The British were dependent upon rain for their water supply. Cement watersheds high in the hills trapped moisture deposited by the trade winds and carried the water to storage tanks which, at the time of our visit, were almost empty. British water consumption, therefore, was strictly rationed. For the Americans, however, there was a whole ocean full of water distilled in practically unlimited amounts at a cost, we were told, of some 10 cents per gallon to the American taxpayers.
We sailed on March 16 for Belém, Brazil, which we had given as our next mailing address. The family would have preferred to set a course directly for Barbados and so back to the States by the most expeditious route, but the detour was made for the sake of our Japanese crew members. They wanted to investigate the possibilities for emigrating to Brazil and had chosen Belém because there was a Japanese Consulate there, as well as a Japanese newspaper and more than 2,000 Japanese emigrants, and they had reason to expect a more cordial reception there than they had had in South Africa.
Our course was laid to pass south of Fernando de Noronha and around the bulge of South America. The breeze continued light and fluky, although the weather was fine. On the fourteenth day a series of squalls hit. The first, which was the heaviest, caught us with the genoa up and ripped it thoroughly. Fortunately, we had enough spare canvas to replace the ruined panel, but Moto—who had quietly taken over most of the sail repair chores—had to settle down to a three-day sewing job.
As we closed the coast the weather grew more and more uncertain, with frequent showers and many wind shifts. We had done much reading en route, in an effort to learn something about the conditions we might expect, but could find nothing to indicate that any other yachts had ever called at Belém, 70 miles up the Pará, a branch of the Amazon. However, Frank Wightman of Wylo had been aboard in Cape Town, and had mentioned Fortaleza, about 600 miles east of Belém. According to him, the port was easy of access, so we decided to put in there first, in the hope of getting some of the information—and the hospitality—that the Japanese were looking for.
On March 31 we sighted our first land and two hours later we spoke a sailing schooner out of Alagoas, heading down the coast. In our best Portuguese (culled word by word from a dictionary and strung together in what we hoped was the proper order) we asked, “Onde está Fortaleza?” and were loudly reassured by gestures and unanimous voice vote that we were on the right track. By afternoon we could see the breakwater and the city beyond.
Having no harbor chart, we entered carefully, just at dusk, and dropped anchor off the main part of town. Soon we were sitting on deck, eating a hot dinner and admiring the view of a new continent. Fortaleza, as seen from the harbor, is a clean-looking city with a few large white buildings and many modern-appearing homes with colored roofs. The bay was full of sailing craft, most of them of the jangada type—a raft of balsa logs with a mast and a sail, so that the boatmen sail standing up and often have water swishing around their knees. One by one, as night fell, the fishing boats sailed right up to the beach and were pulled beyond the tide line, where they lay with their sails still up, like a flotilla of stranded butterflies.
Morning came and still no one paid any attention to us. Finally, becoming a touch impatient, we upped anchor and made our way to the corner of the harbor where the breakwater joins the land and where the greatest activity seemed to be concentrated. Again we anchored and waited, flying our Q-flag and a skillful facsimile of the Brazilian ensign which Nick had painted on white cloth, its design and colors being too complicated for the materials and ingenuity of the girls. Still nothing happened. At noon I rowed ashore, only to be motioned by the officer on the dock to go back on board.
Shortly thereafter an official boarded us: the port doctor, who spoke practically no English, but chattered along most sociably in Portuguese. He showed us pictures of his house (Spanish type) and of his six children (Brazilian type), and managed to convey that there was no American or Japanese Consulate here, and no Japanese emigrants. He was not in the least interested in our expensive and hard-gotten papers and health certificates, but he inquired, by gestures, if we happened to have a few spare cigarettes. We did, and were duly cleared.
Later, from a German national working in Fortaleza, we learned the reason for the long delay in acknowledging our presence. Since our arrival we had been under constant surveillance. To the Fortalezan mind there could be only one reason for a foreign yacht to enter this port: smuggling. They had held off boarding us in order to see what moves we would make, and who would try illegally to contact us. Throughout the night they had been watching us, until finally they had concluded not that we were innocent of smuggling but that we were too smart to try it in their port!
We spent four days in Fortaleza. It was a unique place. In Brazil more than in any other country we ran into communication difficulties, for practically no one spoke English. Not shopkeepers, nor police, nor bus drivers. We were forced to make sign language go a long way and had quite a time locating essential supplies. Because of a severe drought in the islands of the South Atlantic we had been unable to lay in fresh supplies and had arrived in Fortaleza completely out of many of the basic comestibles upon which the cook depended: onions, potatoes, eggs, cheese. Worst of all, we had less than a cupful of rice aboard. Through the help of English-speaking clerks at Brooks Bros. we were able to obtain some of these items.