Someone had answered and, not being attracted by the program, I had gone on to another part of the house. Now, weeks later, it developed that Mickey and the young lady in question had been watching TV together, and Mickey had interpreted my commonplace remark as suspicion of his actions and a desire to spy on him.
In any event, our trip up Long Island Sound, around Montauk Point, down to the entrance of the Delaware, and on through the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal into Chesapeake Bay was not noted for its jollity. Nick was moody and Ted and Mickey unusually withdrawn, but Moto was particularly pathetic. In complete contrast to his former cheerful, wryly humorous self, he sat for hours in the bow, staring moodily at the water, or wove rope into intricate designs with all the withdrawal symptoms of a paranoid. We felt that he had lost so much face by his outburst that he did not know how to get back to our former friendly relations, and we did everything we could to assure him that we wanted to let bygones be bygones. What we did not realize, yet, was that his spirit was completely broken.
This trip was an introduction to a different type of cruising, where we used the engine much of the time and measured our progress not by noon shots but by markers as frequent as street signs in a city. By night we anchored: at Reedy Point, Delaware; Sassafras River, Maryland; and finally, in Whitehall Creek, near Annapolis, where we lay just off the back yard of Bob and Billy Phelps, guiding lights of the American Yachtsmen’s Association. If anything was calculated to repair shattered morale and raise the drooping spirits of our crew, the two weeks we spent with the Phelpses was it. Their instantaneous, homely welcome, the freedom of their pleasant home, the effervescence of their two lively dogs, and the easy exchange of yachting reminiscences were all fine medicine.
During this period we made one more inland trip, to our old haunts at Yellow Springs, Ohio. Once again we had intended to take the entire group, but once again, at the last moment, plans were changed. Mickey decided he would rather go to “see friend,” who lived near Schenectady or Syracuse, or, at any rate, “somewhere in state New York.” And Nick, at the last minute, announced that he would remain on board to “write letters.” It seemed unlikely that he had enough letters to last a week, but we accepted his decision.
Our return to Yellow Springs, although hectic and far too brief, was a highlight of our stay in the States. We could recognize now how unique was the community spirit we had taken for granted during our eight years at Fels Institute and on the Antioch campus. When a public meeting was organized to welcome us “home” and permit us to meet old friends, as well as give a talk about our travels, we were very much moved.
Jessica and Joan had renewed their former friendship so completely that nothing short of a major operation could successfully separate them, so we postponed that problem by packing Joan into the station wagon with us and taking her back for a short trip on the Phoenix and a week of sightseeing in and around Washington.
At Annapolis we took on fuel and supplies and I gave a slide talk to the members of the Yacht Club. It was an enjoyable stay except for one fierce day with torrential rain, and wind speeds up to 80 mph, which shattered a large window on the club veranda. At the height of the storm, poor Joan and Jessica finally had to part, and the weather provided a dramatically satisfactory background as we put Joan on the bus for Ohio, as per arrangement with her folks.
On October 9 we left Annapolis, sailing down Chesapeake Bay. It was a quiet and pleasant interlude, during which we made four stops—at Oxford, where we picked up our new genoa jib, and at Solomon’s Island, Indian Creek and Horseshoe Shoals. At Hampton, Virginia, we stopped for a slightly longer stay. Here we discovered old friends—Hugh Gloster and his family, of Hampton Institute. Hugh had been in Hiroshima as a Fulbright fellow at the university during our stay.
Also, I’m sorry to say that once again we found ourselves in an area of segregation. When we visited the local Marine Museum, I was deeply ashamed to see the look on my men’s faces when they saw “White” and “Colored” on the rest-room doors, here in my own country.
The tension caused by such incidents possibly triggered another flare-up, which developed just before our departure from Hampton. It began as a fairly routine issue between Mickey and myself over one of his derelictions but quickly developed into a confusing verbal free-for-all. It was obvious even to the most obtuse that Nick, Mickey, and Moto were badly divided. Mickey and Moto accused Nick of being “troublemaker,” while Nick retorted that they did not really care about the success of the voyage, but were always complaining—of the food, of the routines, of the Skipper. Mickey and Moto demanded that Nick be sent home, and I myself, remembering the many times he had been my outspoken critic, wondered if he might not welcome an excuse to get out. When I asked him, however, he maintained he wanted to finish the trip as planned. It was a disturbing impasse. The three seemed to be at complete loggerheads, and I could see no compromise.