Jessica described the ponderous antics of Jonathan, the 200-year-old giant tortoise from the Galápagos who makes his home in the Governor’s front yard and can cross it (all 250 feet) in 33 minutes when moving at top speed, as officially timed by Jessica.
And Barbara told of the near-disastrous visit of Prince Philip which had taken place only the month before. (So rare are the visitors to the Residency that we were the next guests to sign the book after the page that had been devoted to the single imposing signature: “Philip.”) It seems that the Prince and his party had created a minor crisis on arrival, for they had been conducting a beard-raising competition, and Philip, with “a face full of rather scruffy whiskers,” bore no resemblance to the official photos that hung in every island home. Thus many islanders did not realize they had actually seen him until he had passed, and a number of Girl Guides who had been waiting for hours broke into mass tears.
During our stay the fortnightly Castle Line ship called, and we saw an amazing transformation take place when 500 tourists were decanted for the day. Shops which had been locked and shuttered threw open their doors to display tables covered with beautiful lacework, weaving, basketry, and art. The streets were crowded. The visitors undoubtedly carried away the impression of a bustling port town where hundreds of people milled and bumped into one another day after day in a frenetic pursuit of souvenirs. Only we, who remained after the boat had gone and peace again descended on the somnolent village, knew the truth.
It was amazing how much there was to do on so small an island. For one thing, there were the 699 steps of “Jacob’s Ladder” to climb, a morning’s undertaking in itself. This almost perpendicular flight of steps mounts steeply from Jamestown to a cluster of houses on Signal Hill, saving a trip by road of several miles. We found the short cut to be literally breath-taking and made the grade only by pausing every hundredth step to “admire the view.”
We had planned, of course, to pay our respects to the most historic spot on the island: Longwood, the last home of Napoleon. Jessica’s lessons after leaving Cape Town had leaned heavily toward the Napoleonic era and, needless to say, what Jessica studied we all studied. Always our readings and discussions in the cockpit gained meaningful focus as we looked forward to seeing the places we were reading about. (Yet, over and over, we are asked, “But what did your children do for their education?”)
But when we were driven up into the hills to see the rambling house—painted a startling raspberry pink—the gate was locked. The French Consul, whom we were told to telephone, was most cordial, but we somehow failed to make connections, and we finally had to sail, reluctantly but on schedule, with the dubious distinction of being the only visitors who have spent more than a week on St. Helena without visiting Napoleon’s tomb.
On March 3 we departed for Ascension, 700 miles to the northwest. There had been rumors that because of the American missile installations being erected on this British island, we might not be allowed to land. However, with the cooperation of C. & W. contacts, we received a cable from the Resident Magistrate granting us permission to visit, but adding that “access to certain areas ashore, details of which will be advised upon arrival, is prohibited.”
Our passage was quiet—almost too quiet. It took eleven days, including two of flat calm right in the middle of the southeast trades. On several nights the sea was so quiet that the stars were clearly mirrored on its surface. My log says, “Beautiful night, new moon, slow progress, who cares?”
On the tenth night we sighted Ascension just off the port bow. We kept it in sight all night in the moonlight, and dropped anchor in the morning just off Georgetown. The roadstead was very rough, which we were told was the usual condition. Our trips to and from the land were made in the shore boat, with skilled local boatmen at the long sweeps. The passengers must have a certain degree of skill, too. Arrived at the landing steps, one must wait for the proper moment, then grasp a hanging rope and swing quickly to the shore. If you fail to connect, you are left either swimming or dangling, depending on just where you made your mistake.
C. & W. has for many years been the principal installation on the island, which has no indigenous population. Now, however, all is overshadowed by the busy and highly secret activities of the U.S. military. Although we were in Ascension for only three days, it was long enough to become aware of a certain amount of friction between the British and American factions, one reason for which lay in the fact that the American installations have a superfluity of luxuries while the British are obliged to live a rather austere life. For example, there was the matter of water.