“Good,” said Mickey, his first sign of interest in the matter and incidentally the first word of English I had ever heard him speak.
The following day I amended my order to add that I was to be notified as soon as anything was sighted. It cost me more sleep, but I didn’t begrudge that. I usually woke up anyway at the change of watch, every two hours, and took a look around—but I managed to average out my quota of rest, and actually felt in fine shape.
The weeks at sea could never be disentangled in our memories were it not for the help of the ship’s log, Barbara’s diary, and most vividly of all, Jessica’s Journal. Disdaining such mundane things as barometer readings and the state of the sea, she concerned herself with vital matters, such as the activities of Mi-ke or the winners in our family games. When she thought ship events were sufficiently noteworthy to merit attention, she recorded them in her own style. Here are two interpretations of the same event:
From the ship’s log: Last night, about 2300, a very large wave, quite out of proportion to even the largest of the then current seas, broke over the ship. Estimated height about six feet above deck. Half-filled cockpit, drenched my bunk through the afterhatch and Moto’s bunk through the main companionway. Swept several small loose items overboard, and thoroughly drenched man at tiller (me) with solid water. Only one such wave—only solid water on deck all night.
From Jessica’s Journal: In the night while Skipper was on watch he just happened to look to the North. He saw a great wall of water four times the size of the biggest wave come charging toward the Phoenix. It was coming from a completely different direction from the other waves, and didn’t just go gently under, heeling us a sukoshi (little).
It came over, soaked Skipper, flowed down the hatches, and swooshed around in Skip’s bunk. It was a couple of minutes before the cockpit emptied and the water stopped coming down the hatches and we came up again. Skip says the wave was the only one of its size and kind, and maybe caused by an underwater earthquake. Mum says we heeled down and down on her side until she was sure we’d tip all the way over. I bet the lifelines skimmed the water that time! We realized how strongly the boat’s built because some boats would have been smashed up by that wave.
As to the human aspect of the voyage, I note in my log after the first few days, “Relations between all most cordial and friendly—I think this biracial setup is working out nicely.” Always in my mind was the knowledge that our venture was strung upon a chain composed of hundreds of links, some of which would inevitably wear out and have to be replaced, and some of which were irreplaceable. I tried to anticipate and to prevent undue strain upon any one part—rigging, sails, spars—or men. Which of them would give way first—and at what crucial moment? I tried to keep myself constantly aware of any evidence of chafing.
The first overt incident to occur involved Nick, the oldest of the three and my former coworker at the Commission in Hiroshima. Though usually cheerful, Nick was subject on rare occasions to unexplained moody spells during which he became almost surly. During one of these periods we had hauled the mainsail down to repair a seam. Since water from the bilge had been coming up into our bunks occasionally when we heeled way over, I said we would pump out the bilge before setting sail again.
Nick abruptly contradicted me. “No. Put up sail first.”
I was at the tiller. “No, Nick,” I insisted. “Once we put the sail up, we’ll be heeling too far to get all the water out. First we’ll pump.”