We sailed from Mauritius on October 19, bound for South Africa. Though our visas had been granted without difficulty, we were more than a little dubious about our visit because of the government’s well-known racial policies. Our relations on board had been pleasant and increasingly friendly since leaving Indonesia and we rather dreaded entering an area where color and nationality would again assume false values. However, it is difficult to go around the Cape without calling somewhere in South Africa, so we hoped for the best.
Once again our life fell into that routine which is so difficult for landsmen, day sailors, or even passengers on an ocean liner to comprehend. The land one has left falls behind, the pleasures and friendships that await are in some indefinite future. All that exists is the present—the sea, the ship, the ship’s company, and the little happenings of each day. Local events, such as the loss of a whole bunch of bananas over the side, become tremendously important, while world events recede into the background. Intellectually we could comprehend and keep these things in perspective, but emotionally the here and now has more impact than the there and then. From the log:
Listened to five-minute summary of news. First sentence, trouble in Hungary; 2nd, trouble in Singapore; 3rd, trouble in Tunis; 4th, hydrogen bomb test.—Angrily, I turned the radio off.
On the seventh day out, when far south of Madagascar, we could smell the land, literally. Suddenly all eight of us were on deck, breathing deeply. There was a different quality in the wind—a warm, dry, slightly dusty odor, faintly spiced, like the scent of a distant campfire. Manuia, too, sniffed deeply upwind, her front paws on the bulwarks. Moto grinned appreciatively. “Maybe mouse on Madagascar,” he observed.
Jean, true to his promise, showed great prowess in the galley. He had brought aboard a mysterious carton of bottles and jars, and from these he added a spoonful of this or a dash of that to whatever he had on the fire. No matter what the contents of a jar looked like—a spinach-green paste, a catsup-type sauce, or something lumpy and yellow like mustard pickles—it was all, according to Jean, called “piment” and was invariably hot. One or two of us acquired a taste for this fiery seasoning of Mauritian cooking (in moderation), but the rest found it hard to be too unhappy when a sudden roll of the boat sent Jean’s carton of condiments crashing to the floor in a welter of broken glass. Desolate, he picked over the mess and scooped up spoonfuls, insisting that a little glass wouldn’t hurt anyone, but the Skipper was firm and insisted that all food thereafter must be seasoned by the individual.
Jean could really cook, but in the tradition of great French chefs. His talents ran to directing, concocting, adding, stirring, and tasting. With one of us to hand him utensils, another to cut up onions, and the Skipper to restrain his too lavish use of piment, he turned out a number of delectable dishes. As he explained seriously, “Eef I cook eet, eet has to be good!”
Like his condiments, Jean added interesting variety to our shipboard life. Although a British subject, he was completely French in language, personality, and gestures. He delighted the family and both delighted and bewildered Nick, Mickey, and Moto.
His effervescence rose to a crescendo on the day we ran through a school of whales. Prancing all over the deck, scrambling up the rigging, he was beside himself with excitement, relapsing entirely into French punctuated with staccato bursts of “Ooo-la-la! Ooo-la-la!” One whale, of impressive size, came up for mutual inspection less than a boat’s length away. We all felt, a little nervously, that that was quite close enough and were relieved when he apparently felt the same, and sounded.
We hove to once on this passage, in a heavy thunderstorm, with driving rain and incessant lightning. The wind oscillated between dead calm and terrific gusts, so we thought it better to strike all sail and wait for the weather to make up its mind. Early next morning, with the wind still strong and the seas high, we could see the loom of Durban’s lights on the horizon just before dawn. Throughout the day we worked our way in but the wind was dead against us and after taking several long tacks, each of which put us only slightly nearer our goal, it became apparent that we could not make it before dark. I wanted to lay off, but my crew had land fever and I finally compromised by trying to raise the harbor officials by radio telephone.
Five miles off the harbor entrance, I made contact and a pilot boat was sent out to meet us. The seas were much too rough for them to take us in tow, but they stood by for the next three hours while we labored along under sail and engine, against wind, heavy seas, and the outgoing tide, at the magnificent speed of one knot. Inside the channel, well after dark, they finally came alongside, put a pilot aboard, and guided us briskly into the completely landlocked harbor, where we were put on a buoy for the night.