1200. No sign.
This was the obituary of a companion who had signed on with us the day the Phoenix was launched. How she came to go over the side we’ll never know. Perhaps the block of the genoa sheet, alternately slacking off and jerking upward in the light airs had snapped up and caught her unawares, stunning her and flipping her over the side.
Jessica, consoling herself with Manuia, said little, but it was obvious that this break in our security had affected her. In fact, the event served to bring home to us all most forcefully how vulnerable we were. We had begun to regard the Phoenix as a safe little world in the midst of the vast ocean, a kind of magic circle within which we were safe, where nothing could touch us. Yet now one of our group had slipped out of that world and was gone—quietly, irrevocably, and without even the man on watch being aware of her leaving.
As we moved slowly westward, it was both fascinating and frustrating to study the charts and to realize that to each side of us lay great areas that begged for exploration, areas we would never see, since we knew we were not likely to pass that way again. To the south lay the Northern Territory of Australia, of which very little is known even today, with Melville and Bathurst islands still the home of Stone Age man. To our north, past the wilds of New Guinea, stretched islands we knew only from their bewitching names: Aru, Tanimbar, Sermata, Damar, Watubela, Ceram, Misol.... It made us wish that time were never-ending. We could only mutter, with no real conviction, “We’ll see ’em next time around.”
Finally, on July 6, the island of Timor rose out of the haze off the starboard bow—a birthday present for Mickey, this time, but not one he could pack away under his bunk with his other trophies.
All the next day we cruised westward, with the land growing more distinct. By late afternoon we were sailing just off the southern shore, but it was obvious that we could not reach Kupang that night. The coasts of islands in the Indonesian archipelago are not marked with coastal beacons as was the case along even the most deserted stretches of the Australian shores and I had no desire to feel my way along a dark and unknown coast by night and then grope through an unlighted channel on the way to Kupang. Telok Bay, Sakala, seemed to offer a protected anchorage, so we dropped the hook there in eight fathoms, half a mile offshore. It was a restless night, with considerable swell, so I insisted on keeping anchor watch once more.
This time Barbara, who had been sharing the extra daytime hour at the tiller with Jessica whenever we set the clocks back, volunteered to take an hour of night duty. Later, she confessed that the experience had given her a new respect for the job of the man on watch!
Every time we pitched, the anchor chain jerked, making the most frightful noise—as if it were going to break or rip out of its fastenings at any moment. I kept studying the points of land on each side of the bay, trying to decide whether or not we’d shifted position, which would mean the anchor was dragging and I ought to call Skipper. What a burden of responsibility! There’s nothing like darkness—and being on duty all alone—to magnify one’s fear!
At 0500 the next morning, we got underway and continued along the coast. This was supposed to be the “dry season,” but the visibility was consistently poor and at times rain blotted out the land. Several times we passed sails—Indonesian praus—the first signs of humanity we had seen since leaving Carpentaria Light Boat behind.
We flew our colors and the Indonesian flag, which Jessica had made during the trip, straightened up the deck, readied the anchor, and put on clean shirts. After we had dropped anchor in the harbor of Kupang, I even celebrated by going below for a quick—and necessary—shave.