I was advised, however, to consult with the new director when we reached Hiroshima, as he would be “most sympathetic” to my plan for a continuation of my study on the effects of atomic radiation on the surviving children of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I appreciated the offer of sympathy, but I would have preferred something more definite, as I felt strongly that this promising line of research should be continued—if not by me, then by someone else.
We sailed from Morehead City on November 15, happy to be on the way once more. On a couple of mornings we had seen a light frost on deck, and the evenings had become too chilly for our blood and our wardrobes, both thinned by extended tropical living. Pulling away from the dock, we waved to the handful of friends we had made and headed out the channel, setting a course to the southeast as soon as we cleared the last buoy. By midnight we were well away from land and on our way to Jamaica, by way of the eastern Bahamas and the Windward Passage.
The two-week trip to the Bahamas was rather rugged, with a variety of weather that ranged from glassy calm to winds strong enough to cause us to heave to for half a day. The first part of the passage was mostly in southerlies, and not until the thirteenth day out did we have what might reasonably be called “trade wind” conditions. Even then, hesitating to tempt fate, I made the notation in the log in quotes.
On November 28, at 0900, we sighted Mayaguana Island, dead ahead, rounded the northwest point, and came to anchor just southwest of the lighthouse in five fathoms. We were fourteen days out of Morehead City and very glad to be back in the trades after a slow and vexatious passage. The direct distance was 763 miles, but we had logged over 1,000 due to the large percentage of adverse winds.
We spent the day—Thanksgiving—at Mayaguana. Like most of the Bahamas, it is low. The lighthouse, we learned, was automatic, with no sign of life around it. A wide sand road had been cleared through the surrounding growth of cactus and scrub trees, but our first shore party followed it for several miles without seeing any sign of habitation. They returned—having left me aboard to do some necessary work on the engine—with their arms full of booty: yellow fan coral, marble-white brain coral, a round fisherman’s float of blue-green glass, and numerous shells to add to Barbara’s collection, which she had persistently been building throughout our trip, in spite of our disinterest, gibes, and—when an occasional uncleaned shell smelled to high heaven—active protest. This time, however, no one said anything unkind, for we remembered that it was Thanksgiving and wanted our cook to be in a good mood.
She was. Relying entirely on canned goods, we had quite a feast, including shrimp cocktail, glazed ham, asparagus tips, potatoes (both mashed and sweet)—and, for dessert, mince pie! The prize dish, however, was neither the pie nor the ham, but a loaf of honest-to-goodness home-baked wholewheat bread which Barbara somehow managed to whip up in, of all things, a pressure cooker.
The next day Barbara and I went ashore to explore in the other direction, this time with more success. After following the road for four miles or more, we reached a small settlement—ten or twelve boxlike houses built of whitened coral stone, each with a wooden door and two wood-shuttered windows painted in blue, green or pink. The place looked deserted, but we could hear the voices of children at play and finally found a group of them. They stared at us for a moment with awe and then went tearing for the houses, yelling the news at top voice: “Ooooooh—white mon! Oooo—white mon!”
We gathered that Mayaguana was not a tourist island!
We were very hot and thirsty, but although there were some coconut trees growing in most of the dooryards, and all of them loaded with good drinking nuts, we had no coin of the realm and had not even thought to bring cigarettes or a candy bar. Several women came out to look at us and smile shyly, but no refreshment was offered and, as we had no bargaining power, we had to make the long walk back without refueling. How nostalgically we recalled the islands of the South Seas, where native hospitality had provided cool coconuts, open, ready and waiting, by the time the stranger had arrived!
In the afternoon we weighed anchor and set out for Great Inagua, some 70 miles to the south, arriving in Mathew Town late the following morning. It was Saturday, and the mail-and-supply boat had just arrived, so there was a considerable stir in the village. Five of us rowed ashore and spent several hours wandering around. As on most British islands, the buildings on Great Inagua were neat and freshly painted. The streets, paved with crushed white coral, were well laid out and carefully tended.