and their reactions had been unanimously favorable. But even without their praise I had faith in the _Phoenix_.

About the human beings aboard I was not so sanguine. None of us had ever been to sea in a small boat. The Japanese boys were good sailors of snipes in the Inland Sea, and I had done some sailing in an 18-footer, but this was a far cry from cruising outside.

And the family. How would the children take the trip? Would they be able to adjust to discomfort and occasional hardship? How much would they miss the companionship of others their own age? What of their schooling? We were taking along plenty of textbooks and teaching materials for both of them, and Barbara, who had been a teacher, would handle their lessons, but would this be sufficient?

And what of Barbara? We had made a contract with each other—for better, for worse—but was a situation like this anticipated in the contract? Suddenly I felt a surge of deep respect and admiration for her, as it came to me with full force that I was going because I wanted to go, but _she_ was going only because I was, offering me a rare and precious loyalty.

Our Japanese crew—what of them? How would they wear? How would two groups of diverse backgrounds get along, in weeks at sea under confining conditions? So far the men had shown themselves to be fine companions and hard workers. Moreover, on that wild night when Typhoon June almost had us on the rocks, they had proved themselves courageous and resourceful. Would these qualities last during the long grind?

Finally, the captain. Could _he_ take it? And could his companions take _him_? Could he curb his temper, learn to control his impatience? I deeply felt my inadequacies, my faults, and especially my lack of experience. Whenever one of the family called me “Skipper,” as they had begun to do, I felt uneasy and self-conscious. One of the biggest unknowns was the ability of this so-called Skipper.

Beset with doubts I finally turned in.

The next day we slept late, and did not get underway until midmorning. The doubts and introspection of the previous night were swept away in the sparkling breeze. We had made our choice, we were on our way, we would do our best. From now on, all thoughts and energies would be directed toward making a successful voyage.

Slowly we drifted past the shrine, so that the men could say their farewells to the goddess, which they did, standing in a row on the foredeck with caps in hand and heads bowed. Suddenly I realized that there was still another possibly divisive factor—one I had not thought of: differences in religion.

We continued up the strait and drew abreast the Yotsuda shipyard. We broke out the foghorn, Mickey blew lustily, and the entire shipyard crew—all four of them—came down to the shore while Yotsuda-san ran up the Japanese flag, and we dipped our American colors in a return salute. Just four months ago the _Phoenix_ had been launched from here.

The next several days were idyllic. The fall weather was perfect, the breeze light but fair, the scenery unsurpassed. We found out now that cruising may take a lot of work ashore, but that cruising is also sailing, and this is the reward.

And we were beginning to learn our boat. From the log of October 8, which was also Ted’s sixteenth birthday:

Good sailing practice today—many tacks, brisk breeze, getting smarter and smarter in handling her. If only the time element didn’t enter into the picture! But each day that passes puts us later and later in the season. Four days out and still not in Onomichi—only 72 miles (by land) from Hiroshima.

That night we dropped anchor in the beautiful harbor of Mitarai. Fishing boats were close about us and one of them, as it happened, was a bit too close, since we rammed him slightly while maneuvering for a berth. In the log, I virtuously recorded that the accident was a combination of poor judgment on my part and a shifting wind that pushed us down on the larger boat before we could stop our way.

From this we learned something about the momentum of our thirty tons and of the inability of our small engine to handle the boat properly in reverse. Later we called on the captain to apologize, and to have the damage assessed. It came to 556 yen, about $1.50 American. Accidents come cheaper in Japan!

During our trial run up the Inland Sea we made quite a few changes and improvements. We put downhauls all around, so we could get the sails down even in a gale. We rerigged our mainsail peak, painted and stowed most of the ballast, set up a third anchor aft, and got things more shipshape below decks.

We practiced, too, in the open areas, tacking over and over, learning to jibe smoothly, and establishing routines for various maneuvers. We loosed the dinghy, and practiced rounding up to it. When the breeze freshened, and we had our first taste of really brisk sailing, we found we could make seven knots with ease, using only the four lowers; moreover, the boat had a very easy motion.

We reached Takamatsu, at the upper end of the Inland Sea, on the morning of October 13. This would be our base for the final stages of fitting-out before the long ocean crossing to Hawaii. A Coast Guard boat came well out to meet us and escorted us to the Prefectural Docks, where a crowd was waiting, and we went through the usual gamut of questions.

The following morning we accepted the kind invitation of the Takamatsu Yacht Club to use their private dock, where we remained for a very busy two weeks.

Takamatsu is a pleasant city, and at this season was gay and bustling in preparation for the Hachiman Festival. In the evenings, after a day of hard work, we usually wandered into the city where the open-front shops remained ready for business. We would stop to watch groups of strolling actors, or try out our Japanese in the process of making a purchase, or enjoy a nightcap of soba—Japanese noodles—in a tiny booth before returning to the boat.

During the days, however, we worked, and worked hard. Ted and Jessica finished the job of painting countless iron pigs, and emerged at the end of each day with a new layer of orange paint. In the course of this job Ted uncovered a hitherto unsuspected talent: that of raconteur extraordinary. Time passed quickly as Ted gave the iron pigs personalities and guided them through a series of imaginary escapades in the course of getting their faces painted. As we watched the young ones at work we could sense a growing solidarity and identification with the voyage.

We made a number of changes in the rigging, based on our brief experience in the Inland Sea. We unstepped the topmast, suspecting—quite correctly—that we wouldn’t need it in winter in the North Pacific. We made stormcovers for all the hatches and portholes—hoping we would never have occasion to use them. Also, we installed additional pinrails on either side of the mainmast, having quickly learned that our one bank of pinrails was inadequate.

On one day only, October 18, I exercised my prerogative of declaring a holiday. By coincidence, it also happened to be my birthday. We took this occasion to visit Kotohira, where Kompira-san, the god of the sea and patron of Japanese seamen, holds sway. We toiled up the thousand steps to the shrine and paused at the summit to admire the magnificent view, while Nick, Mickey and Moto went inside to pay their respects to the priests and to inform them of our plans.

When they emerged they were smiling broadly. Kompira-san, they had been assured, viewed their venture with favor and predicted a successful outcome _if_—and this, to us, seemed to be the joker—we promised to revisit the shrine at the conclusion of our trip. It seemed to me that a sort of Delphic aura surrounded this promise, but the boys seemed satisfied, and we were only too happy to agree.

After this single day of relaxation we began our final preparations in earnest. One by one jobs and purchases were checked off, from a list which originally contained several thousand items. On the day before our departure Barbara’s most recent provisioning efforts were delivered to the dock: a box of apples packed in bran; 100 pounds of potatoes; 70 pounds of onions; 40 of sweet potatoes, 5 of carrots, 6 of green beans; and some two dozen heads of cabbage. All that day, Barbara and Jessica sorted out vegetables, setting aside the doubtful ones for early eating, while the rest were packed in wooden crates and lashed to the cabintop.

Also on that day they coated and packed some thirty dozen eggs with oleo. That night we had scrambled eggs for supper.

That evening Nick and Mickey stayed in the forecastle writing stacks of last-minute notes, while Barbara, Jessica, and Moto went out to dinner with new-found Japanese friends. Only Ted—and already I was coming to depend upon him more and more—seemed to share a realization of the enormity of the step we were undertaking. Of his own accord he turned down the dinner invitation and remained to help make a final inventory.

Together we made one more check of the entire list of Things to Do and Get. The water supply had been topped up—300 gallons in five unconnected tanks. Canned food for twelve weeks at normal consumption had been divided into separate duffle sacks, a week’s rations to a sack, and stowed beneath the floor of the ladies’ cabin. The fresh produce was aboard and stowed securely. For ship lights, stove, and engine we had 120 gallons of kerosene.

There were ample replacements for all expendable and vulnerable items, from flashlight batteries to sail needles, and safety equipment was complete from flares to heliograph.

In the navigation department we had six compasses aboard (master, steering, inside telltale, lifeboat, and two spares); four watches and a chronometer (rated); three barometers and a barograph; a sextant; anemometer; inclinometer (never used); thermometers of various kinds; a complete set of signal flags; several pairs of binoculars; and, of course, the necessary navigation books, sailing directions and charts, and the 1954 nautical almanac which Takemura had left with us at his departure.

We had a spare battery radio, with batteries, wrapped in a moistureproof package, and an emergency fresh-water still. We had adequate sail repair equipment and materials, tools of every description, and a quantity of spare lumber, in case fairly extended additions or repairs proved necessary at sea.

Our medicine chest, a gift from the doctors at the Casualty Commission in Hiroshima, was unusually complete, from antibiotics to scalpels. Barbara had taken a survey course in emergency medicine under our good friend Dr. George Hazlehurst. She had passed the final examination with honors by successfully injecting a grapefruit and suturing a sausage. As Ted wryly observed, if anything went wrong with grapefruits or sausages, we were all prepared.

As for education and entertainment, we were supplied and oversupplied. In addition to textbooks, we had a complete set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, the Book of Knowledge, and some three hundred additional books. We had decks of cards, and kits for checkers, chess, and backgammon; and sets of Mahjong and Scrabble for family games. We had a handcranking phonograph and a wide selection of records. Ted’s grandmother, Minnetta Leonard, had even sent him a plastic ukulele, evidently in the fond hope that he would be prepared for the beach at Waikiki.

In everything except that important commodity, deep-sea experience, I felt we were ready. If we were fools to embark without that vital item, at least we were fools who were operating within a framework of adequate preparation and common sense.

As to the mental preparation of the ship’s company, that was difficult to assay. Barbara had taken over without demur whatever tasks were assigned to her, and Jessica wrote faithfully in her diary, but neither of them asked questions or appeared to be overly concerned. Whether due to an inability to imagine what deep-sea life would be like or utter confidence in the Skipper, it seemed to put an extra burden on me.

As for the three Japanese men, they were, during the preparation and the trip through the Inland Sea, completely unconcerned in certain areas, and very active in others. Although well-educated men, they seemed quite content with manual skills: carpentry, painting, sail handling, and deck seamanship. They appeared to have no interest in the sailing plans, navigational methods, or the operation of the radio or auxiliary engine. Also, as far as I could detect, they didn’t seem to be worried.

On the morning of October 26, the Rev. Raymond Christopher, a British missionary, visited us and held a short service aboard, asking a blessing on our journey. His solemn words sent a sudden chill through us and more than any other event made us realize some of the implications of our departure.

That evening we sailed from Takamatsu.

Our leave-taking was strongly reminiscent of Hiroshima: crowds, press, last-minute gifts, bilingual confusion, tears. But there was one vital exception: we knew that this time we were heading not for the quiet waters of the Inland Sea but for the Hawaiian Islands, across more than 4,000 miles of open ocean.

The day was hectic, culminating in a formal send-off, for radio and national TV, presided over by the governor of Kagawa Prefecture. The circumstances surrounding our departure are shown in the log:

Final preparations completed, immigration cleared, and check made with Coast Guard; decided to leave on afternoon of Oct. 26. News of Typhoon 18 (now making up near Philippines) was received, and decision made to proceed until more details available. Decided to try to get through Naruto Straits if possible, rather than go all the way around Awaji Shima.

Also I notified the U.S. Navy in Yokosuka of the date and time of our departure, our approximate route, and the estimated length of our trip (45 days, based on an assumed distance, by sailing route, of 4,500 miles, and an average of 100 miles per day). I informed them, as I had the local Coast Guard, that we had no facilities for sending radio messages, only for receiving. We did, however, have a small hand-operated emergency set (Gibson Girl) on which we could send an automatic SOS at limited range, but this would be used only in direst emergency.

We crossed Harima Nada during the night and reached Naruto Straits the following afternoon. The narrow passage to the open ocean looked formidable. Even without binoculars we could see a white wall of foam as the tide fought its way through, at a peak speed of 11 knots. The rips were between 6 and 9 feet in height. Even as we watched, a large ship battered its way through but another, which had not been so lucky, could be seen stranded on rocks in mid-channel.

We decided in any event not to attempt the straits at night, but to check with the local fishermen and get their opinion. If they agreed it was feasible for our boat, we would try the passage at slack tide the next morning. So we crossed to Marugame, where we anchored, while the Japanese men rowed ashore to talk to the inhabitants. From them we received a golden nugget of advice: “When the fishing boats go through, you go through.”

After the others had gone to bed, Ted and I reviewed the strategy for perhaps the hundredth time. It was very simple—in theory. We would head east as fast as was consistent with safety, to get beyond the area of the late-season typhoons as soon as possible. We would sail as far south as we could, though still keeping within range of the prevailing westerlies and the eastward-flowing Japanese current. In this way we would get the benefit of warmer weather and less severe storms.

In handling the boat we would try to keep a good margin of safety, never overpressing, and we would reduce sail at night during unsettled weather, until we knew our ship and had gained experience and confidence in our abilities.

When we finally reached a position north of the Hawaiian Islands, we would turn south, using the engine if necessary to help us through the band of Horse Latitudes and into the northeast trades. We would try to raise the island of Molokai, the long island in the center of the group, and proceed to Honolulu.

This, in brief, was our plan.

There was only one way to find out whether it would work.

3 From Japan To Honolulu

“The long shakedown ... a seven-week course in How to Sail.”

Before dawn we weighed anchor and sailed down to join the fishing fleet near the strait and at 0955 we fell in with a procession heading through Naruto. Great whirlpools, a threat to the small boat when the tide is running, were still circling turgidly, but now, during the slack, they had no power. In a short time, with a fair breeze, we were in Kii Suido, which funnels out to the open sea. This cutoff saved us about three days—and later was to result in newspaper headlines in our own country and in Japan that would cause much anxiety to family and friends.

The morning was mild and sunny. Our ship rose and fell gently in the long swells, so different from the shorter, choppier waves of the Inland Sea. We headed south to round the headland. As a first taste of ocean sailing, we thought, this isn’t half bad!

It took only twelve hours for the Pacific to put us in our place. Toward evening the barometer began to fall, the wind rose, and the seas built up fast. During the night we lost—permanently—any complacency we may have had. The men were all kept busy on deck, fastening down the crates of provisions which should have been better secured before we left, and putting extra lashings on fuel drums, water tank, and extra spars. The boat plunged frantically as one wave after another lifted her high or smashed against her sides.

The rain came, in a fury, and on deck the sounds of wind and wave drowned out everything except a shout at top voice. We began very quickly to accumulate that experience we had lacked. “But won’t you be seasick?” We were—and by the time we had the answer it was too late for any remedies to have effect—they didn’t stay with us long enough!

Below decks everything that could fall fell; everything that could break broke. The low railings we had just put around tables and shelves—modest, unobtrusive fiddles—proved to be completely ineffective. We had brought plenty of extra lumber and fastenings on the assumptions that a few spots of carpentry might be needed while underway, but that first night there was nothing we could do but make a mental note: “Higher fiddles.”

Our beautiful mugs—with their hand-painted phoenix designs of which we had been so proud—swung violently on their hooks and, one by one, parted company with their handles and crashed across the cabin. It was obvious that nothing fragile was going to survive this trip—and that included people.

Barbara doggedly cooked supper but no one felt like eating. The girls were told to climb into their bunks and pay no attention to any crashes which might occur in the galley. No mental effort, however, made it possible to ignore the smash of waves against the hull. Each one that hit sounded like a sledge hammer striking an empty drum—a nerve-racking experience for those on the inside. In addition, the shouts on deck and the pounding of feet overhead carried below with an urgency that was frightening, since the clamor of the elements, which made the shouting necessary, was somewhat shut out by the heavy planking.

By midnight, although Barbara still lay awake expecting each moment to be her last, we were in better shape on deck. Once we had succeeded in getting everything secure, we “jankenned” for the first watch—the “scissors, paper, stone” method of selection traditional in Japan—and began a routine of two hours on, eight hours off, which we would maintain around the clock from now on.

The sequence of watches, which was continued without alteration for the next three years, was as follows: Moto, Mickey, Nick, Ted, Skipper. There was a reason for this. Ted, the youngest, was placed between Nick and Skipper; Mickey, whose English was poorest, was sandwiched between Moto and Nick.

The first official watch having been determined, and the sequence agreed upon, those off duty went to their bunks. I had no desire to go below, however, but remained in the cockpit to study the behavior of our ship. The _Phoenix_ climbed to meet each rushing wave, slid into the trough, and rose again to the next challenge. She never tired, never faltered. I had heard about this, and read about it in books, but now, for the first time, I was experiencing the wonder of it, a wonder I have never lost. Wet, miserable, sick, and not a little frightened by the tumult about me—even so, I was happy.

By the next morning we were out of sight of land and our dead reckoning put us far enough to the south to clear the point. We changed course to the east and the long shakedown was truly underway. Ahead of us, according to my calculations, lay about a seven-week course in How to Sail. If we were able to pass it, I was sure we would be able to go anywhere on earth; if we failed—well, there would be nothing more for us to worry about.

It was our hope that in the next few days we would sight one of the small islands, preferably Hachijo-shima, that fan out into the Pacific south from Tokyo. This would give us a good departure—and also assurance that we had left the islands safely behind us!

During the day I took my first sextant shot at sea, while Ted worked out the sights. We were dismayed briefly when we discovered that the nautical almanac inherited from Takemura was printed—naturally enough—in Japanese. Fortunately, numerals were the same as in English, and the only critical ideographs—“toward” and “away”—were easily translated for us by Nick. Though we had difficulties, both in getting a good shot and in working out the calculations, it was easier than we dared hope. We were sure that, with practice, we could handle this assignment. Once past the islands, there would be a whole oceanful of sea room and plenty of time to learn the business.

The weather continued clearing during the day and the seas moderated. All of us felt better, and everyone helped get our gear in order and stowed in more seamanlike fashion. Our losses were mostly crockery and expendable items, and nothing of any real importance had been broken, including that most essential item, morale.

Several ships passed along the horizon during the day, one of them an American aircraft carrier and another—as strange an anachronism as we ourselves—the magnificent four-masted training ship of the Japanese Merchant Marine, the _Nippon Maru_.

In the afternoon we had a feathered visitor, which flew on board and settled down to preen itself in the forward rigging, ignoring the raucous complaints of Mi-ke. It stayed for several hours, giving us an opportunity for close inspection, including photographs, and it is our unanimous and unshakable opinion that our friend was an American robin. Many a mate to this little creature we had seen in the yard of our home back in Yellow Springs, Ohio! How it got to the coastal waters of Japan we didn’t know. Was it a pet, escaped from the flattop we had seen earlier? Farfetched, but possible. At any rate, toward evening it flew away, while Jessica rushed below to enter full details in her Journal.

For the next two days we sailed east, with fair weather. We were beginning to get organized and to find our sea legs although Barbara, who had the least desirable job on the boat, continued to suffer from recurrent malaise every time she entered the galley. Food had assumed a tremendous importance in all our lives, and she realized that to fail even once in the preparation of a meal would only make the next defection easier. And so, queasy though she was and unappetizing as the very thought of food seemed to her, she wired the pots to the stove and doggedly turned out an amazing variety of hearty dishes.

In addition to the galley, Barbara was responsible for three other important departments: health, recreation, and education. She set regular times for Jessica’s lessons, while Ted, although carrying a full load as a working member of the crew, also carried on with his studies.

However, the elements had something to say about leisure time. On the afternoon of October 31, just as we were beginning to congratulate ourselves on our fine adaptation to life at sea, the barometer again began to fall, this time in earnest. There was no doubt we were in for trouble. That night the Pacific really lowered the boom.

My log merely says, “At midnight, high waves and strong wind. Hove to for night, under reefed mizzen and storm jib.”

How often I had read, in published logs and stories of cruising, such cryptic sentences, and how often I had tried to imagine the circumstances! That night I began to get some idea, but it is not easy to put a reader in my place.

First, it is rough, and I don’t mean rocking-chair rough—I mean rough enough to break a leg, if you are thrown across the deck, or to smash in your skull, if a swinging block hits you. Outside the cockpit, you must hold on at all times, especially when working far forward. This means that everything must be done in slow motion just at a time when all your instincts tell you to rush.

Below decks, it is necessary to chock yourself in some safe corner or to hold on continuously as you move about. “One hand for the boat” is not just a catch phrase but an essential habit that must be developed, and Barbara, who was reluctant to abandon her instinct for two-handed efficiency in preparing or serving a meal, was a mass of bruises until she learned this basic lesson.

Second, it is noisy, and this means noisy at a level which tempts one to panic. On deck, the high-pitched howling of the wind cuts through all lesser noises. In order to be heard, even if your companion is right beside you, it is necessary to shout. Below, out of the wind, it seems at first almost quiet, but the ship groans with a thousand noises, there are mysterious knocks and grinds, and at this stage of your experience every sound is ominous and sinister. Occasionally there is the sudden boom and the shock of a wave as it slams against the hull. _That’s_ when you’re thankful for two-inch planking and four-by-six deck beams!

Finally, there is the sight of the waves, each one mountainous and impersonally lethal. You know it would take only one to finish you, and that there are plenty more where that one came from. You wonder how the ship can possibly take it. Just at this moment you don’t wonder about yourself, because you’re too busy trying to reduce your canvas and set up your storm sails. Your whole life narrows to a concentrated attention on the state of the sea, the strength of the wind, the look of the sky, and the behavior of your boat. Whether you admit it or not, fear is your shipmate, and depending upon your temperament, you work the better or the worse because of it.

You may or may not enjoy the experience of sailing a small boat in rough weather on the open sea, but I can assure you of one thing—you positively will not be bored!

After several hours of labor, we finally had the boat hove to. It was our first experience in this maneuver, and it was a wonderful feeling to see how well the _Phoenix_ behaved. With the sails properly trimmed and the tiller lashed, she lay head to the wind, quartering out of the trough, no longer fighting the seas, but riding them like a duck, drifting slowly downwind. Below, the motion became relatively comfortable, and it was possible to cook a good meal and enjoy eating it, and to rest quietly in the bunk.

Three times, during the course of our first passage, we hove to thus, when the weather became too rough for safe sailing. However, after we had gained experience and confidence we carried on through seas which at first would have tempted us to heave to.

On the afternoon of November 1 we sighted Hachijo-shima, dead ahead, and changed our course to pass well to the north of it. The island was a comforting sight, since it gave us a definite position, against which we could check our dead reckoning and our accuracy with the sextant. Also, having passed these islands, there would be no more land to worry about between here and the Hawaiian Islands. At this stage of our experience, what we needed more than anything else was plenty of sea room.

Late that night, with Hachijo-shima astern on the starboard quarter, we saw a smaller island looming up to the north. We knew from the charts that this should be Miyake; however, it showed a light, with a 15-second interval, and Miyake had no light. A careful search of our list of Japanese coastal lights, and an inspection of our charts, showed no such light listed for this area, so I was considerably worried. Could we possibly be in the wrong position? Ted and I were convinced we were not, but Nick thought our position might be much farther south and the island we had seen earlier might not have been Hachijo-shima at all.

I checked again, widening my range, searching all the charts within a radius of several hundred miles. There were no 15-second lights, in any location, which could conceivably be ours. No sleep for me that night, as we kept the island in sight, and I checked and wondered.

At dawn, by studying the contours of the land, we were able to identify it positively, light or no light, as Miyake. We sailed on, but I still had a nagging worry in the back of my mind. If one could not depend upon the light lists and charts....

Two days later, in the evening weather forecast of November 3, the Japanese radio announced that on November 1 a 15-second light had been established on Miyake-shima. We had seen it on its first night’s operation!

I mention this little incident because it serves to bring out, as well as any other, several points which are important. First, in a cruise of this kind it is not safe to take anything for granted. I remember talking to a young chap in Fiji who, with his companion, had been approaching the Society Islands from the west. According to their calculations, they were a good 50 miles out, so they set their sails and both retired for the night. They were awakened about two in the morning by the distinctly unpleasant sound of their keel hitting a coral reef. Their boat was a total loss. They actually _had_ been 50 miles out, but what they had taken for granted was that there was open water all the way. What they had overlooked was the existence of the small island some miles to the west of Tahiti, which they had the bad luck to run onto in the night.

Another lesson I learned from the Miyake incident was that no matter how carefully you prepare, how many precautions you may take, something unanticipated is bound to come up. When it does, it should be met in a way that will give the greatest margin of safety to the ship. If the chart indicates there is a one-knot westerly drift, assume it could be as much as two knots—one of these times it will be. If the anchorage is strange and the weather uncertain, set an anchor watch, no matter how sleepy you are. For ninety-nine nights you’ll lose your sleep and nothing will happen, but on the hundredth night you’ll save your ship.

This point of view, in a number of instances, may have caused me to err on the side of caution—I know for a fact that our Japanese crewmen tended to regard me as cautious to the point of obsession. But when they became impatient, or at times clearly disapproving, I reminded myself that, after all, the responsibility was mine. This was my dream, my family, and my boat—and I had to make the decisions.

Whether these precautions were excessive I have no way of knowing, but I treasure the observation that Nick made, almost grudgingly, after the successful completion of the trip:

“If other boys and I had been boss, we’d have gone on reef many times!”

I accepted the admission in the spirit in which it was meant, and refrained from pointing out that it might not be necessary to run on the reef “many times.” Once might be quite enough.

Finally, there is the practical matter of sleep. Unless you can snatch it at odd intervals, and when necessary get along without that precious commodity for long periods and still maintain your efficiency, you will have a real handicap on a long ocean passage. You are lucky if you are a light sleeper, for to awaken promptly when an anchor begins to drag or when the changed motion of the ship indicates a change in the weather is better than explaining that you didn’t hear a thing until you hit the rocks or until the sail blew out. In my case, I found out that a characteristic which ashore was a liability—the habit of being easily awakened—was an asset at sea.

As a matter of fact, all of us learned to grab sleep where and as we could get it. Day ran into night. On a ship there is always someone awake, and usually someone asleep. Only at mealtimes does everyone generally put in an appearance, and even then the man on watch must wait until he is relieved before he can come below and eat. On our first crossing, when getting ready to go on watch was often a case of putting on heavy weather gear, it took some nice calculation on Barbara’s part to serve each meal long enough before the change of watch so that the man about to go up would have time to eat and dress, and still report promptly for duty, and the man coming off could come below to a still-hot meal.

Now we were well on our way, and there was no turning back. Until we passed the islands, perhaps in all our minds had been the knowledge that actually we were still close to land, and might if necessary put in or send out a call on the emergency radio. But now we were heading into the empty North Pacific, well outside the shipping lanes. Soon we would be far beyond the range of our tiny sending set, and for the rest of the 4,000-mile trip, until we reached Hawaii, we would be completely on our own.

In the first several days we saw a ship or two, and on November 10 a four-engined plane passed over us. After that, nothing ... with one exception.

I had given standing orders, of course, to be notified, day or night, if anything was sighted. According to my log, this is what happened one dark night:

11/13. Poor run yesterday, high wind and higher waves. Slogged it out, but everyone sick of the jouncing. Slept fairly well, as waves gradually subsided. At 0400, Mickey, at the tiller, poked his head down the hatch. “Reynolds-sensei,” he said, without expression.

“Yes?” I asked sleepily.

“Fune desu—boat.”

“Chikai desuka?—Is it close?”

“Hai, so desu—Yes, it is,” noncommitally.

I jumped up and poked my head out. When Mickey said close he meant _close_. Just off our stern was a flattop, looking as big as a mountain, which seemed to be bearing right down on us. I jumped to the cabintop and waved our kerosene lantern frantically, while Mickey, as ordered, turned the flashlight on the sails.

After a long minute the carrier slowly changed its course to port and gradually faded out of sight.

“Good,” said Mickey, his first sign of interest in the matter and incidentally the first word of English I had ever heard him speak.

The following day I amended my order to add that I was to be notified _as soon as_ anything was sighted. It cost me more sleep, but I didn’t begrudge that. I usually woke up anyway at the change of watch, every two hours, and took a look around—but I managed to average out my quota of rest, and actually felt in fine shape.

The weeks at sea could never be disentangled in our memories were it not for the help of the ship’s log, Barbara’s diary, and most vividly of all, Jessica’s Journal. Disdaining such mundane things as barometer readings and the state of the sea, she concerned herself with vital matters, such as the activities of Mi-ke or the winners in our family games. When she thought ship events were sufficiently noteworthy to merit attention, she recorded them in her own style. Here are two interpretations of the same event:

_From the ship’s log_: Last night, about 2300, a very large wave, quite out of proportion to even the largest of the then current seas, broke over the ship. Estimated height about six feet above deck. Half-filled cockpit, drenched my bunk through the afterhatch and Moto’s bunk through the main companionway. Swept several small loose items overboard, and thoroughly drenched man at tiller (me) with solid water. Only one such wave—only solid water on deck all night.

_From Jessica’s Journal_: In the night while Skipper was on watch he just happened to look to the North. He saw a great wall of water four times the size of the biggest wave come charging toward the _Phoenix_. It was coming from a completely different direction from the other waves, and didn’t just go gently under, heeling us a sukoshi (little).

It came over, soaked Skipper, flowed down the hatches, and swooshed around in Skip’s bunk. It was a couple of minutes before the cockpit emptied and the water stopped coming down the hatches and we came up again. Skip says the wave was the only one of its size and kind, and maybe caused by an underwater earthquake. Mum says we heeled down and down on her side until she was sure we’d tip all the way over. I bet the _lifelines_ skimmed the water that time! We realized how strongly the boat’s built because some boats would have been smashed up by that wave.

As to the human aspect of the voyage, I note in my log after the first few days, “Relations between all most cordial and friendly—I think this biracial setup is working out nicely.” Always in my mind was the knowledge that our venture was strung upon a chain composed of hundreds of links, some of which would inevitably wear out and have to be replaced, and some of which were irreplaceable. I tried to anticipate and to prevent undue strain upon any one part—rigging, sails, spars—or men. Which of them would give way first—and at what crucial moment? I tried to keep myself constantly aware of any evidence of chafing.

The first overt incident to occur involved Nick, the oldest of the three and my former coworker at the Commission in Hiroshima. Though usually cheerful, Nick was subject on rare occasions to unexplained moody spells during which he became almost surly. During one of these periods we had hauled the mainsail down to repair a seam. Since water from the bilge had been coming up into our bunks occasionally when we heeled way over, I said we would pump out the bilge before setting sail again.

Nick abruptly contradicted me. “No. Put up sail first.”

I was at the tiller. “No, Nick,” I insisted. “Once we put the sail up, we’ll be heeling too far to get all the water out. First we’ll pump.”

“No!”

“We’ll pump first, Nick. Let’s go!”

“Do it yourself!” he suddenly burst out, in a black temper. Nothing like this had ever happened before and all of us were petrified. We had been in Japan long enough to know the strong emphasis placed on courtesy and conformance. We knew that Nick’s outburst, which might have been taken in stride by Westerners, was an unthinkable breach of Japanese etiquette.

There was a dead silence which stretched endlessly. Then, without a word, Nick stepped forward and began to pump the bilge.

After the job was done and the sail up again, Nick came back to the cockpit and apologized. He said that he knew I was right, but he had just felt tired. We discussed what we could do about the problem of getting the bilge cleared when we were heeling and decided that another pump, with extensions on both sides to the turn of the bilge, would do the trick. (This was duly installed, in Honolulu, and has proved very effective.) Then we shook hands, and that ended it. For the rest of the passage, Nick was his former stolid, dependable self.

The next problem, which set in less dramatically but threatened to be more serious, concerned Mickey. After we sailed from Hiroshima, and during our quiet cruise up the Inland Sea, Mickey had been the brightest and gayest of our group. The ditty he sang constantly, which roughly translated meant “I’m going to Honolulu where the coconuts grow,” had earned him the private family nickname of Coconut Boy.

However, after our first bad night on the open ocean, Mickey had quieted down considerably. He seemed to realize for the first time that there was a lot of water between him and his coconuts. Gradually his activity and behavior deteriorated until at last he took to his bunk, rising only to go to the head and for meals—which he seemed to eat with a fair appetite.

The first night that Mickey defected completely, Nick and Moto conspired to absorb his watch between them, without reporting his indisposition. But by the next day there was no concealing the fact that Mickey “not feel so good,” and although Nick and Moto offered to continue taking three-hour watches until he felt better, it was agreed that we would share and share alike.

From then on, Mickey was relieved of active duty until further notice and the rest of us went on a schedule of two on and six off. This of course meant that each man’s watch, instead of shifting each day, remained the same. Ted drew two dark watches (0400–0600 and 2000–2200) and found himself carrying a man’s role in earnest. In addition to his job as navigator, he already doubled as cabin boy—a thankless job that included siphoning kerosene from the deck drums, draining the dishwater from under the sink, and keeping the water jugs filled from the main tanks (we had no pump). It was not an easy life for a sixteen-year-old who had had few responsibilities for the past three years beyond picking up his own pajamas—and had often managed to avoid even that by stalling until one of the Japanese housegirls did it for him.

Yet, Ted responded wonderfully, and I found myself depending on him more and more. In these modern days fathers aren’t supposed to get to know their sons, especially their adolescent sons, but in the case of Ted and myself, never were conditions better for getting acquainted. Ted’s watch preceded mine, and I often went up a bit early, especially at night, to give him a reassuring word and stayed on to chat of this and that. His nature is quiet and reflective; his interests run to mathematics, astronomy, the sciences, and for relaxation, the classics. Our subjects ranged far afield and more often than not Ted was the mentor.

Perhaps, as Barbara has since postulated, if Mickey had not “cracked up,” one of the others would have—and I know she is thinking of herself. Be that as it may, the heavier burden placed upon us all by Mickey’s defection served to stiffen the resolution of the others. Mixed with a very real concern over our ailing member was a growing pride in my family and I felt almost ashamed of the doubts that had troubled me before we set sail.

(Only much later was I told of the reservations Barbara and the kids had secretly entertained, at the prospect of putting to sea with me—a skipper whom they knew to be quick-tempered, stubborn, and far more apt to be patient with machines or statistics than with people. My own pride in their performance under duress was apparently matched by their own surprised and pleased discovery that I, too, was making a real effort and apparently succeeding. In the course of that first hard crossing, in short, all four of us were welded into a close-knit unit based upon mutual trust.)

At the time, however, Mickey was our main cause for concern and the basis of many worried conferences. His illness seemed to have no specific character and responded to no treatment Barbara could devise. It seemed impossible to pin it down. With Nick as interpreter, we tried to outline the symptoms, but it was tough going and largely dictionary work. Sometimes it seemed to center around nausea; sometimes constipation, or, equally often, dysentery. In general, however, it seemed to be characterized only by a vague tiredness, occasional dizziness, a general depression, and a disinclination to get out of bed.

“No pains?”

“No. No pain.”

“Has he been taking the medicine?” (Barbara had tried dramamine, bonamine, aureomycin, and various other specifics.)

“Yes,” said Nick. “No good.” Mickey weakly put in a word and Nick translated. “Mickey say, maybe better if you make rice like mother used to make.”

“What? Like his mother? Well, how did she make it?”

“When Japanese is sick, his mother make special rice, very soft, very good. If you make soft rice, maybe he be better.”

“Oh, dandy,” breathed Barbara, and repaired to the galley to try cooking rice gruel for Mickey like his mother used to make. Evidently she didn’t succeed, for Mickey’s condition didn’t improve. We discussed the possibility of changing course and heading for Midway, in order to get competent medical attention, but since Mickey’s condition seemed to be chronic rather than acute, we decided to carry on.

And so, for three weeks, Mickey was a free-loader. He ate regularly but took no part in the sailing of the ship. Not until we turned south, heading directly for the Hawaiian Islands, and began to pick up balmy winds, blue skies, and fair weather, did Mickey show signs of recovery. He worked halfheartedly at the simple tasks I assigned merely to get him up on deck, and at last he announced, through Nick, that he would take an hour of his watch during the afternoon. We adjusted our schedule accordingly and gradually, over a period of two or three days, Mickey felt his way back into full participation. By the time we reached Honolulu he was again our ebullient Coconut Boy.

Moto, through all this, remained quiet, gentle, and uncomplaining, the ideal shipmate. His watch followed mine, and never did he fail to come up promptly and with a smile on his face. This, in the darkness of a cold, wet, rough night takes more than a bit of doing, and my respect and liking for him increased steadily as time went on.

My arrangements for living aboard seemed to be working out well. From the main cabin we could hear Nick, Mickey, and Moto carrying on animated conversations in their own language, and Barbara, who had soon given up her praiseworthy idea of cooking special breakfasts of sour bean soup and cold rice, often reported exotic adaptations of cucumber pickles with the oatmeal.

Of all the jobs on ship, Barbara’s in many ways was the toughest. Not a boatwoman by inclination, or the typical “athletic” type of girl, she suddenly found herself thrust into a role which demanded every ounce of her courage and stamina. That she discharged her duty with full honors is shown by a simple mathematical fact: in 47 days at sea, regardless of the weather, her physical distress, or the balkiness of a temperamental kerosene stove (which the Skipper had to keep in fighting trim), she never failed to prepare and serve a meal—a hot meal—on schedule. Only those who have cooked on a small boat at sea can know what this means.

As to her personal feelings during this time, a section from her diary may give some idea:

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about people who went to sea in small sailing ships. About Columbus, for one, who set out not just for a six or eight weeks’ trip but for an incalculable and unknown number of days in search of a perhaps nonexistent land. And more than about Columbus himself, I wonder about his men, those hardy souls whose individuality has been completely overshadowed by the glory of their leader’s accomplishment. Columbus went because he had a dream and a conviction—but why, I wonder, did _they_ go, all those unidentified others?

And I’ve been thinking about the women on the _Mayflower_ and on all the other tiny boats that set sail so confidently for a new world. No longer are the Pilgrims a small band of cutout figures whose storybook ships are somehow manipulated by wires across a painted backdrop of heaving billows. They’ve become very real to me, people I’d like to have known and talked to. I’d like to have asked Mistress White, mother of Peregrine, “What did you think the first time you smashed into a heavy sea, so that your ship stopped short and shuddered at the impact? Did you think you’d run onto an uncharted rock and would go down in a matter of minutes? Or was there someone who knew about the sea, someone to put his arm around you and say, ‘It was only a wave, darling’?”

Or I’d like to have asked Mistress Carver and the rest of them, “Did it help to have other women aboard—or were you too miserable and scared for woman-talk to be of any use?”

In one way, I’m sure I’m better off than they, for I have my assigned duties to keep me from spending too much time in self-pity.

In addition to her job in the galley, Barbara had the personal responsibility of taking care of Jessica. Since Jessica had no special function on the boat, such as standing watch or preparing meals, she was able to get a full night’s sleep and was the only one to whom boredom during the day might have been a problem. Fortunately, her Journal had developed from an assigned chore into a welcome challenge. She had always enjoyed writing and now, in the absence of companions of her own age, she spent more and more time experimenting with words and ideas.

In addition to her daily Journal entries, Jessica filled several notebooks with imaginative stories which she illustrated in full color and which served to keep us all entertained. One series in particular afforded us great pleasure—her “Creatures,” complete from A (the Alphabetabobbical Beast) to Z (the Znerrouch). The latter always left his feelings lying about in a tangled web where they were inevitably stepped on.

The worse the weather and the higher the waves the more fantastic (and friendly) became the mythical creatures who had become Jessica’s closest friends. She and Barbara were good companions as they shared work in the galley or bent together over the day’s lessons, but when Barbara—tired out after a sleepless night or just in need of an hour or two alone—retired behind the curtains of her bunk, Jessica was never at a loss. She kept herself busy and amused with reading, writing, and studying, and when the weather got too rough to continue normal activities, she quietly crawled into her bunk “to keep Mi-ke warm.” Sometimes, at night, I would pass through the dark cabin and flash a light in her direction to find her lying quiet, wide awake. She would smile and wave, and I would go about my duties, immeasurably cheered.

These days our lives as well as our outlook were regulated by one major influence: the weather. When the going was bad, we dug in and held on. When the barometer rose, our spirits rose with it and we expanded accordingly.

The great weather cycles, which flowed down out of the northwest, carried us along with them for a few days and then gradually left us behind, only to be replaced by the next. These cycles of alternating barometric highs and lows lasted roughly a week each, and their nature can best be described by brief excerpts from the log. One can begin anywhere in the cycle:

11/23. Last night under full lowers, when heavy squall hit at 1930. Kept on, after 1½ hours hard work changing sails, under mizzen, trysail and storm jib. Continued so all night. Frontal passage at 0749, with sharp squall, heavy rain, and wind shift from SE to NW. Jibed and continued E under same sails. Rain squalls passing at intervals. Barometer rising at 0600.

11/24. Good run last night, with a slowly rising barometer and slowly falling wind and sea—also good sleeping ... jib clew cringle broken.

11/25. A fine run last night—very slowly rising barometer, with wind decreasing very slowly. Under mizzen, mainsail and foresail.... All day, fast-moving, low wind clouds have been pouring out of NW, keeping the wind up, with now and then a scattered short squall. Now under all five lowers.

11/25 (_Number Two_). Another good run last night, barometer continuing its slow rise. Last night’s Thanksgiving dinner great success, socially and gastronomically. Menu: suimono, baked ham with raisin sauce, mashed pot., candied sweet pot., creamed mixed veg., corn bread, pumpkin pie, ripe olives, grape juice, port wine, mixed candies. Tonight _another_ Thanksgiving dinner (since we crossed date line yesterday, through the excellent timing of the Skipper), but can hardly expect it to come up to last night’s splendor.

11/26. At 0700, wind shifted to NNE, all night a series of squalls have poured out of NW....

11/27. Same pattern as previous night ... low, fast-moving clouds, each with a rush of wind that keeps the helmsman busy—sometimes with rain. The seas are building ... the ship rides well. At 1000 put reef in mizzen and 2nd reef in main. Changed course to 100° compass. Barometer falling.

11/28. Bottom dropped out of barometer last night. (Barograph broken, too rough for ink to stay in well.) Down 14 points overnight. Wind and waves built up, hove to at 0800. Ship rides nicely. Had a big breakfast and all hands turned in for some rest.

11/29. Hove to all night. Everybody got good rest. First full night’s sleep I’ve had since trip began. Feel fine. Barometer fell slowly until midnight (988 millibars), then rose slowly ... night clear and stars shining brightly. Wind shifted between 2400 and 0200. Underway again 0900.

And so, with the barometer rising, the wind dropping, and the seas moderating, the cycle is completed, only to repeat itself during the next week, and the next, and the next—as long as we remain in the latitudes of the prevailing westerlies, above 30° North.

Just before the new low, there might be a day of calm:

12/2. Very quiet night—seas down and wind gentle. Today is drying and cleaning day—first chance. Everything damp—for last several days have slept on cabin floor, because of soaked bunk from Big Wave—so today is a welcome respite. Started engine today, as a check, third time since Nov. 1—started at once, no trouble. Checked food sacks. Moisture just beginning to get to them. Will open the sacks that remain—dry and grease where needed—should be okay for rest of trip.

Amazing odor—went on deck to find boys had got out their dried squid—now soaked and moldy—and strewn them all over the cabintop, to dry in the sun. Almost prefer bad weather.

Once we had crossed the date line and entered the Western Hemisphere—the family’s part of the world—we felt that we were on the downhill run. The morale of the ship’s company was high, where before we had been a bit subdued and introspective, going around, as it were, with our mental fingers crossed. Now, although we knew we still had a long way to go, we felt that we had a pretty good example of what the Pacific had to offer at this season and, although we did not much care for it, we had gained confidence in our ship and in ourselves. These days we sailed through weather that would have made us heave to earlier. This was not through bravado, but because we now knew that it was safe to do so. Thus, our average day’s run became encouragingly longer.

On December 5, at 163° West Longitude, we passed below the 30th parallel and began to drop down on the Hawaiian Islands. On the chart we had marked what we called “Position X,” a point about 60 miles north of the island of Molokai, and for this we headed. Our plan was to round up gradually on this point and then head directly south. Particularly, we would be careful not to get too far west, which would put us downwind of the islands.

Shortly after crossing the date line we had begun to pick up United States radio stations, though we listened to them mainly to get news and check our chronometer with a time signal. Now, as we neared our destination, the Honolulu stations began to come in more and more clearly. On December 8, while I was listening with earphones to the tag end of the 1800 newscast, I heard the announcer say: “The Honolulu Coast Guard says, ‘No word yet from the missing yacht _Phoenix_.’”

This bulletin came as a complete surprise to all of us. In fact, my shipmates seemed inclined to believe at first that I was trying to pull their collective leg. It seemed unlikely that anyone would be interested in our arrival—certainly not to the extent of broadcasting our _non_arrival. We speculated endlessly. “No word yet—” What word? Why _should_ there be any word? How could they expect us to report when we had no means of communication and had seen no ships for the past month? Most important of all, we weren’t even overdue. The 45-day estimate I had given the U.S. Navy and the Japanese Coast Guard before we left Takamatsu had not yet elapsed, so it was too early for alarm. What did it all mean?

We had to wait three more days before we found out.

We were heading almost due south now, pushed on by a steady, brisk breeze out of the northeast. As far as this passage was concerned, we went directly out of the westerlies into the northeast trades, and we had no need of the extra drum of engine fuel we had brought along to get us through the notorious variables and calms of the horse latitudes.

We could easily tell we were getting south, even without the obvious evidence of sun and compass. Gradually we peeled off the woolens, long johns, and parkas we had worn during most of the trip. The girls began to come up on deck for sun baths, everyone went about in bare feet, and Mickey, once more standing his regular watch, began to sing his Coconut Song again.

Even the sea around us seemed to come to life. On December 7 we caught a glimpse of a large marine animal, the first we had seen on the trip, although birds had been with us most of the way. The next day something—maybe this same creature—bit off our trailing taffrail log, which had been turning faithfully for weeks. Fortunately, we had three spares. That same day our first flying fish landed aboard, to be pounced upon promptly by Mi-ke. (Although on later trips we frequently trolled a line aft, on this passage we did no fishing, having quite enough to do to handle our ship.)

On December 10 we reached Position X, according to our calculations, and set our course due south. If Ted’s navigation was correct, we should raise Molokai sometime that day. None of us voiced either confidence or doubt, but we all spent a great deal of time on deck and there was nothing casual in the way we searched the horizon.

At 1445 we saw a long, low cloud ahead on the horizon. At first no one dared call attention to it, but when it did not change shape or melt away but grew, instead, larger and more distinct, someone at last found the temerity to voice the fact: “Land ho!”

There was no doubt about it now. As we drew closer we could discern the jagged white line of a waterfall marking a dark cliff, and later still a pencil-thin structure, obviously man-made, standing out against the somber background. A quick check of our light list identified it as the Molokai Lighthouse. Almost simultaneously, as the navigator let out a triumphant shout, the light began to flash in the early dusk. We jibed to the west, to run along the coast, and set a course for Makapuu Light, the gateway to Honolulu.

By midnight we had closed in on Makapuu Light, passed through the Molokai Channel, and were lying off Diamond Head in full view of the lights, the beautiful lights, of Honolulu. Throughout the day small boat warnings had been broadcast repeatedly, but to us, sailing in the lee of Oahu after seven weeks on the open Pacific, the seas seemed as gentle as a millpond. We had no desire to attempt the harbor entrance in the darkness, so for the rest of the night we tacked, just offshore, from Diamond Head to Pearl Harbor and back again.

Throughout the night Nick, Mickey, and Moto came up to take their watch whenever they were called, but neither the sight of land nor the lure of the unknown seemed to stir their Oriental calm. Smiling at us gently, each one finished his job, took a casual look around, and went below to sleep out the remainder of the night.

But for the family there was no desire to sleep. A full moon lighted a path across the water; dramatic mountain silhouettes loomed darkly behind the fairy-land lights of a thousand human habitations; and a heady, never-before noticed scent of _land_ drifted out to us on the offshore trades.

We sat together in the cockpit, singing Christmas carols and smelling the flowers, the closest, happiest family in all the world.

4 On To The South Pacific: From Hawaii To Tahiti

“Banzai!... Banzai!... Banzai!”

In the morning we entered Honolulu Harbor under power and were directed to Pier 7, in the heart of the city. Quite a crowd had collected and what with officials, newsmen, radio and television operators, dockworkers, yachtsmen, and curious strangers, we found the confusion intimidating after forty-seven days of isolation.

Even before the lines were made fast, reporters were shouting questions, a television crew had asked us please to go out and come in again for the benefit of their cameras (we didn’t), and our good friends the Bushnells—who had spotted us from their home on the heights and rushed down with fragrant leis—were breaking the news that Barbara’s mother had flown in from Wisconsin only a day or two before and was awaiting our arrival.

As the _Phoenix_ nudged the dock, an imposing individual cleared a space around him and prepared to board. Our first American visitor. I remembered my manners—we were back in the States, where one doesn’t bow, but shakes hands. I extended mine. He promptly put his briefcase into it, stepped aboard, and ordered all hands below. At once. No accepting of leis. No conversation with well-wishers on the dock.

The reporters howled; the bystanders jeered; and Barbara, in the midst of eager arrangements for getting in touch with her mother, had to be dragged down the companionway. We went below.

Our first visitor did not announce his function, but we soon gathered that he was the port doctor. We rather wondered why we could not at least have spoken to the people on the pier. What obscure disease can be transmitted by voice?

As the doctor left, Immigration arrived. We were delighted to produce the hard-won passports and U.S. visas for the Japanese men. Next in line was an agricultural inspector who apologetically threw overboard a couple of tired potatoes. We didn’t want them anyway.

A truck arrived, with the ominous lettering “Animal Quarantine” on it, and Mi-ke was snatched from Jessica’s arms and whisked away to a cell. We could have her back in four months we were told—and, no—the time spent at sea could _not_ be applied on the quarantine period! It was evident that whatever terrible germs might find their way into Honolulu they wouldn’t include rabies. As an anthropologist, my own feeling was that these precautions, while commendable, were a bit late, since a far worse disease, the white man, had long ago taken a firm grip on the islands.

At last the officials moved on and we were free to come and go—but not before the location of the Customs Office had been pointed out to me, with instructions to report there as soon as possible. We had just been introduced to a new aspect of cruising: the inevitable bout with officialdom, just when you are longing to get ashore after weeks at sea. Necessary, perhaps, but infinitely frustrating.

Taking a deep breath we went up to join our patient friends—and ran into the second land-based hazard of cruising: reporters. Frankly, I was a little surprised to find the press in Honolulu so interested in our arrival. After all, boats by the hundreds come in here and they have to sail a good long way to get to the islands, no matter which land they set out from. Then why all the excitement about us?

I answered questions from reporters with half of my mind and tried to carry on a conversation with friends with the other. All of us gathered together when told to and smiled when asked and waved upon request—and breathed a sigh of relief when at last the reporters and photographers left.

Hours later, on my way back from the Customs Office, I bought a paper whose headlines screamed: LOST YACHT ARRIVES! _What a coincidence_, I thought. _Another yacht—and on the same day!_ Only after I looked at the accompanying picture did I realize that the “lost yacht” referred to was the _Phoenix_!

This news took a bit of digesting. Gradually, as our friends filled us in, we learned that for more than a week we had been the subject of a running story started, perhaps, when friends who were expecting us had called the Honolulu Coast Guard to ask for news.

“Yacht _Phoenix_?” The C.G. had no information. “Coming from Japan? Never heard of her, but we’ll see what we can find out.”

A query was sent to the Japanese Coast Guard who, checking back, noted that a heavy storm had lashed Japan shortly after we sailed. Further research dug up an early news story indicating our original intention to sail up the coast before heading out to sea. A belated search of coastal waters turned up no wreckage of the _Phoenix_, no coastal station reported having seen her after her departure from Takamatsu.—Reluctantly, Japanese officials notified the U.S.C.G., “No trace of yacht _Phoenix_”—and the panic was on.

Conflicting reports began to crop up and were given international publicity. One, from an “authoritative source,” said we had “undoubtedly gone down with all hands”—a nicely flavored nautical phrase. Barbara’s mother, approached for comment, expressed confidence that all was well. A “Japanese naval expert” (our old friend Takemura?) was next quoted as saying that our ship was “built for the Inland Sea and would never withstand the rough waters of the North Pacific,” while another “expert” was found to maintain that a sturdier, better-built boat had never existed. “They’re safe”—“They’re lost”—“Hope dims”—“Hope revived”—headlines argued back and forth.

One article, the most bizarre of the lot, reported that a radio communication from the _Phoenix_ had been received in Hiroshima to the effect that we were safe and would reach Hawaii “in a few days.” Eventually we tracked this down. A message had been received—of a sort: Moto’s mother had visited a shrine, where she had received assurance from On High that all was well with the _Phoenix_. She had passed the word along to the anxious relatives of the other men, the word had spread, and the newspapers got hold of the story. When the overseas news service picked it up, however, they failed to recognize that a “message” could be heavenly as well as electronic. In their own version, they presupposed a radio contact without bothering to inquire whether we actually had a radio transmitter aboard.

When we protested the inaccuracy—and the cruelty to anxious friends and relatives—of such irresponsible reporting, a newspaper acquaintance shrugged off our indignation.

“It’s just formula stuff,” he assured us. “Yacht sails—yacht has trouble—yacht does (or doesn’t) arrive. Sometime during the trip there has to be a crisis—a big storm—a man overboard—or just, as in your case, no word at all. That’s always good for at least a couple of ‘overdue’ or ‘lost’ stories. If the boat is _really_ lost, the accuracy of the press is upheld. If it turns up—so much the better, because everyone feels good and we can do follow-up stories, general rejoicing, and big headlines.”

“Like ‘LOST YACHT ARRIVES’?”

He shrugged. “Anyway, it sells papers.” And then he added, a bit defensively, “Our paper hasn’t any objection to reporting the truth—so long as it doesn’t interfere with our circulation.”

In our case the news value was enhanced by the interracial character of our crew and the tremendous interest in the _Phoenix_ which was felt not only in Japan but throughout the substantial Japanese-American community of the Hawaiian Islands. The two Japanese-language newspapers gave the story a big play. The Japanese Consul General paid his respects within hours of our arrival. The Hiroshima Ken Society (composed of hundreds of first-generation immigrants from Hiroshima Prefecture) scheduled a Welcome Banquet in honor of our men. And a cable from Japan informed us that a “Yacht _Phoenix_ Supporters’ Association” had been organized, with Governor Ohara of Hiroshima Province as President.

This unexpected interest and publicity impressed us forcefully with the fact that our voyage was no longer a private affair. Whatever we did or said would be magnified by the press, both in Japan and locally. This put the problem of Mickey in a different light. Our instinct against washing one’s dirty linen in public had kept us from saying anything to press or public about Mickey’s failure, but the problem still had to be faced among ourselves.

My own feeling was that we should send him back to Japan, and the family felt the same. We had proved we could manage without him during the worst that we were likely to encounter in the way of weather and it seemed foolish to carry as supercargo someone who might at any time become a liability.

To my surprise, when I mentioned the subject to Moto and Nick, I found them unalterably opposed. My point of view was the narrow one of the skipper of a boat trying to make a successful circumnavigation; but my men were no longer thinking merely as yachtsmen. They had been greeted as representatives of Japan and they felt the responsibility keenly. A loss of “face” was involved. If one of them were to be sent back, the failure would reflect upon them all. In fact, there was the definite implication that if one went they would all feel obliged to go.

As is usually the case, no decision could be entirely satisfactory. If I kept Mickey, I felt he would be a constant threat to our success—not just from the standpoint of a weak stomach but because of his personality. Nick and Moto, however, were emphatically positive that he would turn out all right. We talked it over at tedious length and finally decided to keep Mickey—on sufferance—at least for a while.

After several days at the commercial dock, we were given permission to move to the Ala Wai Yacht Harbor, near Waikiki. Here we quickly made the acquaintance of fellow yachtsmen and, for the first time, had the real joy of visiting other yachts, of inviting friends aboard for coffee and yarns, and of hearing at first hand the experiences and opinions of men—and women—who had sailed all over the Pacific. We learned that the trip from California to Honolulu, or from Honolulu down to Tahiti, is considered the “milk run” by local seagoing yachtsmen. They had a certain respect for our Japan to Honolulu crossing, however, and we were human enough to be gratified.

Our _Phoenix_, with her rugged build, heavy masts, and massive tiller, looked a bit crude among the chrome and varnish of her sleek neighbors but, as Moto said in a series of articles he was writing for a Japanese-language paper, “Our boat is the roughest looking boat in the yacht harbor, but one of the most respected.”

All seven of us were made honorary members of the Hawaii Yacht Club, which Barbara and I later joined officially. Earlier, while still in Japan, I had joined the American Yachtsmen’s Association, which gave us outstanding help throughout our entire voyage. Soon we added still another burgee—that of the Seven Seas Cruising Association, composed of cruising yachtsmen who live aboard their craft and keep in touch with one another by means of a monthly bulletin to which all the S.S.C.A. “Commodores” contribute.

Every day brought visitors to the _Phoenix_. Some of them, naturally, were friends of ours, or friends of friends, but so many were people of Japanese ancestry who bowed and chatted in their native tongue with Nick, Mickey, and Moto that I sometimes wondered whether we weren’t still tied up to the dock in Hiroshima.

“I thought you said you didn’t know anyone in Honolulu,” I remarked to Moto, after several days had passed with no slackening in the steady stream of callers.

“Yes!” Moto agreed happily. “We don’t! But Hawaii people very kind, very _friend_.”

Indeed they were “very friend.” Day after day shiny black limousines drew up at the docks and discharged Japanese-speaking callers bringing gifts: clothes, cartons of cigarettes, baskets of fruit, flowers, cakes, Japanese delicacies of all kinds—and invitations without number.

Thus began a period during which we were treated to a hospitality such as few tourists, I am sure, have ever experienced. Our own list of haole (white) friends grew rapidly and we had no lack of invitations, which we could accept without qualms, knowing that our Japanese companions also were having a fine time. Only three or four times did our paths cross: once when we were all invited to a most enjoyable family dinner with the Japanese Consul General, Mr. Hatoyama, his charming wife, and three of their ten children; once when I was speaker at a Hawaii Yacht Club dinner; and once for a never-to-be-forgotten “Welcome Party” given by the Hiroshima Ken Society. All the guests were male (except Barbara and Jessica), and the food, utensils, and speeches were entirely Japanese. Mickey had apparently been elected spokesman for the _Phoenix_ crew and he made a stirring speech, complete with gestures and bravado. For the first time we experienced the rafter-raising Japanese cheer, a chorus shouted at top voice from over two hundred enthusiastic throats: “Banzai!... Banzai!... Banzai!” and we were proud that our Japanese companions should be so honored.

In spite of an active social life and my own commitment for a series of three articles about our trip, we managed to make time for a great deal of work on the boat. In addition to drydocking and doing a routine overhaul, we put in a number of improvements based on our hard-earned knowledge of what was needed most. With the proceeds from my articles, I was able to install a 12-volt electrical system, which only those who have returned, however briefly, to the onerous, overheated, and smelly age of kerosene can appreciate. Not only did this remove the necessity for reaching for one’s flashlight before trying to move about at night, but it made it possible for each of us to enjoy the infinite luxury of reading in our bunks. It was an improvement, too, from the standpoint of safety, for it became a simple matter to flick on masthead light or sidelights at the first sign of an approaching ship. I also installed a Navy surplus radiotelephone which, although we had no intention of using it routinely, was a comforting thing to have around.

Changes were made in the galley, too. Previously, Barbara had had to wire her pots to the stove—a tricky and sometimes dangerous maneuver in rough weather. Now we set up the stove in gimbals so it would always remain level—a sometimes fantastic sight at sea when it often appears as if the pots on the stove are the only things tilting and that liquid must remain in them by some kind of magic. We put in sink pumps for both fresh and salt water—the latter, as Moto described it, connecting us to “the biggest water tank in the world.” And we put in two more bilge pumps, one off the engine and one which went out to the turn of the bilge and also served to empty the sink. These changes, naturally, had the enthusiastic endorsement of the cook as well as of Ted, whose galley boy work was thereby considerably lightened.

Shortly after our arrival a Mr. Yotsuda from the northern island of Kauai, had flown over to welcome us. He was a brother of the Yotsuda-san in Japan who had built the _Phoenix_ and he had extracted a promise from us that we would visit a little “The Garden Isle” before we sailed for the South Seas.

By March Art Nelson, the local sailmaker, had completed the genoa jib I had ordered for the fair-weather trade-wind sailing we hopefully anticipated and, with all the rest of the work done, we felt we were in fair shape for sea. It seemed high time to keep our promise to Mr. Yotsuda and give the _Phoenix_ (and crew) a chance to try her wings again.

Early in March we set sail for Kauai, a hundred miles to the northwest. The trip, which we had hoped would be short, routine, and enjoyable, turned out to be otherwise. The channel was rough, the wind was fickle, we were soft—and it took three days. On the last evening a stiff breeze sprang up that threatened to pile us onto the unknown lee shores of Kauai. Ted and I had an uneasy time of it until we sighted land, but it was too late to go in, so, once again, we tacked back and forth all night. What with keeping an eye on the lights and rousing the men every couple of hours to come about, we got little sleep as we waited for daylight to arrive so that we could round the breakwater and enter the beautifully protected bay of Nawiliwili. Happily exhausted, we dropped the hook a few hundred feet from shore and crawled into our bunks.

Within five minutes we had visitors—the East Kauai Hiroshima Ken Association, led by Mr. Yotsuda, who had a full program lined up for us. Under his direction we turned on the engine and motored into the dock where a place of honor had been reserved. On shore, a caravan of cars was waiting and in no time we were on our way.

That day we saw all the points of natural beauty or historic interest on the east side of the island—and they are many. A full day ended with a formal banquet and many speeches.

It was after midnight before we were returned to the boat. At seven the next morning we were aroused by more visitors—this time, the _West_ Kauai Hiroshima Ken Association who did the honors for the other side of the island, including the banquet—and the speeches! If, that night, we were all a little sleepy, there was general agreement that it had been well worth it!

We also received an invitation from the Kauai Yacht Club, but because of club policy it was extended only to the haole members of our group. This gave rise to a situation we had discussed at some length: the probability that in the course of our world cruise we would run into discrimination. It was distressing, however, that it had arisen first in the friendly Hawaiian Islands—and particularly that it should be a yacht club which excluded certain yachtsmen on the basis of race.

The family’s first inclination was to decline but Nick, Mickey, and Moto were more realistic. As they pointed out, they had already received more invitations than they could accept, many of which did not include us. The most sensible course, they seemed to feel, was for all of us to take things as they came and enjoy whatever hospitality appealed to us. We accepted the invitation, therefore, and tried, by our attitude and conversation, to sow what seeds of tolerance we could.

While we were in Kauai, Mr. Yotsuda continued to consider himself our official host. “Did brother build you a good boat?” he asked, one day. “Is there anything you would like to change?”

I assured him that we were well satisfied with his brother’s work, but we would like to extend the stern sprit someday, in order to set up a permanent backstay for the mizzen. The next day Mr. Yotsuda appeared at dockside with his own tools and stayed until the job was done. Boatbuilding, it appears, runs in the family, and the _Phoenix_ had become a family affair.

After two pleasant weeks we headed back to Oahu and Honolulu. As it happened, the return trip was rougher, if possible, and took a day longer than the passage up. Our initiation into trade-wind island hopping had been unfortunate, and I could see signs of disillusionment and rebellion among the women—particularly when we had to spend two days within sight of Honolulu, beating our way in. It was a hard lesson in the vicissitudes of sailing upwind and I discovered that Barbara and Jessica had a tendency—regrettable in those who must depend on the wind—to chafe a bit when land was in sight.

We spent only a few days on Oahu, during which time we loaded aboard canned goods in case lots for an estimated six months. Then, bidding farewell to the many friends we had made, and with promises to return “in a few years,” we moved on to Maui. With us we took, as guest “hitchsailor,” Alan Pooley, the son of Wisconsin friends, who provided welcome companionship to Ted.

In Maui the Japanese community again took us to its heart but this time they had to compete with the hospitality of Al and Verity Collins, known throughout the cruising world as hosts to visiting yachtsmen. Did we want some laundry done? Bring it on up to the house and dump it in the machine. Hot baths? Come on over—any time! Shopping to do? Here’s Al, at the dockside with his car, ready to take you anywhere you want to go.

The climax of our stay on Maui was the two-day trip into Haleakala, the world’s largest extinct volcano crater. With us went our young guest, Alan, enjoying his last adventure before returning to the mainland, despite the minor inconvenience of a broken arm, obtained by falling down our forward hatch. (This was the first accident aboard and we sincerely hoped it would be the last.)

Our last memory of Lahaina is of the farewell party and hula show put on for us at dockside just before our departure. As we cast off the lines to the strains of “Little Brown Gal,” we suddenly noticed that Jessica was still sitting on the edge of the dock, her back to the _Phoenix_, so engrossed in the performance that she was quite unaware of our departure. Hastily I put the engine in reverse, Moto tossed a line to shore, and willing hands boosted her up over the stern sprit—together with three more cakes and another stalk of bananas in case we should get hungry on the overnight trip to the Big Island (Hawaii).

Sailing on down the Kona (leeward) coast of Big Island, we spent several days in Kealakekua Bay, where Captain Cook was killed. The bronze plaque which supposedly marks the place of his death was under a couple of feet of water, a short distance offshore. We could never have found it without the help of “Cap’n” Glass, a salty-looking old landlubber-turned-yachtsman. Even Cap’n Glass, however, could not tell us _how_ the marker had managed to end up in such an unusual spot. Water risen? Land sunk? We’d still like to know the details.

At Napoopoo we decided to make a further test of our new equipment by beating around South Point and up to Hilo, against both wind and current. I had good reason to believe that the trip would be rugged and some instinct made me suggest that the women go across the island by bus, a trip of only a few hours, to wait for the rest of us in Hilo. Barbara acquiesced with mixed emotions. In her diary she noted: “Deserted the _Phoenix_. It was a queer, rootless feeling to watch her moving out of the harbor far below us while we were driven along the upper road on our way to the station wagon-cum-bus.”

Four days later in Hilo, she noted in her diary: “Our _Phoenix_ was sighted this evening.... How wonderfully the Japanese grapevine works! Three members of the Hiroshima Ken Society were waiting at the dock when Earle and Ted rowed in to shore for the first time. Already we’re dated up for the Welcome Dinner plus a day of sightseeing around Hilo and another day touring the Volcano Area.”

We were exceptionally fortunate in visiting the Big Island during the 1955 volcanic eruptions, so that we had far more than the usual tourist excursion through Hawaii National Park. New cinder cones were being pushed up daily within easy driving distance of Hilo. In startling contrast to other countries, where volcanoes claim innumerable lives and force a mass exodus, Hawaii’s volcanic goddess, Pele, has a reputation for benevolence. One of the favorite expeditions, day or night, was to the scene of current activity. Tourists and locals alike, serenely confident, flock to watch and photograph her pyrotechnic displays or to scoop up—on a very long stick—souvenirs of molten lava.

I was absorbed, however, with preparations for our long hop to Tahiti, 2,200 miles to the south. The constant work and pressure took up so much time and energy that I almost resented the interruptions of volcanoes, hospitality, and the ubiquitous visitor with his often ludicrous questions. A couple of sailors from a naval ship wanted to know where we kept our gyrocompass—and they weren’t kidding. A Hawaiian housewife, too broad even to attempt getting down the main hatc