Part 4

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.