Part 19

The second yacht to arrive was _Marie Thérèse II_, with singlehander Bernard Moitessier, a very likable Frenchman. He, too, had known the rigors of the sea. In his own words, written in our log, his first _Marie Thérèse_, a Chinese junk, was “lost in a reef in the Chagos Archipelago during her attempt to reach the Seychelles Islands from Indonesia. Reason was no chronometer, no radio, lost, no binoculars, and probably too much cheek from the skiper” (sic!).

King and Moitessier, obviously, were not usual types, but the third arrival was the most bizarre of all, as well as the least communicative. This was a lone Australian on _Kate_. His brief entry in the register says merely: “Best wishes and regards from Bill Geering of _Kate_, 21 ft. L.O.A., and 60 days out of Fremantle to Mauritius. Bon Voyage.”

The voyage, as we were able to piece it together, was less routine. _Kate_, on a coastal cruise from Fremantle to Darwin, had been caught offshore and blown out to sea. With the strong trade winds and westbound current against him, Geering had no choice but to carry on across the Indian Ocean. He had tried for Christmas Island, but missed it. He had tried to find the Keeling-Cocos, but without success. At last, fifty-three days out, he had made a landfall at Rodrigues and then sailed on to Mauritius. He was not in too good shape when he arrived, having been on short rations of food and water for several weeks and without standing room in his tiny ship. In addition, he had managed to injure his back. When we asked him how long he expected to stay in Mauritius, he replied succinctly, “Maybe forever!” Shortly thereafter he sold _Kate_ to a local resident and flew back to Australia.

Mauritius, rather pretentiously known as “The Crown and Pearl of the Indian Ocean,” proved to be a fascinating island but with a social and economic situation that is highly confused and potentially explosive. It is made up of many racial groups: English, French, Malay, African, Indian, Chinese, and many admixtures—and these groups are further divided by religious or social prejudices. The Hindus feud constantly with the Muslims; the Chinese are divided into Communist and Nationalist factions; while the 15 per cent that make up the remainder of the population include a scattering of British, who come on temporary government appointments and feel superior to the locals, and a residue of French-Mauritians, who regard themselves as the entrenched aristocracy.

A single observation summed up, to my mind, the self-consciousness of the entire racial scene. As in other countries, Jessica made contact with the Girl Guides and found them, as in Fiji, divided into mutually exclusive troops on the basis of race. The daughter of a British civil servant thus explained it, “We don’t even call the younger Guides ‘Brownies’ here—because of the Indians, you know. We call them ‘Bluebirds.’”

In almost every port we received applications from would-be adventurers—of all ages and several sexes. I always listened to their pleas with sympathy, for I have never forgotten the day I spent at the yacht harbor in Honolulu on my way out to Japan, too timid to ask if I might take a look aboard a yacht. It must be admitted that the vast majority of applicants had little to offer aside from a vague desire to get away from it all. Moreover, I noticed that the peak of these requests always came on a beautiful Sunday afternoon when a gentle breeze ruffled the waters of the bay. I have yet to have an applicant row out to offer his services in some dark predawn at the height of a williwaw, while we’re bouncing all over the place and trying to get a second anchor out.

Many of our applicants, of course, were under the impression that we employed a paid crew. The fact that Nick, Mickey, and Moto were yachting companions rather than hired hands was a source of constant astonishment, although we never failed to emphasize the relationship. As for us, we took increasing pride in the fact that after two years and more than 25,000 miles, the original _Phoenix_ crew was still together and still, we felt, good friends.

There was one type of applicant, however, whom we sometimes signed on for a short hop. Such a one was Jean de St. Pern, an ebullient young French-Mauritian who begged to sail with us as far as Durban. He volunteered to help Jessica in her struggles with beginning French and, the clincher as far as Barbara was concerned, expressed a willingness, nay, an _eagerness_, to cook. We took him along.

We sailed from Mauritius on October 19, bound for South Africa. Though our visas had been granted without difficulty, we were more than a little dubious about our visit because of the government’s well-known racial policies. Our relations on board had been pleasant and increasingly friendly since leaving Indonesia and we rather dreaded entering an area where color and nationality would again assume false values. However, it is difficult to go around the Cape without calling somewhere in South Africa, so we hoped for the best.

Once again our life fell into that routine which is so difficult for landsmen, day sailors, or even passengers on an ocean liner to comprehend. The land one has left falls behind, the pleasures and friendships that await are in some indefinite future. All that exists is the present—the sea, the ship, the ship’s company, and the little happenings of each day. Local events, such as the loss of a whole bunch of bananas over the side, become tremendously important, while world events recede into the background. Intellectually we could comprehend and keep these things in perspective, but emotionally the here and now has more impact than the there and then. From the log:

Listened to five-minute summary of news. First sentence, trouble in Hungary; 2nd, trouble in Singapore; 3rd, trouble in Tunis; 4th, hydrogen bomb test.—Angrily, I turned the radio off.

On the seventh day out, when far south of Madagascar, we could smell the land, literally. Suddenly all eight of us were on deck, breathing deeply. There was a different quality in the wind—a warm, dry, slightly dusty odor, faintly spiced, like the scent of a distant campfire. Manuia, too, sniffed deeply upwind, her front paws on the bulwarks. Moto grinned appreciatively. “Maybe mouse on Madagascar,” he observed.

Jean, true to his promise, showed great prowess in the galley. He had brought aboard a mysterious carton of bottles and jars, and from these he added a spoonful of this or a dash of that to whatever he had on the fire. No matter what the contents of a jar _looked_ like—a spinach-green paste, a catsup-type sauce, or something lumpy and yellow like mustard pickles—it was all, according to Jean, called “piment” and was invariably _hot_. One or two of us acquired a taste for this fiery seasoning of Mauritian cooking (in moderation), but the rest found it hard to be too unhappy when a sudden roll of the boat sent Jean’s carton of condiments crashing to the floor in a welter of broken glass. Desolate, he picked over the mess and scooped up spoonfuls, insisting that a _little_ glass wouldn’t hurt anyone, but the Skipper was firm and insisted that all food thereafter must be seasoned by the individual.

Jean could really cook, but in the tradition of great French chefs. His talents ran to directing, concocting, adding, stirring, and tasting. With one of us to hand him utensils, another to cut up onions, and the Skipper to restrain his too lavish use of piment, he turned out a number of delectable dishes. As he explained seriously, “Eef I cook eet, eet _has_ to be good!”

Like his condiments, Jean added interesting variety to our shipboard life. Although a British subject, he was completely French in language, personality, and gestures. He delighted the family and both delighted and bewildered Nick, Mickey, and Moto.

His effervescence rose to a crescendo on the day we ran through a school of whales. Prancing all over the deck, scrambling up the rigging, he was beside himself with excitement, relapsing entirely into French punctuated with staccato bursts of “Ooo-la-la! Ooo-la-la!” One whale, of impressive size, came up for mutual inspection less than a boat’s length away. We all felt, a little nervously, that that was quite close enough and were relieved when he apparently felt the same, and sounded.

We hove to once on this passage, in a heavy thunderstorm, with driving rain and incessant lightning. The wind oscillated between dead calm and terrific gusts, so we thought it better to strike all sail and wait for the weather to make up its mind. Early next morning, with the wind still strong and the seas high, we could see the loom of Durban’s lights on the horizon just before dawn. Throughout the day we worked our way in but the wind was dead against us and after taking several long tacks, each of which put us only slightly nearer our goal, it became apparent that we could not make it before dark. I wanted to lay off, but my crew had land fever and I finally compromised by trying to raise the harbor officials by radio telephone.

Five miles off the harbor entrance, I made contact and a pilot boat was sent out to meet us. The seas were much too rough for them to take us in tow, but they stood by for the next three hours while we labored along under sail and engine, against wind, heavy seas, and the outgoing tide, at the magnificent speed of one knot. Inside the channel, well after dark, they finally came alongside, put a pilot aboard, and guided us briskly into the completely landlocked harbor, where we were put on a buoy for the night.

On our way up the channel, with Nick at the tiller, my crew were given a lesson in how to answer orders. Over and over on the trip I had emphasized the need for repeating an order aloud, in times of stress or noise, so there could be no misunderstanding. The Japanese had been very reluctant to cooperate, perhaps feeling that it put them in a subservient position. Now, on our way up the channel, the pilot called an order to the helmsman and Nick, as usual, obeyed silently. In no uncertain terms, though quite politely, the pilot directed Nick (through me) to repeat every order _as given_.

I thought it a salutary lesson and was human enough to see the culprit, thus reprimanded, squirm. And yet I wish I could report that the lesson had been learned. On the contrary, perhaps because of the loss of face involved, the issue became sharper than ever before.

It was a baffling situation. A couple of years earlier I would have dissolved the relationship summarily, exercising my right to demand compliance even though it forced a parting of the ways. Now, however, the desire to succeed in our trip, to keep our original group intact, had assumed an importance that made the question “Who is boss?” seem a bit childish. In addition, I believe I was gaining in patience and understanding, in desire to understand the point of view of my companions. Their deep insecurity in the many situations they had to face around the world gave them a real need to re-establish constantly their status as equals. Untrained in democratic procedures, they at times withdrew from responsibility and left the entire weight of decisions to me; and at times reasserted their independence by refusing, in unimportant details, to accept any suggestion of authority.

Perhaps, I told myself, I was demanding a subservience to which I was not entitled. Perhaps the matter of repeating orders should be relegated to the same category as saluting the bridge or piping the captain aboard, observances of rank and authority that were perhaps correct in their proper place but not aboard a small boat. And yet, balancing all this rationalization was the knowledge that, in a tight spot, an order not heard or perhaps misunderstood could mean the loss of the ship. I didn’t give a damn about salutes and pipes, but I cared a great deal about my family and the _Phoenix_.

At any rate, by 2130 we were snugly moored with the lights of Durban all about us. Barbara, who had not wanted to miss our entrance, now went below to whip up a late, hot supper, and everyone visibly relaxed as I broke out a bottle of rum. I brought my log up to date: our last lap of 16 days at sea had added another 1,756 miles; another ocean crossed, another continent, another milestone on our voyage. We were in Africa!

12 SOUTH AFRICA: BEAUTIFUL, UNHAPPY LAND

“What will you do when that day comes?”

In the morning we were again picked up by the pilot and escorted to a mooring in the small-craft harbor.

“There will be no charge,” he told us.

“None at all?” I was incredulous, remembering that they had come out at our request and stood by for three hours while we crawled in.

“No charge,” he repeated. “We’re happy to serve you.”

It was luck we arrived when we did, for by the next week they could not have served us at any price. The pressure from the Suez crisis was beginning to be felt and every pilot was working almost around the clock. Even so, many ships were obliged to stand off and wait before they could be brought in for refueling, and their lights at night stretched along the coast like an offshore roadway.

Our next contact with South African officialdom was not so hospitable. I hit a snag when I reported to immigration officials and tried to clarify the position of the Japanese. There are few Orientals in South Africa, most of them transients aboard ships, who never leave the ports. Upon learning that we _all_ planned to take a trip to Kruger National Park, the officials became disturbed and downright uncooperative. The Japanese were “urgently advised against” using public transportation; we were “strongly urged” not to travel as a mixed group. And, in any event, the Japanese could not leave Durban without permission. When I requested that permission, they said they would “take the matter under advisement” and that it would be necessary to “clear with Pretoria.” In the meantime Nick, Mickey, and Moto were restricted to the city.

A reporter got hold of the story and asked me about it. I pointed out that I had obtained, at a cost of £5 apiece, valid visas for these men and that no travel restrictions had been mentioned. I added that had I known of conditions here I would have entered at Portuguese Lourenço Marques and given Durban a miss altogether.

Since Durban is one of the largest holiday and resort centers in South Africa, this blast, delivered primarily to get a gripe off my chest, was given a big play in the papers. Just at this time the men received an invitation from the Japanese Ambassador to visit the Embassy in Pretoria. I was summoned back to the immigration office and told that a special pass would be issued (at the cost of an extra pound apiece) so that the Japanese could make a trip to Pretoria and Johannesburg, said trip to take no more than four days, including travel time. It was not until I got back to the boat that we discovered that the pass had been dated as of the day of issue and therefore the first day of the allotted time period had already elapsed. Since it takes twenty-six hours to get to Johannesburg—and an equally long time to return—it didn’t leave much time for visiting the Embassy or doing any sightseeing. Nevertheless, two of the three elected to go anyway. On their return they replied, briefly, to our questions, that they had had “a nice time,” whatever that means. They never elaborated except that once, many months later, Barbara asked Nick, “How did you like your trip to Johannesburg?”

Nick replied, “Terrible!” and that closed the conversation.

The situation for the three M’s throughout our stay in South Africa was anomalous in the extreme and the above is only a sample. The government itself seems confused as to who is who, and their definitions of racial categories do little to clarify the situation. The official definition of “European,” as stated in a government publication, is as follows:

“European” means a person who in appearance is, or who is generally accepted as a white person, but does not include a person who, although in appearance obviously a white person, is generally accepted as a coloured person. (A “coloured person,” under the same edict, is a person who is “neither European nor a Native.” “I guess that means us,” Jessica decided. “We’re American.”)

So confused is the terminology that one of our “European” acquaintances reacted with horror when I described a friend as a “native of New Zealand.”

“Oh,” she cried, “I didn’t think they allowed natives there!” To her—and to many in South Africa—“native” is synonymous with “black man”—nothing else. So accepted is this double talk that newspapers actually referred to a visiting diplomat from Ethiopia as a “foreign native”!

Japanese may be officially regarded as “European,” but the ruling meant nothing to the man on the street. Each waiter or box-office clerk, was forced to make his own decision, to serve or not to serve.

Early in their stay, before they had become so sensitive that they refused to go out by themselves at all, Nick, Mickey, and Moto were out seeing the town and decided to stop at a pub for some beer. They entered a “European” bar, but the bartender, albeit courteously, referred them to another place just around the corner.

“That’s where you boys belong,” he told them. “This is the European bar.”

Rather than argue their status, they went around the corner as directed. Here, too, the proprietor, an Indian, was most polite and helpful. “Just what _are_ you men?”

“We’re Japanese.”

“I see. Well, I’ll tell you—you go just around the corner—”

At this point Mickey leaned forward and said confidentially, “We don’t want European beer. We want _non_-European beer. We don’t _like_ Europeans!”

“You don’t!” the proprietor exclaimed, in pleased amazement. “Gentlemen, the drinks are on the house!”

Not only the barkeeper, but every patron in the establishment insisted on setting them up, until the three M’s had consumed all they could hold. They came back to the boat considerably cheered, so much so that Nick volunteered the story, which we would otherwise certainly never have heard.

The tension between “European” and “non-European” is by no means the only conflict in this unhappy country. There is a deep and ever-widening schism between the whites themselves, between those of British background and those descended from the early Boers. The latter speak Afrikaans, are fantastically conservative, and are doing everything they can to break all ties with the English. The few we met seemed to us to have a pathological sensitivity to criticism. On one occasion, in the course of a very enjoyable afternoon’s ride through the countryside, I saw a sign painted in Afrikaans beside the road: SKOOL. Beneath it was the same word in the second official language: SCHOOL. I made a joking reference to the first spelling, something like, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again!”—only to be blasted by an outburst from the lady in the party, who apparently came from an Afrikaner family. Her tirade included charges that foreigners always acted superior, were always looking for things to criticize, and didn’t do any better in their own country! There was much truth in what she said, so I made a shame-faced apology and took the lesson to heart. She, too, apologized, but her last remark was almost desperate in its intensity: “You just can’t understand the situation here!”

To me the most remarkable thing about the incident was the fact that such a trivial and relatively meaningless jest should have brought on such a disproportionate response. Tensions are great in South Africa and very little is required to bring them to the breaking point.

We ourselves were by no means immune. There was poison in the very atmosphere and doubts and dissensions began to work insidiously within our own group. Nick, Mickey, and Moto rarely left the boat, although they had many visitors, mainly from visiting Japanese ships. More and more they drew into themselves and there was a subtle atmosphere of brooding and dissatisfaction. Finally matters came to a head. Some small incident released the pressure and we had another “blowing off” session.

“Why you call us ‘boys’?” Moto, usually the peaceable one, demanded. “You think we are your servant!”

Shocked, we re-examined the term we had often used with reference to our companions as a group. We had always regarded Nick, Mickey, and Moto as a part of our extended family and just as we had referred to our two sons as “the boys” (and as I had often spoken of my wife and daughter collectively as “the girls”), so we had unconsciously stretched the terminology to include all the junior males of the _Phoenix_ family. It had seemed less pompous than referring to them as “the Japanese” and more accurate than “the crew”—since all of us were crew together. Now, however, we realized that in many countries “boy” is a peremptory form of address used by a white man toward a colored person of any age, from one to a hundred. By speaking to outsiders of “the boys,” we had obviously given the wrong impression to many.

Thereafter we made a real effort to change our habits and began to substitute the term “men”—although we felt that our relationship lost something of its warmth and intimacy in the process.

Fortunately for our crew relations—and for the reputation of the white man in South Africa—there were those who extended friendship and hospitality to our entire group. Outstanding among these was Lindsay Moller, a South African “European” whom we had met fleetingly two years before when he had been vacationing on the Kona coast of Hawaii. He had given me his card and told me to look him up when we got to Africa—an eventuality that had seemed highly remote and problematical at that time when my main concern had been the next hop, around to Hilo. Yet now, miraculously, we had arrived on the far side of the globe. I had kept Lindsay’s card—and I dropped him a note.

He came down promptly and took us all in hand. The Mollers were heaven-sent for our needs, for they had a long list of assets over and above their warm hearts: two daughters, Christine and Vicky, who bracketed Jessica in age and quickly adopted her for the duration of our stay; a town house, which was convenient; a farm 22 miles up in the hills, which provided, in addition to an ultramodern piggery for 2,700 pigs, a swimming pool, riding horses, miles of walking trails, and an unsurpassed view of the mountains. Lindsay drove up to the farm every weekend and always had room for any and all, for a day or for the week. During our two-month stay in Durban, all of us took him up at least once, and Jessica, once the Moller girls were out of school for the “long vac,” became a permanent resident at the farm.