“No.”
I stepped into the cockpit. “I will take the tiller.” Mickey left the cockpit, as I began to steer. The boat passed us close to port. I said, “Mickey, you are through.”
He went below. In a short while Nick appeared. “What is trouble?” he asked.
I explained the circumstances. “Unless Mickey is willing to apologize and make some effort to cooperate from now on, he is through,” I added.
This time I felt, and the family agreed with me, that the time had come for a showdown. Mickey knew how earnestly we hoped to finish the voyage with our original crew, but we felt that, more and more, he was taking advantage of this knowledge, confident that we would condone anything rather than break up the crew. Usually, however, his behavior took a more subtle form, such as shirking in his work, coming up late for “all hands on deck,” calling his relief watch five minutes early, and so on. He had seldom been, like Nick, openly in opposition, but on the other hand, I knew where I stood with Nick, although I didn’t welcome his spots of defiance. At least they cleared the air.
For the first time in our entire relationship we determined that Mickey must admit his error, apologize, and make some gesture of reconciliation. (In private I decided that even a very small gesture would suffice—but I, too, had my face to save.)
We completed the trip to Jamaica, with Mickey relieved of duty. By noon on the fourth day out we were off Kingston harbor but, rather than enter the busy harbor, we decided to pull in to the docks at Port Royal. We were still well out when a launch approached and we were boarded by officials who efficiently went about clearing us while we were still on the way in. By midafternoon we were safely tied up, had been cleared and given such a cordial welcome that we never did get around to moving the Phoenix over to Kingston.
But casting a shadow over the friendly ministrations of Sir Anthony and Lady Jenkinson, who were living aboard their yacht Fairweather while operating the hospitable Port Royal Beach Club, was the uncomfortable knowledge that the “clearinghouse session,” which I had put off until we reached port, would have to be held that night, and would be definitive. We all dreaded it, but unless Mickey was willing to meet me halfway, admit his error, and make a genuine promise to mend his increasingly insolent ways, we would have to part company. I said as much to Nick, who was doing what he could as go-between, but Nick brought word that Mickey would not apologize, that he considered it an “insult” for me to tell him what to do.
The meeting that night was brief and bitter. I stated my position, in clear and simple words. Mickey stood firm. I told him that in that case I would have to send him back to Japan.
He said, “Good!”