“Our Christmas package from Minnetta!” wailed Barbara. “It’s finally here. We’ve got to go back!”
“Manuia!” Jessica called piteously. “Manuia! Please come back!”
At this moment Ted spoke up. “Skip, I don’t think the water’s coming out right.”
I looked at the engine exhaust. He was correct.
That settled it. Ribs, cat, package, engine—we had four valid reasons for postponing our departure. There was only one thing to do, and I did it.
“Get up the sails!” I directed.
The men got up foresail and mizzen and, with a fair wind, we sailed out of the harbor while I got to work on the balky engine. I knew that if we turned back we might never get out of South Africa.
We set the course for St. Helena, an isolated dot, 1,700 miles out in the Atlantic, and by nightfall the beautiful, unhappy land at the tip of the African continent was fast falling astern.
13 ACROSS THE ATLANTIC THE
LONG WAY: CAPE TOWN
TO NEW YORK CITY
“Beautiful night, new moon, slow progress, who cares?”