Part 21

When we wanted to pause in the middle of our hectic day for a cup of tea, we had to return to the _Phoenix_, as there is no public place in all of Cape Town where we could have sat down and been served together.

While we were relaxing and chatting over our tea, Mr. W—— (a white man) of the yacht club came aboard. We introduced him to our friends. Noticed that he did not shake hands with Mr. T——. Stayed only a moment and did not look directly at him as he made his farewells. Awkward. A pity, as Mr. W—— is a fine man and has been wonderfully kind to us. (He even took Nick, Mickey, and Moto to his club one Sunday to sail with him in an 18-footer event. This took a bit of courage; as he admitted later: “I didn’t know if I’d get away with it.” But apparently there is all the difference in the world between a visiting Japanese yachtsman and a resident African.)

I’ll be glad to leave South Africa, but some of the friends we have made I’ll carry always with me. The Maxwells, Mr. T——, the rest of their group—these people I will never forget. How fine they are in every way—and under what terrible pressures. I wonder how many of us would have the courage they have if we were put to the test as they have been—every day, every hour.

At last the final day dawned. Manuia, who had produced one small, black, and completely tailless kitten in Durban (Hobson’s Choice—or Hobby, by name), was already in the mood for trying again and had spent the night out. All day we watched anxiously for her return, but the hour of sailing drew near and there was still no sign of her.

“We _can’t_ go without Manuia!” Jessica protested tearfully.

I had spent the morning going through the red tape of clearing port, had handed in our exit visas to the immigration authorities, and had spent my last few South African coins on a few extra “sweets” for the trip. Besides, my ribs hurt and I thought Jessica’s tears were misplaced. Surely my condition justified a few of them!

“Manuia knew we were sailing today,” I pronounced. “Besides, that’s why you’ve got a Spare Cat.” That didn’t seem to comfort her.

I went below and started the engine.

“Okay—cast off!” Ted, in the cockpit, relayed the order to Mickey on the foredeck. We drifted slowly away from the dock, Barbara waving to friends ashore and Jessica still looking despairingly for a glimpse of the errant Manuia.

Suddenly we heard a hail. “Hold on!” Someone on the dock was waving a slip of paper. “Here’s a notice from the post office—a package is being held for you to clear it through customs!”

“Our Christmas package from Minnetta!” wailed Barbara. “It’s finally here. We’ve _got_ to go back!”

“Manuia!” Jessica called piteously. “Manuia! Please come back!”

At this moment Ted spoke up. “Skip, I don’t think the water’s coming out right.”

I looked at the engine exhaust. He was correct.

That settled it. Ribs, cat, package, engine—we had four valid reasons for postponing our departure. There was only one thing to do, and I did it.

“Get up the sails!” I directed.

The men got up foresail and mizzen and, with a fair wind, we sailed out of the harbor while I got to work on the balky engine. I knew that if we turned back we might _never_ get out of South Africa.

We set the course for St. Helena, an isolated dot, 1,700 miles out in the Atlantic, and by nightfall the beautiful, unhappy land at the tip of the African continent was fast falling astern.

13 ACROSS THE ATLANTIC THE LONG WAY: CAPE TOWN TO NEW YORK CITY

“Beautiful night, new moon, slow progress, who cares?”

For the rest of the day I was very unpopular with the female members of my crew, and that night Jessica cried herself to sleep with our last remaining cat, three-month-old Hobby, in her arms.

By the next morning, however, Barbara was able to record:

Feb. 9. Everyone in better spirits now that we have left S.A. and its creeping poisons behind.... The Japanese seem very friendly and willing again and I have a hunch that Cape Town was the low point as far as group morale was concerned. Brazil should be far better.

Our track lay close to the great-circle route between South Africa and New York, so that we were not in an empty part of the world as we had been in the North Pacific and the Indian Ocean. On this trip we saw several ships.

For the first week we worked our way through light variables, with generally fair weather, until we picked up the trades at about 25° South. For the rest of the trip the wind for the most part was almost dead aft, and we sailed with the main on one side and the foresail or genoa swung out on the other, wing and wing.

On the morning of February 23 we rounded the north end of St. Helena and dropped down to St. James Bay. As we approached, the wind became strong and gusty. Several mild squalls made maneuvering difficult, so we anchored well out, and moved in later after the wind had dropped.

By 1400 we had been cleared and were free to go ashore to look over our first Atlantic island. St. Helena is rugged and beautiful—not at all the “barren fortress rock” we had imagined. Perhaps our views had been shaped by our awareness of St. Helena’s chief claim to world fame, as the place of Napoleon’s last exile. Certainly it is remote enough, and we could understand how, to Napoleon and later prisoners, it might well seem like the end of the world.

On our first expedition to shore we had a few bad moments. A native boy in a largish dory came alongside and offered to row us in. Since we had not yet launched Dodo (our new ship’s boat from Mauritius) and the seas in the roadstead were too high for our Flatty to carry more than two, Barbara, Jessica and I accepted the offer. We had only gone a few hundred yards when our oarsman somehow lost one oar, and we began drifting rapidly out to sea. He attempted to scull with the other oar, but with little success. Fortunately Ted was on deck and, seeing our predicament, rowed out in Flatty, rescued the oar, and overtook us. If he hadn’t acted quickly, we would have had the alternatives of jumping out and swimming for it or of continuing our seaward drift, with no help to be expected from shore. The nearest leeward land was South America, 2,000 miles to the west, which would have been quite a trip without food, water, compass, or sail.

Jamestown, the only settlement on the island, is a clean and fascinating village huddled in the deep cleft between two rugged mountains. The streets are narrow, winding into the valley, with dignified houses of fieldstone painted a yellowish cream and fronting directly on the pavement. Loaded burros, with or without masters, wander through the village and sometimes (as we found out) stop to poke their noses into a conversation. The people—a mixture of European, East Indian, and African—are friendly, dignified, and self-confident. There is undoubtedly, as elsewhere, a certain degree of stratification and snobbishness, but it is refreshingly minor.

Sir James Harford, Governor of St. Helena, invited us to the Residency for tea, and later Lady Harford, learning that Barbara was planning to move into the local hotel for a few days in order to finish a book, invited both her and Jessica to Plantation House, where they could work in a “breakfast-in-bed” atmosphere—an invitation which the girls wasted no time in accepting. They returned with a completed book manuscript and countless anecdotes about the island.

Jessica described the ponderous antics of Jonathan, the 200-year-old giant tortoise from the Galápagos who makes his home in the Governor’s front yard and can cross it (all 250 feet) in 33 minutes when moving at top speed, as officially timed by Jessica.

And Barbara told of the near-disastrous visit of Prince Philip which had taken place only the month before. (So rare are the visitors to the Residency that we were the next guests to sign the book after the page that had been devoted to the single imposing signature: “Philip.”) It seems that the Prince and his party had created a minor crisis on arrival, for they had been conducting a beard-raising competition, and Philip, with “a face full of rather scruffy whiskers,” bore no resemblance to the official photos that hung in every island home. Thus many islanders did not realize they had actually seen him until he had passed, and a number of Girl Guides who had been waiting for hours broke into mass tears.

During our stay the fortnightly Castle Line ship called, and we saw an amazing transformation take place when 500 tourists were decanted for the day. Shops which had been locked and shuttered threw open their doors to display tables covered with beautiful lacework, weaving, basketry, and art. The streets were crowded. The visitors undoubtedly carried away the impression of a bustling port town where hundreds of people milled and bumped into one another day after day in a frenetic pursuit of souvenirs. Only we, who remained after the boat had gone and peace again descended on the somnolent village, knew the truth.

It was amazing how much there was to do on so small an island. For one thing, there were the 699 steps of “Jacob’s Ladder” to climb, a morning’s undertaking in itself. This almost perpendicular flight of steps mounts steeply from Jamestown to a cluster of houses on Signal Hill, saving a trip by road of several miles. We found the short cut to be literally breath-taking and made the grade only by pausing every hundredth step to “admire the view.”

We had planned, of course, to pay our respects to the most historic spot on the island: Longwood, the last home of Napoleon. Jessica’s lessons after leaving Cape Town had leaned heavily toward the Napoleonic era and, needless to say, what Jessica studied we all studied. Always our readings and discussions in the cockpit gained meaningful focus as we looked forward to seeing the places we were reading about. (Yet, over and over, we are asked, “But what did your children do for their education?”)

But when we were driven up into the hills to see the rambling house—painted a startling raspberry pink—the gate was locked. The French Consul, whom we were told to telephone, was most cordial, but we somehow failed to make connections, and we finally had to sail, reluctantly but on schedule, with the dubious distinction of being the only visitors who have spent more than a week on St. Helena without visiting Napoleon’s tomb.

On March 3 we departed for Ascension, 700 miles to the northwest. There had been rumors that because of the American missile installations being erected on this British island, we might not be allowed to land. However, with the cooperation of C. & W. contacts, we received a cable from the Resident Magistrate granting us permission to visit, but adding that “access to certain areas ashore, details of which will be advised upon arrival, is prohibited.”

Our passage was quiet—almost too quiet. It took eleven days, including two of flat calm right in the middle of the southeast trades. On several nights the sea was so quiet that the stars were clearly mirrored on its surface. My log says, “Beautiful night, new moon, slow progress, who cares?”

On the tenth night we sighted Ascension just off the port bow. We kept it in sight all night in the moonlight, and dropped anchor in the morning just off Georgetown. The roadstead was very rough, which we were told was the usual condition. Our trips to and from the land were made in the shore boat, with skilled local boatmen at the long sweeps. The passengers must have a certain degree of skill, too. Arrived at the landing steps, one must wait for the proper moment, then grasp a hanging rope and swing quickly to the shore. If you fail to connect, you are left either swimming or dangling, depending on just where you made your mistake.

C. & W. has for many years been the principal installation on the island, which has no indigenous population. Now, however, all is overshadowed by the busy and highly secret activities of the U.S. military. Although we were in Ascension for only three days, it was long enough to become aware of a certain amount of friction between the British and American factions, one reason for which lay in the fact that the American installations have a superfluity of luxuries while the British are obliged to live a rather austere life. For example, there was the matter of water.

The British were dependent upon rain for their water supply. Cement watersheds high in the hills trapped moisture deposited by the trade winds and carried the water to storage tanks which, at the time of our visit, were almost empty. British water consumption, therefore, was strictly rationed. For the Americans, however, there was a whole ocean full of water distilled in practically unlimited amounts at a cost, we were told, of some 10 cents per gallon to the American taxpayers.

We sailed on March 16 for Belém, Brazil, which we had given as our next mailing address. The family would have preferred to set a course directly for Barbados and so back to the States by the most expeditious route, but the detour was made for the sake of our Japanese crew members. They wanted to investigate the possibilities for emigrating to Brazil and had chosen Belém because there was a Japanese Consulate there, as well as a Japanese newspaper and more than 2,000 Japanese emigrants, and they had reason to expect a more cordial reception there than they had had in South Africa.

Our course was laid to pass south of Fernando de Noronha and around the bulge of South America. The breeze continued light and fluky, although the weather was fine. On the fourteenth day a series of squalls hit. The first, which was the heaviest, caught us with the genoa up and ripped it thoroughly. Fortunately, we had enough spare canvas to replace the ruined panel, but Moto—who had quietly taken over most of the sail repair chores—had to settle down to a three-day sewing job.

As we closed the coast the weather grew more and more uncertain, with frequent showers and many wind shifts. We had done much reading en route, in an effort to learn something about the conditions we might expect, but could find nothing to indicate that any other yachts had ever called at Belém, 70 miles up the Pará, a branch of the Amazon. However, Frank Wightman of _Wylo_ had been aboard in Cape Town, and had mentioned Fortaleza, about 600 miles east of Belém. According to him, the port was easy of access, so we decided to put in there first, in the hope of getting some of the information—and the hospitality—that the Japanese were looking for.

On March 31 we sighted our first land and two hours later we spoke a sailing schooner out of Alagoas, heading down the coast. In our best Portuguese (culled word by word from a dictionary and strung together in what we hoped was the proper order) we asked, “Onde está Fortaleza?” and were loudly reassured by gestures and unanimous voice vote that we were on the right track. By afternoon we could see the breakwater and the city beyond.

Having no harbor chart, we entered carefully, just at dusk, and dropped anchor off the main part of town. Soon we were sitting on deck, eating a hot dinner and admiring the view of a new continent. Fortaleza, as seen from the harbor, is a clean-looking city with a few large white buildings and many modern-appearing homes with colored roofs. The bay was full of sailing craft, most of them of the jangada type—a raft of balsa logs with a mast and a sail, so that the boatmen sail standing up and often have water swishing around their knees. One by one, as night fell, the fishing boats sailed right up to the beach and were pulled beyond the tide line, where they lay with their sails still up, like a flotilla of stranded butterflies.

Morning came and still no one paid any attention to us. Finally, becoming a touch impatient, we upped anchor and made our way to the corner of the harbor where the breakwater joins the land and where the greatest activity seemed to be concentrated. Again we anchored and waited, flying our Q-flag and a skillful facsimile of the Brazilian ensign which Nick had painted on white cloth, its design and colors being too complicated for the materials and ingenuity of the girls. Still nothing happened. At noon I rowed ashore, only to be motioned by the officer on the dock to go back on board.

Shortly thereafter an official boarded us: the port doctor, who spoke practically no English, but chattered along most sociably in Portuguese. He showed us pictures of his house (Spanish type) and of his six children (Brazilian type), and managed to convey that there was no American or Japanese Consulate here, and no Japanese emigrants. He was not in the least interested in our expensive and hard-gotten papers and health certificates, but he inquired, by gestures, if we happened to have a few spare cigarettes. We did, and were duly cleared.

Later, from a German national working in Fortaleza, we learned the reason for the long delay in acknowledging our presence. Since our arrival we had been under constant surveillance. To the Fortalezan mind there could be only one reason for a foreign yacht to enter this port: smuggling. They had held off boarding us in order to see what moves we would make, and who would try illegally to contact us. Throughout the night they had been watching us, until finally they had concluded not that we were innocent of smuggling but that we were too smart to try it in _their_ port!

We spent four days in Fortaleza. It was a unique place. In Brazil more than in any other country we ran into communication difficulties, for practically no one spoke English. Not shopkeepers, nor police, nor bus drivers. We were forced to make sign language go a long way and had quite a time locating essential supplies. Because of a severe drought in the islands of the South Atlantic we had been unable to lay in fresh supplies and had arrived in Fortaleza completely out of many of the basic comestibles upon which the cook depended: onions, potatoes, eggs, cheese. Worst of all, we had less than a cupful of rice aboard. Through the help of English-speaking clerks at Brooks Bros. we were able to obtain some of these items.

From our anchorage it was a five-mile bus ride to the center of town, the road curving along the shore of the bay or through narrow streets a block or two inland. The city, which had looked so clean and modern from our first anchorage, turned out to be a strange combination of squalor and a rather down-at-the-heels magnificence. The bus stopped frequently to allow herds of goats to move to one side or the other of the road or waited while passengers who were about to get on or off bade lingering farewells to the friends they were leaving behind.

Fortaleza, though interesting, was no substitute for Belém, as far as Nick, Mickey, and Moto were concerned. Instead of 2,000 Japanese emigrants, there was only one family of Japanese ancestry—and they couldn’t speak Japanese! As to conditions in Belém, and the practical problem of taking a yacht up the Pará River, we could learn little. We did find out that there was a pilot station at Salinas, just east of the mouth of the Pará, and that because of shoals and unpredictable currents all ships were required to stop there to pick up a pilot. Whether this regulation included yachts, no one knew. What the charges might be, no one knew. What the river was like, no one knew. There was only one way to find out, and that was to go and see.

We moved on up the coast, staying well offshore. On the sixth day we edged back toward land, and the following evening identified Japerica Island. That night we could see Salinas Light faintly off the port bow. We sailed cautiously and sounded at intervals, getting between 8 and 11 fathoms at a distance of some 10 to 15 miles offshore. The area is cluttered with shoals and banks and there is little comfort to be derived from the chart, which says, “This chart cannot be regarded as trustworthy. The buoys cannot be depended upon.”

Next morning we dropped anchor in six fathoms, about five miles offshore. Many jangada were flitting about and we hailed one. After a session in sign language, Ted and I were taken aboard for a trip to the beach. We made a wet landing in the surf and then walked the mile or so to the small village where the pilot station is located. Here we were lucky enough to find an English-speaking pilot, so that my soaked and pulpy phrase book was not needed.

He strongly advised us to remain at anchor, rather than attempt the Pará without a strong engine, and assured me that our delegation to Belém could travel the ninety miles overland “by bus.” He himself was scheduled to leave for Belém at once as pilot on the freighter now waiting well offshore, but he would drop us at the _Phoenix_ on his way out and leave orders for the pilot boat to come out in the morning to pick up those who wanted to take the bus. It seemed a very sound plan.

Ted and I returned to the _Phoenix_ and called a conference. Nick, Mickey, and Moto, of course, would form the core of the overland expedition to Belém. That meant that Ted and I must both remain aboard, as I had no intention of leaving my ship in such an uneasy anchorage without two able-bodied men to sail out in case of need. This made it necessary for Barbara to head the expedition to Belém, so that she could pick up our mail, cash some travelers’ checks, and lay in the necessary provisions for our next hop, to the West Indies. Jessica, anxiously expecting stacks of birthday mail, elected to go, too.

Well before dawn the next morning the pilot boat came alongside, signaling its arrival with a chorus of frantic shouts in Portuguese, followed by a solid crash which left deep gouges in our rubbing strake. The pilot boat was entirely devoid of fenders or mats and the sea was, to put it mildly, rough. While they maneuvered to stay alongside in darkness and drizzle, we somehow accomplished the tricky transfer of our five travelers and their duffel. Ted and I watched them go and then settled down for an indefinite period at an anchorage which was, without any close competition, the worst we had ever been in.