This was the worst spot in our rounding of the continent, however. We drifted past Cape Agulhas, the southernmost tip of Africa, in quiet seas and with the lightest of airs, as if on a sail in the bay. On our last afternoon, while under bare steerageway, we narrowly missed being run down by the tanker Kongstank, which passed us just to port, running at a good clip and with no one visible anywhere on the ship. So far as we could see, the bridge was quite empty and we could only assume that they had set the automatic controls and gone below for a cup of coffee or a nap. It was a sobering thought to realize that they might have sent us to the bottom without ever knowing what they’d hit!
Throughout that day, as we cruised slowly northward, we were skirting the Cape Peninsula, which well deserves its reputation as one of the most beautiful sights in the world. The dramatically eroded pinnacles, rather like a cross section of the Grand Canyon taken out of context, run down to the sea, with deep-purple gorges between. The Twelve Apostles, the Lion, and, finally, Table Mountain were all formations we had seen in photographs, but now we were seeing them for the first time in full color. Dusk settled over the sea. A pale moon gradually deepened to rich yellow as we drew closer to Cape Town and, behind the mountain peaks, the sky grew dark. Lights of the city began to flicker on around the base of the hills, sparkling like fireflies. The air grew colder. We were in the Atlantic now, and the water in this new ocean was frigid to the touch. For the first time since 1954 in the North Pacific I could see my breath, and the fur-lined parkas were dug out.
During the night we lay off, merely keeping our position. With an almost constant movement of shipping in and out, we had no desire to attempt a strange and crowded harbor after dark.
Next morning, finding ourselves blanketed by Table Mountain, we turned on the engine and motored in. Following the chart, we proceeded down the entire length of the harbor, inside the breakwater, past several dozen freighters and tankers and passenger ships, until we reached the area marked “Small Boat Harbor” at the extreme end. A number of frolicking seals came out to greet us and Jessica was enchanted when two little penguins drifted by, sitting demurely side by side on a floating board.
Near the inner entrance we were met by a motorboat filled with members of the Royal Cape Yacht Club, who showed us to the mooring that had been reserved for us. By midmorning all was secure, we had been cleared, and Cape Town lay before us.
Cape Town, spread out at the foot of Table Mountain, has a spectacular setting, but the city itself, from the narrow viewpoint of the yachtsman, is somewhat less than easily accessible. The small-boat anchorage is at the far end of a long, unfinished, and unshaded road within the commercial dock area where no public transportation is available. Going out and coming back it is necessary to check with guards at the customs gate, some of whom were pleasant and some of whom, like human beings everywhere, were officious. It was at this gate that another of those incidents occurred, during our stay in Cape Town, which had far-reaching consequences in terms of misunderstanding. I recount it merely to illustrate from what a small scratch a festering sore can develop, particularly if the scratch occurs when poisons are in the very air.
One evening we were driving out of the dock area in a friend’s car. Barbara and I were in front with our host; Nick, Mickey, and Moto, in the back.
As always, we stopped and made the usual report to the guard: “We’re from the yacht Phoenix.”
Usually this was enough to give us clearance, but this time the guard came over and peered in the rear window. “What about those chaps?” he demanded.
“They’re from the yacht, too.”