“But we have only tourist visa. Cannot work.” This from Nick, who had been strongly warned against trying to earn any money while staying in Hawaii.
“Oh, you can work here right enough! Anybody can. When will you start?”
“I don’t think ...” Nick was obviously bewildered, afraid of getting into trouble, not sure he had understood correctly, or perhaps reluctant to desert the boat. I knew how low all the boys were in personal funds and hurried up to reassure him that they were quite free to take any job they might wish. Before I could get there, however, the would-be employer had pressed ahead so eagerly to close the deal that he had twice raised the going rate—although even the base pay was far more than any of the men had ever received in Japan—and had even agreed, without being asked, to have a taxi call for and deliver them every day.
And, as Moto said in bewilderment after the visitor had extracted their willing promises and gone, “We don’t even know what kind work! Maybe we cannot do!”
Actually, the job turned out to be the breaking up old American planes for scrap metal, a task that all three could do very well and took a particular delight in getting paid for.
Christmas in Auckland, 8,000 miles from home, found us locked up behind the high board fence of a deserted shipyard. December being midsummer in New Zealand and the height of the yachting season, we had found only one shipyard that could accommodate us for the bottom job we had promised the Phoenix—and that only if we would do our own work over the holidays. On the morning of Friday the 23rd the workmen had made a feeble gesture of assisting us to haul out—then silently stole away to start their vacations. Before we knew it, the last of them had gone, locking the gate behind him, and there we were—trapped.
Of course, we could always rescue ourselves by rowing the dinghy along the shore until we found an escape hatch, but we wanted easier access to our ship. Moreover, we were smarting with the indignity of it. How dare they just walk off and lock us in? (We had yet to learn that the New Zealand workman will dare anything.)
The family and I explored the yard, whose fences extended down to the waterfront on either side, in a vain search for a man-sized mousehole. Nick, Mickey, and Moto stayed on board and settled themselves for a philosophical nap. Situations like this, they seemed to feel, were pre-eminently the problem of the Skipper.
Dusk was falling as we climbed onto a pile of lumber near the main gate and peered over into the silent, empty streets.
Suddenly Jessica shouted, “Man ho!”