Part 6

Once we had crossed the date line and entered the Western Hemisphere—the family’s part of the world—we felt that we were on the downhill run. The morale of the ship’s company was high, where before we had been a bit subdued and introspective, going around, as it were, with our mental fingers crossed. Now, although we knew we still had a long way to go, we felt that we had a pretty good example of what the Pacific had to offer at this season and, although we did not much care for it, we had gained confidence in our ship and in ourselves. These days we sailed through weather that would have made us heave to earlier. This was not through bravado, but because we now knew that it was safe to do so. Thus, our average day’s run became encouragingly longer.

On December 5, at 163° West Longitude, we passed below the 30th parallel and began to drop down on the Hawaiian Islands. On the chart we had marked what we called “Position X,” a point about 60 miles north of the island of Molokai, and for this we headed. Our plan was to round up gradually on this point and then head directly south. Particularly, we would be careful not to get too far west, which would put us downwind of the islands.

Shortly after crossing the date line we had begun to pick up United States radio stations, though we listened to them mainly to get news and check our chronometer with a time signal. Now, as we neared our destination, the Honolulu stations began to come in more and more clearly. On December 8, while I was listening with earphones to the tag end of the 1800 newscast, I heard the announcer say: “The Honolulu Coast Guard says, ‘No word yet from the missing yacht _Phoenix_.’”

This bulletin came as a complete surprise to all of us. In fact, my shipmates seemed inclined to believe at first that I was trying to pull their collective leg. It seemed unlikely that anyone would be interested in our arrival—certainly not to the extent of broadcasting our _non_arrival. We speculated endlessly. “No word yet—” What word? Why _should_ there be any word? How could they expect us to report when we had no means of communication and had seen no ships for the past month? Most important of all, we weren’t even overdue. The 45-day estimate I had given the U.S. Navy and the Japanese Coast Guard before we left Takamatsu had not yet elapsed, so it was too early for alarm. What did it all mean?

We had to wait three more days before we found out.

We were heading almost due south now, pushed on by a steady, brisk breeze out of the northeast. As far as this passage was concerned, we went directly out of the westerlies into the northeast trades, and we had no need of the extra drum of engine fuel we had brought along to get us through the notorious variables and calms of the horse latitudes.

We could easily tell we were getting south, even without the obvious evidence of sun and compass. Gradually we peeled off the woolens, long johns, and parkas we had worn during most of the trip. The girls began to come up on deck for sun baths, everyone went about in bare feet, and Mickey, once more standing his regular watch, began to sing his Coconut Song again.

Even the sea around us seemed to come to life. On December 7 we caught a glimpse of a large marine animal, the first we had seen on the trip, although birds had been with us most of the way. The next day something—maybe this same creature—bit off our trailing taffrail log, which had been turning faithfully for weeks. Fortunately, we had three spares. That same day our first flying fish landed aboard, to be pounced upon promptly by Mi-ke. (Although on later trips we frequently trolled a line aft, on this passage we did no fishing, having quite enough to do to handle our ship.)

On December 10 we reached Position X, according to our calculations, and set our course due south. If Ted’s navigation was correct, we should raise Molokai sometime that day. None of us voiced either confidence or doubt, but we all spent a great deal of time on deck and there was nothing casual in the way we searched the horizon.

At 1445 we saw a long, low cloud ahead on the horizon. At first no one dared call attention to it, but when it did not change shape or melt away but grew, instead, larger and more distinct, someone at last found the temerity to voice the fact: “Land ho!”

There was no doubt about it now. As we drew closer we could discern the jagged white line of a waterfall marking a dark cliff, and later still a pencil-thin structure, obviously man-made, standing out against the somber background. A quick check of our light list identified it as the Molokai Lighthouse. Almost simultaneously, as the navigator let out a triumphant shout, the light began to flash in the early dusk. We jibed to the west, to run along the coast, and set a course for Makapuu Light, the gateway to Honolulu.

By midnight we had closed in on Makapuu Light, passed through the Molokai Channel, and were lying off Diamond Head in full view of the lights, the beautiful lights, of Honolulu. Throughout the day small boat warnings had been broadcast repeatedly, but to us, sailing in the lee of Oahu after seven weeks on the open Pacific, the seas seemed as gentle as a millpond. We had no desire to attempt the harbor entrance in the darkness, so for the rest of the night we tacked, just offshore, from Diamond Head to Pearl Harbor and back again.

Throughout the night Nick, Mickey, and Moto came up to take their watch whenever they were called, but neither the sight of land nor the lure of the unknown seemed to stir their Oriental calm. Smiling at us gently, each one finished his job, took a casual look around, and went below to sleep out the remainder of the night.

But for the family there was no desire to sleep. A full moon lighted a path across the water; dramatic mountain silhouettes loomed darkly behind the fairy-land lights of a thousand human habitations; and a heady, never-before noticed scent of _land_ drifted out to us on the offshore trades.

We sat together in the cockpit, singing Christmas carols and smelling the flowers, the closest, happiest family in all the world.

4 ON TO THE SOUTH PACIFIC: FROM HAWAII TO TAHITI

“Banzai!... Banzai!... Banzai!”

In the morning we entered Honolulu Harbor under power and were directed to Pier 7, in the heart of the city. Quite a crowd had collected and what with officials, newsmen, radio and television operators, dockworkers, yachtsmen, and curious strangers, we found the confusion intimidating after forty-seven days of isolation.

Even before the lines were made fast, reporters were shouting questions, a television crew had asked us please to go out and come in again for the benefit of their cameras (we didn’t), and our good friends the Bushnells—who had spotted us from their home on the heights and rushed down with fragrant leis—were breaking the news that Barbara’s mother had flown in from Wisconsin only a day or two before and was awaiting our arrival.

As the _Phoenix_ nudged the dock, an imposing individual cleared a space around him and prepared to board. Our first American visitor. I remembered my manners—we were back in the States, where one doesn’t bow, but shakes hands. I extended mine. He promptly put his briefcase into it, stepped aboard, and ordered all hands below. At once. No accepting of leis. No conversation with well-wishers on the dock.

The reporters howled; the bystanders jeered; and Barbara, in the midst of eager arrangements for getting in touch with her mother, had to be dragged down the companionway. We went below.

Our first visitor did not announce his function, but we soon gathered that he was the port doctor. We rather wondered why we could not at least have spoken to the people on the pier. What obscure disease can be transmitted by voice?

As the doctor left, Immigration arrived. We were delighted to produce the hard-won passports and U.S. visas for the Japanese men. Next in line was an agricultural inspector who apologetically threw overboard a couple of tired potatoes. We didn’t want them anyway.

A truck arrived, with the ominous lettering “Animal Quarantine” on it, and Mi-ke was snatched from Jessica’s arms and whisked away to a cell. We could have her back in four months we were told—and, no—the time spent at sea could _not_ be applied on the quarantine period! It was evident that whatever terrible germs might find their way into Honolulu they wouldn’t include rabies. As an anthropologist, my own feeling was that these precautions, while commendable, were a bit late, since a far worse disease, the white man, had long ago taken a firm grip on the islands.

At last the officials moved on and we were free to come and go—but not before the location of the Customs Office had been pointed out to me, with instructions to report there as soon as possible. We had just been introduced to a new aspect of cruising: the inevitable bout with officialdom, just when you are longing to get ashore after weeks at sea. Necessary, perhaps, but infinitely frustrating.

Taking a deep breath we went up to join our patient friends—and ran into the second land-based hazard of cruising: reporters. Frankly, I was a little surprised to find the press in Honolulu so interested in our arrival. After all, boats by the hundreds come in here and they have to sail a good long way to get to the islands, no matter which land they set out from. Then why all the excitement about us?

I answered questions from reporters with half of my mind and tried to carry on a conversation with friends with the other. All of us gathered together when told to and smiled when asked and waved upon request—and breathed a sigh of relief when at last the reporters and photographers left.

Hours later, on my way back from the Customs Office, I bought a paper whose headlines screamed: LOST YACHT ARRIVES! _What a coincidence_, I thought. _Another yacht—and on the same day!_ Only after I looked at the accompanying picture did I realize that the “lost yacht” referred to was the _Phoenix_!

This news took a bit of digesting. Gradually, as our friends filled us in, we learned that for more than a week we had been the subject of a running story started, perhaps, when friends who were expecting us had called the Honolulu Coast Guard to ask for news.

“Yacht _Phoenix_?” The C.G. had no information. “Coming from Japan? Never heard of her, but we’ll see what we can find out.”

A query was sent to the Japanese Coast Guard who, checking back, noted that a heavy storm had lashed Japan shortly after we sailed. Further research dug up an early news story indicating our original intention to sail up the coast before heading out to sea. A belated search of coastal waters turned up no wreckage of the _Phoenix_, no coastal station reported having seen her after her departure from Takamatsu.—Reluctantly, Japanese officials notified the U.S.C.G., “No trace of yacht _Phoenix_”—and the panic was on.

Conflicting reports began to crop up and were given international publicity. One, from an “authoritative source,” said we had “undoubtedly gone down with all hands”—a nicely flavored nautical phrase. Barbara’s mother, approached for comment, expressed confidence that all was well. A “Japanese naval expert” (our old friend Takemura?) was next quoted as saying that our ship was “built for the Inland Sea and would never withstand the rough waters of the North Pacific,” while another “expert” was found to maintain that a sturdier, better-built boat had never existed. “They’re safe”—“They’re lost”—“Hope dims”—“Hope revived”—headlines argued back and forth.

One article, the most bizarre of the lot, reported that a radio communication from the _Phoenix_ had been received in Hiroshima to the effect that we were safe and would reach Hawaii “in a few days.” Eventually we tracked this down. A message had been received—of a sort: Moto’s mother had visited a shrine, where she had received assurance from On High that all was well with the _Phoenix_. She had passed the word along to the anxious relatives of the other men, the word had spread, and the newspapers got hold of the story. When the overseas news service picked it up, however, they failed to recognize that a “message” could be heavenly as well as electronic. In their own version, they presupposed a radio contact without bothering to inquire whether we actually had a radio transmitter aboard.

When we protested the inaccuracy—and the cruelty to anxious friends and relatives—of such irresponsible reporting, a newspaper acquaintance shrugged off our indignation.

“It’s just formula stuff,” he assured us. “Yacht sails—yacht has trouble—yacht does (or doesn’t) arrive. Sometime during the trip there has to be a crisis—a big storm—a man overboard—or just, as in your case, no word at all. That’s always good for at least a couple of ‘overdue’ or ‘lost’ stories. If the boat is _really_ lost, the accuracy of the press is upheld. If it turns up—so much the better, because everyone feels good and we can do follow-up stories, general rejoicing, and big headlines.”

“Like ‘LOST YACHT ARRIVES’?”

He shrugged. “Anyway, it sells papers.” And then he added, a bit defensively, “Our paper hasn’t any objection to reporting the truth—so long as it doesn’t interfere with our circulation.”

In our case the news value was enhanced by the interracial character of our crew and the tremendous interest in the _Phoenix_ which was felt not only in Japan but throughout the substantial Japanese-American community of the Hawaiian Islands. The two Japanese-language newspapers gave the story a big play. The Japanese Consul General paid his respects within hours of our arrival. The Hiroshima Ken Society (composed of hundreds of first-generation immigrants from Hiroshima Prefecture) scheduled a Welcome Banquet in honor of our men. And a cable from Japan informed us that a “Yacht _Phoenix_ Supporters’ Association” had been organized, with Governor Ohara of Hiroshima Province as President.

This unexpected interest and publicity impressed us forcefully with the fact that our voyage was no longer a private affair. Whatever we did or said would be magnified by the press, both in Japan and locally. This put the problem of Mickey in a different light. Our instinct against washing one’s dirty linen in public had kept us from saying anything to press or public about Mickey’s failure, but the problem still had to be faced among ourselves.

My own feeling was that we should send him back to Japan, and the family felt the same. We had proved we could manage without him during the worst that we were likely to encounter in the way of weather and it seemed foolish to carry as supercargo someone who might at any time become a liability.

To my surprise, when I mentioned the subject to Moto and Nick, I found them unalterably opposed. My point of view was the narrow one of the skipper of a boat trying to make a successful circumnavigation; but my men were no longer thinking merely as yachtsmen. They had been greeted as representatives of Japan and they felt the responsibility keenly. A loss of “face” was involved. If one of them were to be sent back, the failure would reflect upon them all. In fact, there was the definite implication that if one went they would all feel obliged to go.

As is usually the case, no decision could be entirely satisfactory. If I kept Mickey, I felt he would be a constant threat to our success—not just from the standpoint of a weak stomach but because of his personality. Nick and Moto, however, were emphatically positive that he would turn out all right. We talked it over at tedious length and finally decided to keep Mickey—on sufferance—at least for a while.

After several days at the commercial dock, we were given permission to move to the Ala Wai Yacht Harbor, near Waikiki. Here we quickly made the acquaintance of fellow yachtsmen and, for the first time, had the real joy of visiting other yachts, of inviting friends aboard for coffee and yarns, and of hearing at first hand the experiences and opinions of men—and women—who had sailed all over the Pacific. We learned that the trip from California to Honolulu, or from Honolulu down to Tahiti, is considered the “milk run” by local seagoing yachtsmen. They had a certain respect for our Japan to Honolulu crossing, however, and we were human enough to be gratified.

Our _Phoenix_, with her rugged build, heavy masts, and massive tiller, looked a bit crude among the chrome and varnish of her sleek neighbors but, as Moto said in a series of articles he was writing for a Japanese-language paper, “Our boat is the roughest looking boat in the yacht harbor, but one of the most respected.”

All seven of us were made honorary members of the Hawaii Yacht Club, which Barbara and I later joined officially. Earlier, while still in Japan, I had joined the American Yachtsmen’s Association, which gave us outstanding help throughout our entire voyage. Soon we added still another burgee—that of the Seven Seas Cruising Association, composed of cruising yachtsmen who live aboard their craft and keep in touch with one another by means of a monthly bulletin to which all the S.S.C.A. “Commodores” contribute.

Every day brought visitors to the _Phoenix_. Some of them, naturally, were friends of ours, or friends of friends, but so many were people of Japanese ancestry who bowed and chatted in their native tongue with Nick, Mickey, and Moto that I sometimes wondered whether we weren’t still tied up to the dock in Hiroshima.

“I thought you said you didn’t know anyone in Honolulu,” I remarked to Moto, after several days had passed with no slackening in the steady stream of callers.

“Yes!” Moto agreed happily. “We don’t! But Hawaii people very kind, very _friend_.”

Indeed they were “very friend.” Day after day shiny black limousines drew up at the docks and discharged Japanese-speaking callers bringing gifts: clothes, cartons of cigarettes, baskets of fruit, flowers, cakes, Japanese delicacies of all kinds—and invitations without number.

Thus began a period during which we were treated to a hospitality such as few tourists, I am sure, have ever experienced. Our own list of haole (white) friends grew rapidly and we had no lack of invitations, which we could accept without qualms, knowing that our Japanese companions also were having a fine time. Only three or four times did our paths cross: once when we were all invited to a most enjoyable family dinner with the Japanese Consul General, Mr. Hatoyama, his charming wife, and three of their ten children; once when I was speaker at a Hawaii Yacht Club dinner; and once for a never-to-be-forgotten “Welcome Party” given by the Hiroshima Ken Society. All the guests were male (except Barbara and Jessica), and the food, utensils, and speeches were entirely Japanese. Mickey had apparently been elected spokesman for the _Phoenix_ crew and he made a stirring speech, complete with gestures and bravado. For the first time we experienced the rafter-raising Japanese cheer, a chorus shouted at top voice from over two hundred enthusiastic throats: “Banzai!... Banzai!... Banzai!” and we were proud that our Japanese companions should be so honored.

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!