On our way up the channel, with Nick at the tiller, my crew were given a lesson in how to answer orders. Over and over on the trip I had emphasized the need for repeating an order aloud, in times of stress or noise, so there could be no misunderstanding. The Japanese had been very reluctant to cooperate, perhaps feeling that it put them in a subservient position. Now, on our way up the channel, the pilot called an order to the helmsman and Nick, as usual, obeyed silently. In no uncertain terms, though quite politely, the pilot directed Nick (through me) to repeat every order as given.

I thought it a salutary lesson and was human enough to see the culprit, thus reprimanded, squirm. And yet I wish I could report that the lesson had been learned. On the contrary, perhaps because of the loss of face involved, the issue became sharper than ever before.

It was a baffling situation. A couple of years earlier I would have dissolved the relationship summarily, exercising my right to demand compliance even though it forced a parting of the ways. Now, however, the desire to succeed in our trip, to keep our original group intact, had assumed an importance that made the question “Who is boss?” seem a bit childish. In addition, I believe I was gaining in patience and understanding, in desire to understand the point of view of my companions. Their deep insecurity in the many situations they had to face around the world gave them a real need to re-establish constantly their status as equals. Untrained in democratic procedures, they at times withdrew from responsibility and left the entire weight of decisions to me; and at times reasserted their independence by refusing, in unimportant details, to accept any suggestion of authority.

Perhaps, I told myself, I was demanding a subservience to which I was not entitled. Perhaps the matter of repeating orders should be relegated to the same category as saluting the bridge or piping the captain aboard, observances of rank and authority that were perhaps correct in their proper place but not aboard a small boat. And yet, balancing all this rationalization was the knowledge that, in a tight spot, an order not heard or perhaps misunderstood could mean the loss of the ship. I didn’t give a damn about salutes and pipes, but I cared a great deal about my family and the Phoenix.

At any rate, by 2130 we were snugly moored with the lights of Durban all about us. Barbara, who had not wanted to miss our entrance, now went below to whip up a late, hot supper, and everyone visibly relaxed as I broke out a bottle of rum. I brought my log up to date: our last lap of 16 days at sea had added another 1,756 miles; another ocean crossed, another continent, another milestone on our voyage. We were in Africa!

12      SOUTH AFRICA:
BEAUTIFUL, UNHAPPY LAND

“What will you do when that day comes?”

In the morning we were again picked up by the pilot and escorted to a mooring in the small-craft harbor.

“There will be no charge,” he told us.

“None at all?” I was incredulous, remembering that they had come out at our request and stood by for three hours while we crawled in.