“That is not my field of interest,” he repeated, and the discussion was ended.
All of us were beginning to look forward almost desperately to setting sail again, as though we, too, were in danger of being imprisoned if we lingered. When the Brazilian Consulate stipulated that we must all present a doctor’s report from a complete physical examination before visas for that country would be issued, I felt a ridiculous premonition that something, some symptom, would be discovered which would make it necessary for us to linger. Let sleeping dogs lie was my feeling—but there was no way to secure our visas without the doctor’s report—and Brazil was a “must” on our itinerary because of our Japanese. They had had slim pickings in many ports, but in São Paulo or Belém, where there was a very large Japanese population, they could look forward to an overwhelming reception such as they had experienced in Hawaii. They had it coming to them—and so I made appointments for our physicals.
I needn’t have worried. The doctor did little more than fill out and sign the official forms, after asking such general questions as “Do you feel all right? Any complaints?”
The only complaint I had was the cost—a pretty stiff fee for such a cursory going over. (I carefully filed the expensive documents away with our other official forms, but no one in Brazil ever examined or even asked for them. Needless to say, however, had we neglected to get the papers, they would have been the first thing we had to produce upon arrival in Brazil.)
A few days before leaving we moved to Fisherman’s Harbor, where there was a commercial slip, and once more we hauled out to give the bottom a check and add an iron brace to the rudder, which had begun to work a bit. Two nights before our departure I was coming back from the Flying Angel Mission for Seamen, carrying an armload of books they had generously donated to the Phoenix. While crossing over a couple of boats to get to our own, I made a miscalculation in stepping from one to another. Instead of putting my foot on solid deck, I walked off into air, with the result that I fell heavily, knocked all the breath out of me, and injured my ribs.
Barbara, as ship’s medical officer, immediately attempted to invalid me, which I naturally resisted violently. She wound me around with an elastic bandage and begged me to delay departure until I was “out of danger,” but I had already announced the day and hour of leaving and, being a determined sort, I continued with preparations for departure.
(At this point Jessica has just reminded me of the conjugation of “I am determined.” According to her, it continues: “You are stubborn—he is a pigheaded fool!”)
In any event, I had no intention of letting South Africa keep us in her clutches.
Barbara’s diary has something to say about the last hectic day before sailing:
Usual rush of shopping, this time with the help and company of Mrs. Maxwell and Mr. T——. (Mr. T——, an African of the Xosa tribe, speaks flawless English and is highly educated and intelligent. He is a leader among his people—for which reason his pass has been confiscated. For five years he cannot leave Cape Town, nor attend any meetings or speak to any gathering. With dogged determination, he is trying to get his message across through the written word, but there is no outlet for his articles, no money to have his books privately published.)