11/28. Bottom dropped out of barometer last night. (Barograph broken, too rough for ink to stay in well.) Down 14 points overnight. Wind and waves built up, hove to at 0800. Ship rides nicely. Had a big breakfast and all hands turned in for some rest.
11/29. Hove to all night. Everybody got good rest. First full night’s sleep I’ve had since trip began. Feel fine. Barometer fell slowly until midnight (988 millibars), then rose slowly ... night clear and stars shining brightly. Wind shifted between 2400 and 0200. Underway again 0900.
And so, with the barometer rising, the wind dropping, and the seas moderating, the cycle is completed, only to repeat itself during the next week, and the next, and the next—as long as we remain in the latitudes of the prevailing westerlies, above 30° North.
Just before the new low, there might be a day of calm:
12/2. Very quiet night—seas down and wind gentle. Today is drying and cleaning day—first chance. Everything damp—for last several days have slept on cabin floor, because of soaked bunk from Big Wave—so today is a welcome respite. Started engine today, as a check, third time since Nov. 1—started at once, no trouble. Checked food sacks. Moisture just beginning to get to them. Will open the sacks that remain—dry and grease where needed—should be okay for rest of trip.
Amazing odor—went on deck to find boys had got out their dried squid—now soaked and moldy—and strewn them all over the cabintop, to dry in the sun. Almost prefer bad weather.
Once we had crossed the date line and entered the Western Hemisphere—the family’s part of the world—we felt that we were on the downhill run. The morale of the ship’s company was high, where before we had been a bit subdued and introspective, going around, as it were, with our mental fingers crossed. Now, although we knew we still had a long way to go, we felt that we had a pretty good example of what the Pacific had to offer at this season and, although we did not much care for it, we had gained confidence in our ship and in ourselves. These days we sailed through weather that would have made us heave to earlier. This was not through bravado, but because we now knew that it was safe to do so. Thus, our average day’s run became encouragingly longer.
On December 5, at 163° West Longitude, we passed below the 30th parallel and began to drop down on the Hawaiian Islands. On the chart we had marked what we called “Position X,” a point about 60 miles north of the island of Molokai, and for this we headed. Our plan was to round up gradually on this point and then head directly south. Particularly, we would be careful not to get too far west, which would put us downwind of the islands.
Shortly after crossing the date line we had begun to pick up United States radio stations, though we listened to them mainly to get news and check our chronometer with a time signal. Now, as we neared our destination, the Honolulu stations began to come in more and more clearly. On December 8, while I was listening with earphones to the tag end of the 1800 newscast, I heard the announcer say: “The Honolulu Coast Guard says, ‘No word yet from the missing yacht Phoenix.’”
This bulletin came as a complete surprise to all of us. In fact, my shipmates seemed inclined to believe at first that I was trying to pull their collective leg. It seemed unlikely that anyone would be interested in our arrival—certainly not to the extent of broadcasting our nonarrival. We speculated endlessly. “No word yet—” What word? Why should there be any word? How could they expect us to report when we had no means of communication and had seen no ships for the past month? Most important of all, we weren’t even overdue. The 45-day estimate I had given the U.S. Navy and the Japanese Coast Guard before we left Takamatsu had not yet elapsed, so it was too early for alarm. What did it all mean?