And so, for three weeks, Mickey was a free-loader. He ate regularly but took no part in the sailing of the ship. Not until we turned south, heading directly for the Hawaiian Islands, and began to pick up balmy winds, blue skies, and fair weather, did Mickey show signs of recovery. He worked halfheartedly at the simple tasks I assigned merely to get him up on deck, and at last he announced, through Nick, that he would take an hour of his watch during the afternoon. We adjusted our schedule accordingly and gradually, over a period of two or three days, Mickey felt his way back into full participation. By the time we reached Honolulu he was again our ebullient Coconut Boy.
Moto, through all this, remained quiet, gentle, and uncomplaining, the ideal shipmate. His watch followed mine, and never did he fail to come up promptly and with a smile on his face. This, in the darkness of a cold, wet, rough night takes more than a bit of doing, and my respect and liking for him increased steadily as time went on.
My arrangements for living aboard seemed to be working out well. From the main cabin we could hear Nick, Mickey, and Moto carrying on animated conversations in their own language, and Barbara, who had soon given up her praiseworthy idea of cooking special breakfasts of sour bean soup and cold rice, often reported exotic adaptations of cucumber pickles with the oatmeal.
Of all the jobs on ship, Barbara’s in many ways was the toughest. Not a boatwoman by inclination, or the typical “athletic” type of girl, she suddenly found herself thrust into a role which demanded every ounce of her courage and stamina. That she discharged her duty with full honors is shown by a simple mathematical fact: in 47 days at sea, regardless of the weather, her physical distress, or the balkiness of a temperamental kerosene stove (which the Skipper had to keep in fighting trim), she never failed to prepare and serve a meal—a hot meal—on schedule. Only those who have cooked on a small boat at sea can know what this means.
As to her personal feelings during this time, a section from her diary may give some idea:
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about people who went to sea in small sailing ships. About Columbus, for one, who set out not just for a six or eight weeks’ trip but for an incalculable and unknown number of days in search of a perhaps nonexistent land. And more than about Columbus himself, I wonder about his men, those hardy souls whose individuality has been completely overshadowed by the glory of their leader’s accomplishment. Columbus went because he had a dream and a conviction—but why, I wonder, did they go, all those unidentified others?
And I’ve been thinking about the women on the Mayflower and on all the other tiny boats that set sail so confidently for a new world. No longer are the Pilgrims a small band of cutout figures whose storybook ships are somehow manipulated by wires across a painted backdrop of heaving billows. They’ve become very real to me, people I’d like to have known and talked to. I’d like to have asked Mistress White, mother of Peregrine, “What did you think the first time you smashed into a heavy sea, so that your ship stopped short and shuddered at the impact? Did you think you’d run onto an uncharted rock and would go down in a matter of minutes? Or was there someone who knew about the sea, someone to put his arm around you and say, ‘It was only a wave, darling’?”
Or I’d like to have asked Mistress Carver and the rest of them, “Did it help to have other women aboard—or were you too miserable and scared for woman-talk to be of any use?”
In one way, I’m sure I’m better off than they, for I have my assigned duties to keep me from spending too much time in self-pity.
In addition to her job in the galley, Barbara had the personal responsibility of taking care of Jessica. Since Jessica had no special function on the boat, such as standing watch or preparing meals, she was able to get a full night’s sleep and was the only one to whom boredom during the day might have been a problem. Fortunately, her Journal had developed from an assigned chore into a welcome challenge. She had always enjoyed writing and now, in the absence of companions of her own age, she spent more and more time experimenting with words and ideas.