Part 2

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.