Now we were well on our way, and there was no turning back. Until we passed the islands, perhaps in all our minds had been the knowledge that actually we were still close to land, and might if necessary put in or send out a call on the emergency radio. But now we were heading into the empty North Pacific, well outside the shipping lanes. Soon we would be far beyond the range of our tiny sending set, and for the rest of the 4,000-mile trip, until we reached Hawaii, we would be completely on our own.
In the first several days we saw a ship or two, and on November 10 a four-engined plane passed over us. After that, nothing ... with one exception.
I had given standing orders, of course, to be notified, day or night, if anything was sighted. According to my log, this is what happened one dark night:
11/13. Poor run yesterday, high wind and higher waves. Slogged it out, but everyone sick of the jouncing. Slept fairly well, as waves gradually subsided. At 0400, Mickey, at the tiller, poked his head down the hatch. “Reynolds-sensei,” he said, without expression.
“Yes?” I asked sleepily.
“Fune desu—boat.”
“Chikai desuka?—Is it close?”
“Hai, so desu—Yes, it is,” noncommitally.
I jumped up and poked my head out. When Mickey said close he meant close. Just off our stern was a flattop, looking as big as a mountain, which seemed to be bearing right down on us. I jumped to the cabintop and waved our kerosene lantern frantically, while Mickey, as ordered, turned the flashlight on the sails.
After a long minute the carrier slowly changed its course to port and gradually faded out of sight.