Christmas was quietly observed by the family, with none of the gaiety of previous years. However, we did have our Christmas mail, which had been piling up for us on the other side of the Isthmus, and we had a most interesting introduction to the Canal when we went across by train—“Span a Continent, Atlantic to Pacific, in One Afternoon!” Skirting the Canal and Gatun Lake, we could catch glimpses of great steamships which seemed to be moving sedately through the jungle. Occasionally, as the track ran closer to the Canal, we saw them pausing at one of the locks, to be raised or lowered, or wandering as if along an inland stream, looking as lost as if they had been cast up from the Flood.
Back in Cristobal—the narrow American strip which borders the sprawling Panamanian city of Colón—we went ahead with arrangements for making transit of the Canal as soon as Mickey and Moto were on their way. On the day after Christmas I went “across the tracks” to Colón, to order a new foresail from a sailmaker whose address I had been given. It was depressing to walk through the narrow, dirty streets, which contrasted so markedly with the solid buildings and clean, broad streets on the American side. Only the children were out as I wandered through the seemingly deserted town; the elders presumably were still recovering from Christmas. In the alleys, as I passed, little boys were futilely snapping silent cap pistols guaranteed only yesterday to give forever five thousand bangs a day; while little girls were mourning over the cracked heads of their unbreakable plastic dolls.
On January 6, early in the morning, the Eishin Maru arrived and Mickey and Moto transferred themselves and their belongings under the eye of the authorities. The log makes the final entry:
Jan. 6, 1958. Mickey Suemitsu and Moto Fushima sailed today for Japan, on Eishin Maru. All family agreed Mickey must go, but feel sorry Moto went along. However, for months he has been in very poor spirits and losing weight, though thorough medical examination shows nothing wrong, so perhaps all for best.
Now only five in party.
On January 9 we made our transit of the Canal. We were told we would need extra “linesmen” aboard—either hired or volunteered—and Jim Barrett, who with his family had given us help and friendship far beyond the call of duty, promptly offered to take a day off and lend us a hand.
In addition, the pilot himself, when he reported aboard in the drizzly predawn darkness, brought along a companion, an apprentice pilot getting his first experience of taking a yacht through the locks. The weather was rainy and windy—the worst we had had since our arrival. At 0600 we got away from the anchorage and headed for Gatun Locks in a driving rain.
Well padded with fenders, and with one line forward and two aft, we entered the first lock, slipping in just behind the freighter Santa Olivia. We had elected to go through by tying alongside the walls, rather than tying to another boat or being held by lines in the middle of the lock. The walls stretched high above our heads. It was much the worst lock, but even so, when the water started pouring in, I was surprised at the turbulence. With a man on each line, we strained to keep our position. Suddenly a heavy surge hit us, and with a loud popping sound the two after lines snapped. Out of control, the ship plunged almost across the chamber, with only the forward line still holding.
At once our pilot, Captain Torstenson, blew a whistle and the incoming flow of water stopped. We hauled ourselves back toward the starboard wall by our remaining line, fending off as we came in, and leaving a slight mark where our bowsprit ground a light patch in the slimy discoloration of the lock wall. Fresh lines were broken out and made fast, and we tried it again, this time with the water coming in at a more sedate rate. The lift proceeded without further incident, and soon we were floating on a level with the men who had peered down on us a few minutes before. A great chain was dropped across the lock behind us, the heavy double gates ahead swung open, and we proceeded cautiously behind Santa Olivia into Lock No. Two. Each succeeding lift became easier, but because of our lack of power, the closest attention was required throughout the transit.
From the third lock we emerged into Gatun Lake, and a completely new type of sailing—in a fresh-water lake 90 feet above sea level where our course, marked by buoys at regular intervals, led past the skeleton tops of long-submerged trees and the peaks of hills which had learned to be islands. Santa Olivia moved rapidly out of sight, and many other vessels passed us going in both directions during the day. All the way across the lake we had unsettled weather, but the wind was fair, so I suggested using the sails to help out in the open areas. Captain Torstenson was a power man, however, and vetoed the idea. He seemed to be in no hurry. In fact, he and his assistant, Captain Fetherston, were both amiable, easygoing chaps who seemed to consider this job as a sort of picnic. They regaled us with lively stories of the Canal and its operations, and their relaxed attitude was infectious. We all took it easy and enjoyed the trip.