When we wanted to pause in the middle of our hectic day for a cup of tea, we had to return to the Phoenix, as there is no public place in all of Cape Town where we could have sat down and been served together.
While we were relaxing and chatting over our tea, Mr. W—— (a white man) of the yacht club came aboard. We introduced him to our friends. Noticed that he did not shake hands with Mr. T——. Stayed only a moment and did not look directly at him as he made his farewells. Awkward. A pity, as Mr. W—— is a fine man and has been wonderfully kind to us. (He even took Nick, Mickey, and Moto to his club one Sunday to sail with him in an 18-footer event. This took a bit of courage; as he admitted later: “I didn’t know if I’d get away with it.” But apparently there is all the difference in the world between a visiting Japanese yachtsman and a resident African.)
I’ll be glad to leave South Africa, but some of the friends we have made I’ll carry always with me. The Maxwells, Mr. T——, the rest of their group—these people I will never forget. How fine they are in every way—and under what terrible pressures. I wonder how many of us would have the courage they have if we were put to the test as they have been—every day, every hour.
At last the final day dawned. Manuia, who had produced one small, black, and completely tailless kitten in Durban (Hobson’s Choice—or Hobby, by name), was already in the mood for trying again and had spent the night out. All day we watched anxiously for her return, but the hour of sailing drew near and there was still no sign of her.
“We can’t go without Manuia!” Jessica protested tearfully.
I had spent the morning going through the red tape of clearing port, had handed in our exit visas to the immigration authorities, and had spent my last few South African coins on a few extra “sweets” for the trip. Besides, my ribs hurt and I thought Jessica’s tears were misplaced. Surely my condition justified a few of them!
“Manuia knew we were sailing today,” I pronounced. “Besides, that’s why you’ve got a Spare Cat.” That didn’t seem to comfort her.
I went below and started the engine.
“Okay—cast off!” Ted, in the cockpit, relayed the order to Mickey on the foredeck. We drifted slowly away from the dock, Barbara waving to friends ashore and Jessica still looking despairingly for a glimpse of the errant Manuia.
Suddenly we heard a hail. “Hold on!” Someone on the dock was waving a slip of paper. “Here’s a notice from the post office—a package is being held for you to clear it through customs!”