All of our ship work operated through such narrow, but clear channels. We communicated in a kind of basic English. Instead of saying, “Hand me the painter,” I would say, “Give me the small boat rope.” We didn’t strike sails, we took them down; we didn’t make fast, we tied.
Sometimes situations arose for which no channel of communication existed, and at such times problems arose. Take the following incident from the log:
We are approaching Tahiti now. Therefore, some time ago I made a little speech to the crew, emphasizing that I wanted particular care to be taken in making good the compass course assigned, in reading and reporting the data from the log, etc. The purpose, of course, I explained, was so that we would have a reliable dead-reckoning position, if the weather closed in on us, and it became impossible to take sights as we approached land.
It seemed to me that this was well understood by the men. On the morning of the 17th, as we worked on our dead-reckoning position, Ted and I noted that our speed had dropped off sharply between midnight, when I went off watch, and 0600, when I next checked the log—dropped, in fact, from the steady 6–7 knots we had been making to a little over 4.
I asked Nick, “Everything all right last night?” “Sure, okay!” (That international word!) “Was the wind the same, all night?” Nick consulted with Moto and Mickey. “Yes.” “Same as now?” “Yes.”
I went back to our figures, but they still didn’t jibe; I tried again. “Are you sure you gave me correct log figures?” Another conference. “Yes, okay.” Then either the log was defective or we must have lost speed during the night, because now we were again running between 6 and 7 knots.
There was a long conference this time. Finally Nick said, “Mickey says log no good his watch.” “Why not?” “Fish line tangle with log line—long time to fix—Mickey thinks log no good then?” “I think—maybe not,” I said, and retired to my cabin to cool down.
We passed Tetiaroa in the darkness on the night of June 19 and estimated that we should see Venus Point light before daylight. At 0500 we picked up the flashes dead ahead and set our clocks—and our spirits—on Tahiti time.
As dawn broadened into day we could see the peaks of the magnificent island take form, their green serrated ridges touched with yellow in the early morning sun. As we approached Papeete, a rainbow arched over the town, giving us an auspicious welcome. We worked our way through the pass and a pilot boat, whose assistance is obligatory in these islands, came out to meet us and guide us to our berth. The pilot—quite naturally—spoke French, putting the burden of reply on Barbara, who, groping wildly for the appropriate foreign language, came up with only Japanese! Her confusion was only temporary, however, and soon we were able to inform the pilot that our top speed was a possible three knots. This was too slow to suit our escort (too slow, here in the South Seas?), so we were put on a tow and hustled into the harbor.
There, at 1000 on June 20, twenty-seven days and 2,500 miles out of Hilo, we dropped anchor in the harbor of Papeete—the first port of our trip that was truly foreign to us all.