Part 5

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.