Ted and I consulted the charts and laid out anchorages in advance for each night: Lizard, Bewick, Hannah, and Night islands; all uninhabited, of course. The last 200 miles we planned to do in a final stretch from morning of one day until afternoon or evening of the next.
Back of our planning was the knowledge that better men than we had come to grief in this treacherous region, including Captain Cook himself. Even the old master, Slocum, had nicked a coral reef with the Spray, “while going full speed.” He was a lucky man, in that a six-inch difference in the tide would have put a sudden end to his voyage.
There was no settlement along this stretch, no emergency telephone or first-aid station, nor any outside help. To me, it seemed somehow more isolated than mid-ocean and many times more dangerous. The area offers fabulous beauty, endless variety, wonderful sailing, and just below the surface—treacherous, lurking danger. Even cloud shadows playing across the surface of the blue-green waters could be nerve-racking, suggesting the presence of underwater coral heads.
Our fears were not without justification. On the evening of June 15 we approached Hannah Island, whose automatic light had already begun to flash its signal through the dusk. Under mizzen and foresail, we came in slowly from the south, staying well west of the light and taking soundings. Suddenly events kaleidoscoped.
“Eight o!” called Moto, swinging the lead up forward. Almost immediately, on the next cast, his report changed urgently. “No! Cannot! Yon dake!—Four!”
“Hard to port!” I shouted. Ted, at the helm, pushed it hard over but before we could even begin to swing around there was a shock of impact. With an ominous crunch we ground to a stop.
“We’ve hit!”
No further words were needed. Barbara and Jessica huddled on the deck box, keeping out of the way while the men sprang to drop the sails. I went below and started the engine, but already the moment was past. Pushed by the current, the bow of the Phoenix swung gradually and she drifted free astern. Unbelievably, we felt again the gentle rise and fall of the deck beneath our feet.
Hardly daring to credit our luck, I kept the engine going as we drifted and sounded until we had reached eight fathoms. Then we dropped the hook. We checked immediately and pumped out, but so far as we could tell only the keel had hit and we were taking no water.
In the morning—after a restless night in which treacherous coral heads intruded into my dreams—we checked our position and tried to estimate where we had been the previous night. As far as we could determine, we had been nowhere near the reef as indicated on the chart. It seemed likely that we had happened on an isolated coral head, as yet unmarked, and we made careful notes so that the maritime agency could check further.