Part 7

In spite of an active social life and my own commitment for a series of three articles about our trip, we managed to make time for a great deal of work on the boat. In addition to drydocking and doing a routine overhaul, we put in a number of improvements based on our hard-earned knowledge of what was needed most. With the proceeds from my articles, I was able to install a 12-volt electrical system, which only those who have returned, however briefly, to the onerous, overheated, and smelly age of kerosene can appreciate. Not only did this remove the necessity for reaching for one’s flashlight before trying to move about at night, but it made it possible for each of us to enjoy the infinite luxury of reading in our bunks. It was an improvement, too, from the standpoint of safety, for it became a simple matter to flick on masthead light or sidelights at the first sign of an approaching ship. I also installed a Navy surplus radiotelephone which, although we had no intention of using it routinely, was a comforting thing to have around.

Changes were made in the galley, too. Previously, Barbara had had to wire her pots to the stove—a tricky and sometimes dangerous maneuver in rough weather. Now we set up the stove in gimbals so it would always remain level—a sometimes fantastic sight at sea when it often appears as if the pots on the stove are the only things tilting and that liquid must remain in them by some kind of magic. We put in sink pumps for both fresh and salt water—the latter, as Moto described it, connecting us to “the biggest water tank in the world.” And we put in two more bilge pumps, one off the engine and one which went out to the turn of the bilge and also served to empty the sink. These changes, naturally, had the enthusiastic endorsement of the cook as well as of Ted, whose galley boy work was thereby considerably lightened.

Shortly after our arrival a Mr. Yotsuda from the northern island of Kauai, had flown over to welcome us. He was a brother of the Yotsuda-san in Japan who had built the _Phoenix_ and he had extracted a promise from us that we would visit a little “The Garden Isle” before we sailed for the South Seas.

By March Art Nelson, the local sailmaker, had completed the genoa jib I had ordered for the fair-weather trade-wind sailing we hopefully anticipated and, with all the rest of the work done, we felt we were in fair shape for sea. It seemed high time to keep our promise to Mr. Yotsuda and give the _Phoenix_ (and crew) a chance to try her wings again.

Early in March we set sail for Kauai, a hundred miles to the northwest. The trip, which we had hoped would be short, routine, and enjoyable, turned out to be otherwise. The channel was rough, the wind was fickle, we were soft—and it took three days. On the last evening a stiff breeze sprang up that threatened to pile us onto the unknown lee shores of Kauai. Ted and I had an uneasy time of it until we sighted land, but it was too late to go in, so, once again, we tacked back and forth all night. What with keeping an eye on the lights and rousing the men every couple of hours to come about, we got little sleep as we waited for daylight to arrive so that we could round the breakwater and enter the beautifully protected bay of Nawiliwili. Happily exhausted, we dropped the hook a few hundred feet from shore and crawled into our bunks.

Within five minutes we had visitors—the East Kauai Hiroshima Ken Association, led by Mr. Yotsuda, who had a full program lined up for us. Under his direction we turned on the engine and motored into the dock where a place of honor had been reserved. On shore, a caravan of cars was waiting and in no time we were on our way.

That day we saw all the points of natural beauty or historic interest on the east side of the island—and they are many. A full day ended with a formal banquet and many speeches.

It was after midnight before we were returned to the boat. At seven the next morning we were aroused by more visitors—this time, the _West_ Kauai Hiroshima Ken Association who did the honors for the other side of the island, including the banquet—and the speeches! If, that night, we were all a little sleepy, there was general agreement that it had been well worth it!

We also received an invitation from the Kauai Yacht Club, but because of club policy it was extended only to the haole members of our group. This gave rise to a situation we had discussed at some length: the probability that in the course of our world cruise we would run into discrimination. It was distressing, however, that it had arisen first in the friendly Hawaiian Islands—and particularly that it should be a yacht club which excluded certain yachtsmen on the basis of race.

The family’s first inclination was to decline but Nick, Mickey, and Moto were more realistic. As they pointed out, they had already received more invitations than they could accept, many of which did not include us. The most sensible course, they seemed to feel, was for all of us to take things as they came and enjoy whatever hospitality appealed to us. We accepted the invitation, therefore, and tried, by our attitude and conversation, to sow what seeds of tolerance we could.

While we were in Kauai, Mr. Yotsuda continued to consider himself our official host. “Did brother build you a good boat?” he asked, one day. “Is there anything you would like to change?”

I assured him that we were well satisfied with his brother’s work, but we would like to extend the stern sprit someday, in order to set up a permanent backstay for the mizzen. The next day Mr. Yotsuda appeared at dockside with his own tools and stayed until the job was done. Boatbuilding, it appears, runs in the family, and the _Phoenix_ had become a family affair.

After two pleasant weeks we headed back to Oahu and Honolulu. As it happened, the return trip was rougher, if possible, and took a day longer than the passage up. Our initiation into trade-wind island hopping had been unfortunate, and I could see signs of disillusionment and rebellion among the women—particularly when we had to spend two days within sight of Honolulu, beating our way in. It was a hard lesson in the vicissitudes of sailing upwind and I discovered that Barbara and Jessica had a tendency—regrettable in those who must depend on the wind—to chafe a bit when land was in sight.

We spent only a few days on Oahu, during which time we loaded aboard canned goods in case lots for an estimated six months. Then, bidding farewell to the many friends we had made, and with promises to return “in a few years,” we moved on to Maui. With us we took, as guest “hitchsailor,” Alan Pooley, the son of Wisconsin friends, who provided welcome companionship to Ted.

In Maui the Japanese community again took us to its heart but this time they had to compete with the hospitality of Al and Verity Collins, known throughout the cruising world as hosts to visiting yachtsmen. Did we want some laundry done? Bring it on up to the house and dump it in the machine. Hot baths? Come on over—any time! Shopping to do? Here’s Al, at the dockside with his car, ready to take you anywhere you want to go.

The climax of our stay on Maui was the two-day trip into Haleakala, the world’s largest extinct volcano crater. With us went our young guest, Alan, enjoying his last adventure before returning to the mainland, despite the minor inconvenience of a broken arm, obtained by falling down our forward hatch. (This was the first accident aboard and we sincerely hoped it would be the last.)

Our last memory of Lahaina is of the farewell party and hula show put on for us at dockside just before our departure. As we cast off the lines to the strains of “Little Brown Gal,” we suddenly noticed that Jessica was still sitting on the edge of the dock, her back to the _Phoenix_, so engrossed in the performance that she was quite unaware of our departure. Hastily I put the engine in reverse, Moto tossed a line to shore, and willing hands boosted her up over the stern sprit—together with three more cakes and another stalk of bananas in case we should get hungry on the overnight trip to the Big Island (Hawaii).

Sailing on down the Kona (leeward) coast of Big Island, we spent several days in Kealakekua Bay, where Captain Cook was killed. The bronze plaque which supposedly marks the place of his death was under a couple of feet of water, a short distance offshore. We could never have found it without the help of “Cap’n” Glass, a salty-looking old landlubber-turned-yachtsman. Even Cap’n Glass, however, could not tell us _how_ the marker had managed to end up in such an unusual spot. Water risen? Land sunk? We’d still like to know the details.

At Napoopoo we decided to make a further test of our new equipment by beating around South Point and up to Hilo, against both wind and current. I had good reason to believe that the trip would be rugged and some instinct made me suggest that the women go across the island by bus, a trip of only a few hours, to wait for the rest of us in Hilo. Barbara acquiesced with mixed emotions. In her diary she noted: “Deserted the _Phoenix_. It was a queer, rootless feeling to watch her moving out of the harbor far below us while we were driven along the upper road on our way to the station wagon-cum-bus.”

Four days later in Hilo, she noted in her diary: “Our _Phoenix_ was sighted this evening.... How wonderfully the Japanese grapevine works! Three members of the Hiroshima Ken Society were waiting at the dock when Earle and Ted rowed in to shore for the first time. Already we’re dated up for the Welcome Dinner plus a day of sightseeing around Hilo and another day touring the Volcano Area.”

We were exceptionally fortunate in visiting the Big Island during the 1955 volcanic eruptions, so that we had far more than the usual tourist excursion through Hawaii National Park. New cinder cones were being pushed up daily within easy driving distance of Hilo. In startling contrast to other countries, where volcanoes claim innumerable lives and force a mass exodus, Hawaii’s volcanic goddess, Pele, has a reputation for benevolence. One of the favorite expeditions, day or night, was to the scene of current activity. Tourists and locals alike, serenely confident, flock to watch and photograph her pyrotechnic displays or to scoop up—on a very long stick—souvenirs of molten lava.

I was absorbed, however, with preparations for our long hop to Tahiti, 2,200 miles to the south. The constant work and pressure took up so much time and energy that I almost resented the interruptions of volcanoes, hospitality, and the ubiquitous visitor with his often ludicrous questions. A couple of sailors from a naval ship wanted to know where we kept our gyrocompass—and they weren’t kidding. A Hawaiian housewife, too broad even to attempt getting down the main hatch, expressed incredulity and distress when she learned that Barbara had to get along without a washing machine. And a gang of modern teen-agers, far from envying Ted’s adventure, seemed rather to feel sorry for him because we didn’t have TV!

I was so preoccupied, in fact, that I was completely unaware of Barbara’s feelings or of the struggle she was having with herself as the date of our departure drew near. And not until several years later, after our trip had been successfully completed, did she allow me to read notations she had made in her diary at that time:

This whole period has been an emotionally confused one. Intellectually, I _know_ that no trip to come will be as bad as the hop from Japan, but like the rat who’s been shocked too many times, I have a deep-rooted dread of starting off again. A thousand times I’ve wanted to cry out, “I can’t go on with it—I just _can’t_!” Yet I know I must. I can’t be the one to let Earle down—and after the trip around from Kona, when the men batched it, and have taken every occasion to tell me how important I am to their well-being and how morale suffered when I was not along.

It’s supposed to be good to be wanted, but I feel only resentment. The few wonderful, relaxing days at the Y.W.C.A. were not enough and when we moved back to the _Phoenix_ it was with reluctance and a sense of being cheated. And yet, I wouldn’t have wanted her any more delayed, for the last day or two before they arrived was no pleasure because of my anxiety over the lack of communication.

If that trip showed the men that they needed my contribution, it also served to show me that as long as the _Phoenix_ continues on her voyage with Earle aboard, I have no choice but to string along. Watching and wondering is much the hardest part!

On May 26, 1955, with a high barometer but amid showers and overcast sky, the _Phoenix_ set out from Hilo on the long trip south. We felt much better equipped, both shipwise and personally, than we had been when we left Takamatsu exactly six months earlier, but I can personally vouch for it that Barbara was not the only one who had some private trepidation. One thing we were certain of, however: we could at least _expect_ better conditions than on the North Pacific trip.

It was our plan to make as much easting as possible in the early stages of the trip, so that at the southern end, when we reached the area of the southeast trades, we could make the port of Papeete, Tahiti, without undue effort.

For the first four days the weather, as well as myself, was uncertain. The pattern is shown in the log:

During night about a dozen mild squalls passed over, with or without clouds and rain. My sleep was governed by these visitors, as we had left the four lowers up, and I half expected something to carry away. Each time a squall passed, with no sound of smashing blocks or flapping canvas, and no call for help from the man at the tiller, I sank again into an uneasy sleep. But all held, and my lost sleep was wasted, for the night passed without incident and we made good time.

Our taffrail log was misbehaving, and I broke out the spare (which I had bought from a fellow yachtsman in Honolulu). For a while, we trailed them both—to port and starboard. The Big Log doggedly and steadily recorded that we were going 3 knots while the Little Log insisted that we were making 9. Making use of a Dutchman’s log, I determined that we were making about 5 knots, and Ted and I tried to work out the mathematics that would reconcile the two.

Also, we now had two sextants, as I had picked up an extra in a secondhand shop in the islands. It seemed to work fine—at least Ted and I, each shooting the sun at the same time with a different instrument, were able to get within five miles of each other, and this was quite good enough for us.

The weather, after its bad beginning, steadily improved until by the eighth day out it was perfect. Now, however, at about 10° North Latitude, we began to run out of wind. Each day it got a little lighter. My log asks one word, “Doldrums?”

The following day we ran the engine, on a course due south, for seven hours, to help us get into the southeast trades, and by the tenth day we picked up light but steady airs from the new direction. Slowly they increased, as we worked our way south.

Our radio listening was confined to five minutes a day—from a station in Los Angeles—at which time we caught a short roundup of the news and a time signal, to check our chronometer. That was all we wanted or needed. If anything of world-shattering importance happened, we knew it would be covered in that brief newscast. The rest could wait. My log says:

So far, this trip, compared with the N. Pacific crossing, has been a quiet afternoon’s sail on the Bay, complete with sunbathing, naps, reading, games, and drinks—not, unfortunately, cold. It’s full moon now and we stayed on deck late last night in a scene of fantastic beauty.

We had moved to better locations the last-minute miscellaneous items that had crammed the life raft on departure, and now we found the raft a perfect family playpen and a fine spot for astronomy lessons from Ted. We had time, too, for family games, such as Twenty Questions or Teapot, and for conversation, that forgotten art. Unconsciously we bridged the gap of years as we shared our reading and our thoughts and kicked ideas around. There was a new sense of relaxation. Hatches and portholes were left open day after day, and meals were often served on deck. Gradually we dared to believe that perhaps deep-sea cruising didn’t _have_ to be under conditions such as we had experienced on the Long Shakedown—given the proper latitudes and the right season of the year.

Mickey continued in good health and spirits and I began to hope that that problem, too, was a thing of the past. Occasionally, when it was the watch of one of the men, the others would join him to hold long conversations. Once the discussion became so vehement that I almost feared they would come to blows. Overcome with curiosity, I joined them in the cockpit and listened silently although I could catch nothing of the quick and colloquial man’s idiom.

They were discussing Japan, Nick explained then—whether their country’s future was a “dead end,” as one of them apparently maintained, or whether there was cause for optimism. Also, I gathered there was some divergence of opinion about the United States—or as much of it as they had seen so far. One was apparently outspoken in his enthusiasm, while the others remained noncommittal. These points of view were not identified and I could only hazard a guess on the basis of incomplete knowledge. In Japan, the inseparable comrades had been Nick and Moto, both inclined to be reserved and thoughtful. As Nick had once told me, “We are like brothers. I am sorry for Mickey. He is outside.” It seemed likely to me that the ebullient, quicksilver Mickey would have been the one to take immediately to the ease and glitter of American living, while Nick and Moto, more conservative, would tend to reserve judgment.

On the other hand, during our stay in Hawaii I had noted an increasing tendency for Mickey to replace Nick, as Moto’s friend and companion. Often the two younger men had gone off sightseeing together, while Nick remained on board alone to read, to write letters, or to listen to music. At the time we attached little importance to this and certainly, once we put to sea again, there seemed to be no real schism among the three who ate and chatted animatedly together in the cockpit or around the table in the main cabin.

Only a few incidents served to mark the passage of time. Trouble developed with the head of the topmast and one afternoon we struck it—in one hour and twenty minutes, which I thought not too bad for a first attempt at sea although, of course, we were working under favorable conditions. The iron cap at the head was completely off—faulty design on my part—and we started fixing it in a leisurely sort of way.

Another day we had our first experience of sea life on a large scale: a school of hundreds of dolphinlike creatures, which sent Jessica scurrying below for her Journal and reference books. We saw them first off the starboard beam, where they passed well forward of us and seemed to be passing on their way. Suddenly they turned en masse and headed directly for our boat. For two hours we were completely surrounded. How many there were we couldn’t determine, but they extended as far as the eye could see and we had a matchless opportunity for taking pictures and enjoying their graceful performance.

Through illustrations in Jessica’s Book of Knowledge, we identified them as blackfish, a small variety of whale. They ranged in length from 12 to 15 feet, had short snouts and round foreheads with a blowhole on top. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, expelling air with audible snorts as they surfaced, or slapping their heads on the water with a thwack before they went under again. Sometimes a platoon of three or four would curve out of the water in graceful precision, or dive in formation beneath the boat. Others seemed to make a game out of swimming back and forth just in front of the bobstay chain as it cut the water.

After more than two hours they slowly thinned out and moved on, but several times during the night the man at the tiller could recognize the distinctive _whumph_ of a straggler, surfacing and blowing just beside the boat.

Two days later, on June 10, at 150° 20′ West Longitude, we crossed the equator at about 2100 and were, for the first time in our lives, in the Southern Hemisphere.

Had our Equator Crossing Celebration. Menu included roast chicken, cranberry sauce, brown rice, spinach, olives, pumpernickel, chicken broth, hot tea, peaches, fresh-baked “Equator” cakes. Also, there were individual place cards, paper hats, and candy favors, courtesy of Jessica. A gala time indeed, which began with a splash when hot broth spilled in Nick’s lap. But no harm done, since we had plenty of broth.

As far as the operation of the boat was concerned, we were proceeding smoothly. We had finally settled our two immediate problems, the log—we now used the Small Log with a correction factor—and the topmast, which we had repaired and restepped. Now, for the first time, we carried our full canvas: main, mizzen, foresail, genoa jib, mizzen staysail, topsail, and top jib. I wished there were some way we could take a picture, as we had never seen ourselves fully decked out.

On this trip we trailed a fishing line but only occasionally did we catch an addition to the menu. Near the equator, however, the man on midnight watch pulled in a long, thin, toothed fish, which looked like nothing we had ever seen before. It definitely did not look edible. In the morning I hunted in vain through my book on Deep Sea Fishes. Suddenly Barbara had an inspiration.

“I’m sure I’ve seen a picture of that fish somewhere!” she insisted. She ran her eye along the titles of the books in our shelves and pulled out _Kon-Tiki_.