From our anchorage it was a five-mile bus ride to the center of town, the road curving along the shore of the bay or through narrow streets a block or two inland. The city, which had looked so clean and modern from our first anchorage, turned out to be a strange combination of squalor and a rather down-at-the-heels magnificence. The bus stopped frequently to allow herds of goats to move to one side or the other of the road or waited while passengers who were about to get on or off bade lingering farewells to the friends they were leaving behind.
Fortaleza, though interesting, was no substitute for Belém, as far as Nick, Mickey, and Moto were concerned. Instead of 2,000 Japanese emigrants, there was only one family of Japanese ancestry—and they couldn’t speak Japanese! As to conditions in Belém, and the practical problem of taking a yacht up the Pará River, we could learn little. We did find out that there was a pilot station at Salinas, just east of the mouth of the Pará, and that because of shoals and unpredictable currents all ships were required to stop there to pick up a pilot. Whether this regulation included yachts, no one knew. What the charges might be, no one knew. What the river was like, no one knew. There was only one way to find out, and that was to go and see.
We moved on up the coast, staying well offshore. On the sixth day we edged back toward land, and the following evening identified Japerica Island. That night we could see Salinas Light faintly off the port bow. We sailed cautiously and sounded at intervals, getting between 8 and 11 fathoms at a distance of some 10 to 15 miles offshore. The area is cluttered with shoals and banks and there is little comfort to be derived from the chart, which says, “This chart cannot be regarded as trustworthy. The buoys cannot be depended upon.”
Next morning we dropped anchor in six fathoms, about five miles offshore. Many jangada were flitting about and we hailed one. After a session in sign language, Ted and I were taken aboard for a trip to the beach. We made a wet landing in the surf and then walked the mile or so to the small village where the pilot station is located. Here we were lucky enough to find an English-speaking pilot, so that my soaked and pulpy phrase book was not needed.
He strongly advised us to remain at anchor, rather than attempt the Pará without a strong engine, and assured me that our delegation to Belém could travel the ninety miles overland “by bus.” He himself was scheduled to leave for Belém at once as pilot on the freighter now waiting well offshore, but he would drop us at the Phoenix on his way out and leave orders for the pilot boat to come out in the morning to pick up those who wanted to take the bus. It seemed a very sound plan.
Ted and I returned to the Phoenix and called a conference. Nick, Mickey, and Moto, of course, would form the core of the overland expedition to Belém. That meant that Ted and I must both remain aboard, as I had no intention of leaving my ship in such an uneasy anchorage without two able-bodied men to sail out in case of need. This made it necessary for Barbara to head the expedition to Belém, so that she could pick up our mail, cash some travelers’ checks, and lay in the necessary provisions for our next hop, to the West Indies. Jessica, anxiously expecting stacks of birthday mail, elected to go, too.
Well before dawn the next morning the pilot boat came alongside, signaling its arrival with a chorus of frantic shouts in Portuguese, followed by a solid crash which left deep gouges in our rubbing strake. The pilot boat was entirely devoid of fenders or mats and the sea was, to put it mildly, rough. While they maneuvered to stay alongside in darkness and drizzle, we somehow accomplished the tricky transfer of our five travelers and their duffel. Ted and I watched them go and then settled down for an indefinite period at an anchorage which was, without any close competition, the worst we had ever been in.
We stood watch and watch, spending most of our waking time together playing chess. We held ourselves ready to sail out at a moment’s notice, if necessary, and to cruise on and off until the pilot boat brought back our ship’s company. Rough waters, heavy tides, and numerous squalls kept us company, and the imperative clank of the anchor chain was an ominous and constant sound. Meantime, during the heavy and frequent showers, we filled all the water tanks to overflowing, and, on Jessica’s birthday, we whipped up and frosted a birthday cake for her, which we put away against her return.
We had estimated that the trip to Belém would take three or four hours each way, and allowing one or two days for business and pleasure, we looked for the travelers’ return any time after the second day. Actually, four long days had to drag by before the pilot boat came alongside again, to return a bedraggled and exhausted bunch of excursionists. They had brought with them all the supplies we needed for the next leg and Barbara, guessing correctly that no one would want to make another trip ashore, had attended to the formalities of clearance.
Within half an hour we had everything stowed and, deciding that the mail, the wild tales, and the delayed birthday celebration could wait, I ordered the anchor up and we headed out.