Part 17

The seas and wind were down considerably, but this is a relative statement as they were still very high. With a constant drizzle, visibility was poor and there was no chance to get our position. I estimated that we were about 35 miles southeast of the islands, but that could be only the merest guess.

During the next day the skies began to clear, with the wind still strong and gusty. We could now be sure that the worst was really over and began to check our damage. It was not too bad: four or five clips had pulled loose from the foresail; the main downhaul block was broken at the end of the gaff; the mainsail had chafed through in one spot where ironwork had rubbed against the furled sail. Otherwise we were in good shape.

That afternoon the mizzen flag halyard, which had worked loose and had been flying straight out and beyond our reach for the past two days, at last allowed itself to be captured from the deck. I took this as a sign that we were ready to carry on, so we set sail again to the northwest under mizzen and foresail. In a couple of hours we had the main repaired and ready for action.

Now our problem was to find the islands. The next day we were able to get a hasty sun shot. Barbara took the tiller while Ted and I went below to plot it. Suddenly she let out a whoop.

“Land ho!”

“Where?”

“Off the port bow!”

“Right where it’s supposed to be!” said Ted, with satisfaction.

We felt a tremendous sense of triumph after four days of storm and aimless drifting—to have been able to find our low island after all, almost by dead reckoning alone.

As we approached it, however, we began to have doubts. It was too small. And where were the other islands of the group, some twenty or so, which encircled a reef-enclosed lagoon?

Moto went up the mast and came down to report no other islands visible.

Ted, unwilling to take another’s word, went up next, with binoculars, and reported that he _thought_ he could see other islands beyond this one.

Nick went up last and announced, in his positive and dogmatic way, that there was no other island. By this time we were close enough to make further debate unnecessary. What we had picked up was North Keeling, an isolated, seldom-seen island 15 miles from our destination.

At least we knew where we were, which was a great relief, but we also knew we had one more night at sea with a very hard beat ahead of us, for the main group of islands was dead upwind.

That night Barbara challenged Jessica to a game of cribbage, but both of them were rather subdued and in the midst of the game Jessica began to drip quiet tears and soon decided to crawl into her bunk “to keep Manuia warm.”

Ted and I were up most of the night, trying to plot a course that would keep us within a day’s sail of the islands without getting too close to the reef in the dark. The only navigational light mentioned on Keeling-Cocos is a “sometime thing” hung in a palm tree, so there was no question of coming in close and standing off and on as we had done on other occasions.

All night, with passing squalls and a high and confused sea, we worked our way south, but by daylight there was no land in sight. As soon as we could we got a sun shot, hasty and unsatisfactory though it was, and estimated our position as being south of the main group. We turned north.

At 0800 I sent Mickey up the mast, giving a specific order this time instead of asking for a volunteer. It was a very tough job and the first time he had ever done it, but the rest of us had taken our turns and I felt that, for the good of the ship, he must not shirk the assignment. He came down, looking green—reported nothing in sight.

I frankly didn’t know where we were, in spite of having had a good departure from North Keeling the day before. I decided to look for the islands one more day and then, unless the weather cleared so we could get a definitive position, to stop flirting with the low reefs of Cocos and carry on for the high island of Rodrigues.

It would not, I knew, be a popular decision.

However, by 1100 the welcome sight of palm trees shimmered dead ahead and during the afternoon, with the weather improving rapidly, we gradually closed the islands and rounded to the north entrance.

Never did water look so calm and clear and _blue_! Never did a beach gleam so white and welcoming! We were eleven days, a thousand miles of sailing, and one humdinger of a storm out of Java and very, very happy to be here.

11 ACROSS THE INDIAN OCEAN: COCOS TO DURBAN

“You have seen people of all sorts. Makes my mouth water....”

The Keeling-Cocos Islands are the perfect model of a South Seas atoll. About twenty small, low-lying islets, of coral and sand topped with palm trees, form an oval about a lagoon of some 5 by 10 miles. Only three of the islands are inhabited: Direction Island, off which we had dropped anchor, which exists solely for the purpose of operating the British Cable and Wireless establishment; West Island, five miles away across the lagoon, where a colony of some 200 Australians maintains the Qantas airstrip and meteorological station; and Home Island, where some 500 natives live under the benign but feudal patronage of the Clunies-Ross family, hereditary owners of all the Keeling-Cocos Islands since the days of Queen Victoria.

During our ten days’ stay we were to learn more of the rather intricate relationships and frictions between these three groups. At the moment, however, we were just happy to have arrived.

On shore we could see a bustle of activity. Figures dashed here and there, into buildings and out again, but nothing constructive seemed to happen. At last a small native boat was launched and started out under sail, bringing Chris Bartlett, manager of C. & W., some half dozen of his group, and a couple of native boatmen.

As we helped him over the side, Mr. Bartlett’s first words were “Well, how did you like the cyclone?”

This was the first time the word had been spoken aloud. I had secretly _thought_ that this storm bore all the earmarks of a typical Indian Ocean cyclone but had pushed the idea aside, because of course they just didn’t occur at this season!

Jessica’s eyes grew round. “Was it really a cyclone?” she breathed.

“It certainly was!” Mr. Bartlett assured her. He handed us a copy of a cablegram he had received from Perth, Australia:

28/8/56. HEREWITH CYCLONE WARNING AREA AFFECTED LATITUDE 10 AND 25 LONGITUDE 90 AND 105 CENTRE BELOW 985 MILLIBARS MOVEMENT INDEFINITE FORCE 10 TO 12 WINDS WITHIN 70 MILES

Jessica eagerly took the cable and rushed below to record the momentous fact in her Journal. Later, at the weather station, we were given more detail. Except for one other ship, on the edge of the disturbance, West Island and the _Phoenix_ had been the only ones in a position to report the out-of-season cyclone. Several hundred miles to the south the freighter _Hollywood_ had reported rough seas, confused swell, and a barometer of 1003. Mr. Lardi, meteorologist at Qantas, showed us all their records and was delighted when I turned over the data from my log so that he could round out the picture. The eye of the cyclone had passed between the _Phoenix_ and the islands, coming down out of the northeast. At the height of the storm, the Qantas rain gauge measured seven inches in 75 minutes, and the barometer dropped to 988 millibars. Peak winds were over 70 knots, or almost 80 miles an hour.

Barely within cyclone range but, as Jessica pointed out, “It was a _real_ cyclone, even if it was a little one—just the way even a _baby_ dragon would be a real dragon!” Even with my dull adult mind I was able to follow her logic.

Locally, damage had been considerable. All the powerboats in the lagoon had been sunk or put out of commission—an embarrassing circumstance for the Air and Sea Rescue Service. Both power and water had failed on West Island; a number of houses were damaged, and several score palm trees were blown down or decapitated. The roof of the passenger terminal at the airstrip had been blown away. The schoolhouse was completely demolished, the walls knocked down, and even the books blown away. Only the blackboard had been left unharmed but this, as the schoolmaster put it, had been “well and truly washed.” There were no serious injuries.

The Keeling-Cocos have one distinction which will always stand out in our minds: never have so many parties been given so often by so few. Any occasion, it seemed, was sufficient reason for a whingding: the 21st birthday of one of the C. & W. “Exiles,” the arrival of a yacht, the miracle of having survived a cyclone—or “just because it’s Thursday, you know.”

Parties to welcome visiting yachts are rather rare, to judge from the visitors’ book in the C. & W. office. I counted only five yachts, from 1952 until the arrival of the _Phoenix_ in 1956.

Supply ships, we were told, came almost as rarely and the Cable and Wireless people, who must order everything out of Singapore, have to provision almost as far in advance as we of the _Phoenix_. Qantas employees, on the other hand, were receiving fresh fruits and vegetables and frozen meats by air twice a month, which made for a certain amount of envy on the part of the Exiles, who had to “make do with tinned goods.”

On the other hand, the Australians on West Island were envious of the luxurious standard of living enjoyed by C. & W., who could import Malay help from the Straits Settlements, a privilege Qantas did not accord to its employees, in conformity with the “whites only” policy of Australia. Furthermore, both groups felt a certain resentment against the benevolent dictatorship of John Clunies-Ross, from whom both Direction and West Islands were leased, because he would allow none of his natives to work for, or even to visit, the installations from which he derived profit.

It was also forbidden to set foot on Home Island, except by express invitation, which was rarely forthcoming. In the case of the Australians, in the wake of some unspecified incident, such an invitation was categorically denied. There was, however, some social interchange between Clunies-Ross and the C. & W. personnel, another cause for complaint.

As visitors, we were sought after by all three camps and exposed to all three points of view. We were careful not to take sides, but it did seem to us pitiful that, in such a remote and potentially peaceful paradise as Cocos, it was not possible to escape the discord and the rivalries of the outside world.

John Clunies-Ross and his wife were in England at the time of our visit, but we spent a most interesting day on Home Island at the invitation of the Keegans, caretakers and baby-sitters-in-residence to two-year-old Linda, the crown princess of the Cocos.

The natives of Home Island, so far as we could tell from a superficial visit, were happy, healthy, and content, although they are entirely dependent upon the Clunies-Ross family for employment and subsistence. All necessities are provided, so that their nominal wages for working in the coconut plantations are needed only for such individual luxuries as may be desired from the local store. The predominant religion is Muslim and no attempt has been made to convert them. On the contrary, they took great pride in showing us a newly completed mosque, simple but attractive, which had been built to supplement an earlier one. All of the houses were well built and in good repair, but the older buildings are gradually being replaced with modern units with concrete floors and fluorescent lighting.

Little “Princess” Linda accompanied us on our tour in her royal carriage (pram, that is), standing up and waving in semi-regal fashion to her subjects. Crowds followed us wherever we went, whether out of devotion to their blonde, blue-eyed princess or out of curiosity over the presence of a strange family, it was hard to say. Certainly, they seemed genuinely happy and if, as we were told, they are being “ruthlessly exploited,” they don’t seem to be aware of it.

Before our departure from Direction Island, and in honor of the American and Japanese visitors, an event was scheduled which will forever stand out in my memory: a baseball game, pitting the Exiles of C. & W. against the Outcasts of Qantas. Naturally, it took place on the cricket field and, as a special honor and because none of our hosts knew the rules, I was appointed umpire.

The players, once the game had been explained to them (“Rather like rounders, wouldn’t you say?”), took it very seriously indeed, but added a certain exotic element that I never could have imagined. Pitchers were changed every inning and, under the influence of cricket, threw overhand with a stiff arm. Runners slid into _every_ base, regardless. And not a single decision of the umpire was questioned—although many of them, under the circumstances, were questionable.

Between the sixth and seventh innings a break was called and players and spectators knocked off for a cup of tea. I happened to make a comment about the polite restraint of the gallery, comparing it to the more typical behavior of a baseball crowd at Yankee Stadium. In the midst of the next inning there floated out over the field in the sweet voice of Mrs. Bartlett, one single, gentle recommendation: “Please kill the umpire!”

The game lasted the full nine innings and the score, for the record, was: Exiles, 22—Outcasts, 14.

We sailed on September 9, with regrets as always, but this time with the guarantee of further friendships to come, for we had entered into the magic network of the far-flung Cable and Wireless system. Henceforth, we would be passed along from one island outpost to another, introduced in advance by the cable grapevine.

As if to make up for our unseasonable cyclone, the elements combined, on the passage to Rodrigues, to give us some of the finest sailing we have ever had. With a following wind and under full lowers, the _Phoenix_ racked up the best record of her trip to date—2,023 miles in 13½ days, or better than 6 knots all the way.

There was little to record in the log other than good weather, good progress, and good times. From my bunk, where I had leisure to spend many lazy hours, I could catch scraps of Ted’s stories drifting down through the afterhatch, as he kept himself entertained on watch by amusing Jessica.

“Once there was a small kingdom—” such a story would frequently begin.

“Oh, goodie!” says Jessica, settling herself comfortably. “I _love_ small kingdoms!”

“—with a _very_ small king,” Ted continues. “About two days old, in fact.” And he’s off.

On another occasion, I made record of a typical exchange:

Ted: “—a lady of stupendiferous bearing—”

Jessica: “_What_ bearing?”

Ted: “North by west.”

On the afternoon of September 22 we sighted the peaks of Rodrigues just off the port bow. By 1750 we were at the port of Mathurin, but still outside the reefs. A launch, loaded with officials, local residents, and boatmen came out to meet us. They undertook to pilot us through the intricate channel—and promptly dumped us on a reef. For the next half hour, in the growing dark, there was a certain amount of confusion, with mingled orders and oaths in English, French, Japanese, and various Creole dialects. Finally we worked clear and were secured in mid-channel by divers, who personally went down to set our anchor firmly in the coral.

No harm was done to the boat, aside from a small rubbed spot at the turn of the starboard bilge. There was also a small rubbed spot in the temper of the Skipper, but after I had pouted a bit, we ushered our guests below and exchanged introductions. Entry formalities were quickly cleared away by Christian Belcourt, medical officer, and Claude Rouchecouste, chief magistrate. Before we knew it, all seven of the _Phoenix_ crew were in the launch, along with the reception committee, and heading in to shore for baths, drinks, and dinner with M. and Mme. Rouchecouste. (_Monsieur_ because, although Rodrigues belongs to the British Crown Colony of Mauritius, it is predominantly French in language and culture.)

On the way in we passed the only navigational light of Rodrigues—a one-candlepower beacon marking the edge of the inner reef. We knew it was one candlepower, because we could see the candle itself, flickering fitfully behind its glass shade. As Ted summed it up, “If you can see this light, you’re too darn close!”

Now began ten of the pleasantest days we have ever spent anywhere. As on Keeling-Cocos all invitations and activities included all of us. The veranda of the magistrate’s large house near the landing was the unofficial clubhouse where we were made to feel at home and where good conversation, cold drinks, and numerous newspapers and magazines—both French and English—were always available. In the course of many convivial afternoons and evenings, we began to feel that, through the interest of our hosts of Rodrigues, we were learning more about our Japanese companions, their backgrounds and their impressions, than we had ever been able to elicit during the two years of our relationship.

Rodrigues itself is an island of unusual attractions, not the least of which is its inaccessibility. There are only two practicable ways to reach it: you can go on the supply boat from Mauritius, which makes the trip three or four times a year and stays about three days, or you may visit the island on a private yacht.

Although the island is only 42 square miles in area, it is densely populated. Most of the 16,000 people are of African or Malagasy racial stock, many are descended from slaves brought in from Mauritius by the French, while others trace their ancestral lines back to Breton or Scottish families.

Mauritius is the hub of their universe and the supply ship, also named _Mauritius_, is the connecting link. “Have you ever visited Mauritius?” Barbara asked one of the teachers in the Port Mathurin school.

“Oh, yes!” she answered eagerly. “We go on board every time it comes!”

There are no newspapers on Rodrigues, no telephones, no radio stations, no banks, no movies; there is no airport or commercial shipping, no harbor, no railway, no buses, and no taxis. There were, however, five horses (“three cobs and two mules”), a number of bicycles, and two jeeps. The jeeps, one of which belongs to the magistrate and the other to the Catholic priests, are recent acquisitions and have already accounted for one traffic fatality. Within the first week a cyclist tried to go _between_ the headlights of an oncoming jeep, in the mistaken impression that they were the lights of two bicycles. By the way of instilling caution and avoiding further accidents, there is now a large, hand-lettered sign over the gate that leads from the schoolyard onto the road. STOP! LOOK! LISTEN! JEEP!

Each night we had dinner at a different house, but always with a nucleus of the same group: the magistrate and his wife, the two doctors, the meteorologist, and various members of the Cable and Wireless installation on Rodrigues.

As they came to know us better, the Rouchecoustes in particular became more frank in their eagerness to learn all they could about America and Japan while Exhibits A and B were available. M. Rouchecouste confided that, although he had studied for several years in Europe, we were the first Americans, as well as the first Japanese, that he had ever met—and the first of either, to his knowledge, ever to visit Rodrigues.

“Tell me, Madame Reynolds,” he asked, “would you say you were a typical American woman?”

Barbara, obviously nonplused, looked helplessly at me.

I came to her rescue. “I should imagine,” I stated judicially, “that she’s certainly the typical American woman who goes around the world on a Japanese-built yacht.”

This response seemed to be entirely satisfactory.

By contrast with our first week on Rodrigues, which was peaceful and relaxed, the last three days gave us a taste of the furor that surrounds the rare visits of M.V. _Mauritius_. The sleepy town of Port Mathurin woke up. From all over the island, people converged on the town. Boats from villages along the shore began to arrive, piled high with produce and livestock. Impromptu pens were knocked together and the waterfront was transformed into a squealing, bleating, and cackling open-air market where traders, who came over from Mauritius on the boat, could wander up and down to inspect and bid on the available stock.

The day the boat arrived was given over to landing the cargo, including two mares to swell the equine population. Letters and packages were distributed in a daylong ceremony of mail call from the porch of the administration building.

The second day saw hundreds of empty oil drums ferried out, to be refilled and brought back on the next trip. The produce of the island, principally garlic and dried octopus, was sent aboard in a never-ending procession of lighters that were towed out through the channel in strings of three or four to deliver their cargo and then return, under sail, at their own convenience.

On the final day, with a proficiency obviously developed from much practice, the animals were loaded. The cows, lassoed expertly and forced onto their sides by the seemingly painful expedient of twisting their tails up between their legs, were trussed up by their four feet and loaded upside down into the open boats. Eight or ten were carried at a time, rolling their eyes in patient misery until they had been hoisted aboard the _Mauritius_ by crane and released into the hold.

The goats were all driven out to the end of the dock, their retreat was blocked off with movable barricades, and then they were relentlessly herded off the edge into the waiting lighters, some of the recalcitrant ones being tossed in by a couple of legs. Arrived at the ship, a huge wicker basket was lowered by crane, ten to twenty goats at a time were tumbled in and lifted aboard to be dumped into deck pens.

Last of all went the pigs—and the passengers. The pigs, “who always get seasick,” according to the captain, were stacked on deck in the same kind of tubular wicker container we had seen in Bali—with a snout protruding from one end and a tail from the other. For the sake of the passengers, we hoped their bloodcurdling shrieks and squeals as they were rolled down to the boats would eventually diminish.

We sailed a few hours before the _Mauritius_, knowing she would pass us, probably during the first night, and would be waiting when we reached Port Louis. The only unusual circumstance of our departure was our decision, on the advice of the pilot, to slip our hawser rather than risk maneuvering among the reefs while attempting to get it aboard.

“We’ll take it out to the supply ship,” he assured us, “and you can get it from them in Mauritius.”

The trip to Mauritius, 400 miles to the west, was routine and we made an easy entrance into the inner harbor of Port Louis at 1000 on October 5. By 1130 we had been cleared by the harbor office, doctor, and immigration officer and were free to explore the homeland of the now extinct dodo.

Our first impression of Port Louis, even before going ashore, was of a harbor more bustling and colorful than any we had yet visited. Work began early in the morning and lasted, with much attendant shouting and seeming confusion, until late at night. A procession of Indians in brief loincloths, coifed like Egyptians of ancient tomb paintings, marched back and forth like industrious ants between the docks and a never-ending succession of barges. The coif arrangement was formed by heavy material wound turbanwise around the head and hanging down the back in a thick pad, making it possible to distribute the immense weight of their loads evenly between head and shoulders.