• in the bow: also watertight, the storage area
We loaded Sector on a trailer and headed for our family house in Kérantré, Brittany. The boat’s travels began with a ceremony that for me at least was completely unanticipated. My mother had asked me in passing if I would mind having a few neighbors drop by to see the boat, a request I had readily granted.
Scarcely had Sector landed on the family property than out of nowhere there appeared a contingent of faith commandos. The chaplain of the local seminary led the way, and, in his wake, was a tight little pack of very determined nuns. Weapons and munitions were revealed without further ado: aspergillum at the ready, an ice bucket next to it half filled with holy water. Before I could say or do anything, Sector — in my opinion completely free of original sin — was the victim of a very proper and official baptism.
Not wholly convinced of the magical properties of the operation that had just taken place, and slightly irritated by the unexpected nature of the ceremony, which had all the earmarks of being well planned, I nonetheless decided to accept it gracefully: if nothing else during the coming months, it would help my parents sleep better while I was out at sea.
The rest of the holy water was poured over the roots of a massive camellia shrub, so I thought it worthwhile upon my return home to check and see what effect, if any, the holy water had had on it. On the basis of the evidence, I think I can safely state that, while it is far from certain that the holy water had any beneficial effect, I am pleased to report that it clearly had no negative effect. Later, comparing the shrub carefully to its neighboring camellias, I can assert that I detected no noticeable increase in its size or flower, but on the other hand, no suspicious diminution either.
1 Forward peak
2 Watertight bulkhead
3 Forward stabilizer housing
4 Forward stabilizer
5 Storage area for oars
6 Storage area for provisions
7 Telex antenna
8 Solar panels
9 Oarlocks
10 Saltwater filter
11 Built-in desalination pump
12 Rowing seat
13 Port ballast
14 Compass
15 Radio antenna
16 Gas stove
17 Rudder control mechanism
18 Speed log
19 Portholes that can be opened
20 Bunk
21 Pump for transferring seawater
22 Saltwater transfer gates
23 Portside porthole
24 Watertight chest
25 Radio transmeter and receiver
26 Telex chest
27 Nickel-cadmium batteries chest
28 Electrical distribution chest
29 Aft stabilizers
30 Rudder blade
31 Aft ballast
The same day as the boat blessing and a few miles from Kérantré, the workers of the Ono Pork Butcher Factory in Pontivy had the shock of their lives. At the far end of the assembly line, sandwiched between two packages of baked ham, there appeared, packed in precisely the same way, a sweater. Then, in among the sausages, similarly packaged, were several pairs of shoes and some tee shirts. The brilliant mind behind all this apparent nonsense was Christopher, who, with the help of the factory manager, had devised a way of protecting the clothes I would be wearing during the trip.
June 16
Sector was loaded into the hold of an Air France cargo plane. Its destination: Japan. We were due to rejoin it the following day. I was still very concerned about all the time we had lost in May. And worried about the possibilities of further delays — Japan is such a complicated country. Cornelia, Guillaume, and Ann accompanied me to the airport. I’m not what you might call a very effusive person when it comes to good-byes. Nor in any other circumstances, I might add.
All of us put up a good front, keeping our emotions at bay by exchanges of light-hearted banter. Were they fully aware of the potential consequences of what I was about to do? Or, for that matter, was I?
2
“Good Luck”
June 17
As our plane descended toward Narita Airport on the outskirts of Tokyo, I had only one thought in mind: put out to sea as soon as possible. For the past six months, all I’d done was negotiate and argue with suppliers, bureaucrats, and backers. All the delays in building and fitting out the boat had completely worn me out.
My most optimistic projections had convinced me that the northern Pacific route would take from four to five months. My original plan, therefore, had been to leave Japan in the spring, with the hope of reaching the California coastline early in the fall. I knew that after October the weather conditions in the North Pacific changed dramatically for the worse: storms are more frequent, last much longer, the seas are extremely rough — especially dangerous for small craft — and, certainly not the least to consider, the days grow shorter and colder.
Even back in Paris, I was obsessed with having to postpone my departure date. I was undertaking not only a test of endurance but a race against the clock. At issue was not just success or failure in the usual sense of terms — my life was on the line.
Now as we touched down at Narita, I opened my 1991 desk diary and duly noted the entry under June 2: Possible departure date. At the time I’d made that entry, it seemed a reasonable assumption for a crazy project, but it did not take into account two elements: the Gulf War and the impossible month of May in France. The former I could not have foreseen, but from long experience I should have anticipated problems during that spring month of national paralysis. We were already two weeks behind schedule — was there any chance we might make up some of that lost time here in Japan?
My first official task was to visit the naval authorities of the port of Choshi. Accompanying me was my faithful guide and interpreter, Mitsuru. We left our shoes at the door and precariously made our way across an impeccably polished linoleum floor toward a group of functionaries seated at a table at the far end of the room. There were six in all, and to me it looked as we approached that all six were shaking their heads in unison, doubtless wondering how they were going to deal with this crazy Frenchman and his cockeyed project: Had they understood correctly? He was going to cross the Pacific by rowing? If in the rest of the world my project had met with either a show of surprise or skepticism, here in Japan, where individual exploits are uncommon, where group decisions are the rule, not the exception, where long communal discussions are required before any major decision is made, on any level of the multilayered hierarchy, it ran into a stone wall of incomprehension.
I told them that my boat, the Sector, would be arriving shortly in Japan, which provoked a round of murmurs among my bureaucratic sextet, all of whom seemed visibly embarrassed. Sensing that language or customs might be a barrier, I had come armed with a model of the boat and its equipment. I was sure that a simple show-and-tell would be far more eloquent and convincing than any words I could muster. I showed them the model, complete with tiny oars, and thought I had convinced them of the nature and validity of the project, when I realized from Mitsuru’s translation that at least one of these gentlemen had thought I was the builder of the model boat and was seeking authorization to sail it in the Choshi port. Adding to the confusion was an electronic device I showed them, which they took to be the radar command for the toy boat. When I explained to them that this was my distress signal, which I would wear day and night throughout the voyage, it provoked an avalanche of technical questions that I tried to field as best I could. The more authoritative I sounded, I thought, the better my chances of success.
Who among them would break rank and offer a personal opinion? Without any rules or regulations to fall back on, all functionaries, in my experience, no matter what their nationality, are almost always thrown for a loss.
While the two lower-rung bureaucrats in the room buried themselves in their eternal files, their superiors withdrew in pairs into their inner chambers to continue their consultations. It was ten minutes to si
x, and I knew the offices closed at six sharp. It was a critical situation, because the next day I was slated to be in Tokyo for a press conference. The unsmiling gentlemen filed back into the room, and it was clear to me that either no decision had been made or, if it had, the news was not good. Smiling, I greeted them with my ace in the hole, a photo album, including press coverage, of my 1980 Atlantic crossing, to show them both the nature and seriousness of my project. It was a propitious decision, for I could see that not only did they now understand but that I had offered the leader of the group a way out of the impasse without losing face.
“And when you left the United States, what did the American authorities say to you?”
“They said to me, ‘Good luck!’ “
A new retreat into private chambers by all six. A minute later one of them reappeared, smiling broadly, and said: “We say to you, ‘Good luck!’ “
June 18
Back in Tokyo. Sector’s agent, Jack Sagazaki, had done a first-rate job on the press conference. The room was packed with journalists and, in addition, the French ambassador had graced the event with his presence, which lent the project an authoritative air that it needed badly.
During the introductory remarks, which were going on forever, I thought back to the press conference we had held in Paris a few weeks before. We had carefully placed the personal representative of the Japanese ambassador to France in the front row. The next day I called him to request, now that he presumably understood the project, that he write a letter of introduction for me to the pertinent authorities in Japan, explaining both the nature and importance of the project. After a long pause on the other end — it was probably no more than ten seconds but seemed like a half hour — he answered, in obvious embarrassment, “I’m so very sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. Just think, what if everybody decided to do what you’re doing! And besides, this is something I clearly must discuss with my colleagues… .”
I had gotten my first lesson in the mentality of the Japanese bureaucrat.
Francesco Iacono, Sector’s marketing director for worldwide sales, explained why his company was sponsoring the event. Then he passed the microphone to me.
As I had in Paris, I began by showing the route I planned to take, explaining the reasons for the northern choice and for picking Japan as my point of departure. I also ran through the communication devices I had on board, the solar-operated radio and the telex that would communicate via satellite. Then I gave a thorough rundown on Sector itself, using my well-worn model and its basic equipment. After that I said I’d be happy to answer any questions.
“Where is your toilet?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, on your model I don’t see any indication of either a shower or toilet? Could you tell us where they are, or how you’re going to handle … ah … those things?”
Slightly taken aback by the completely unexpected question, in good French fashion, I tried a diversionary tactic, hoping humor would win the day.
“Well, the fact is, the toilet is all around the boat.”
Since my questioner seemed not at all enlightened by my response, I pressed on, not realizing that humor has no place in matters of such gravity and substance.
“You might say that I will be the first transpacific traveler who will be rowing through his own cesspool.”
Now I sensed that the more I said the worse things would get and, fearing that my words, especially in translation, could have catastrophic repercussions on the ecological front, I finished with a flourish, hoping to repair the damage.
“I should also add that I will be the first transpacific traveler who, thanks to my desalination pumps, will be drinking water for five months from his cesspool.”
Muted laughter from that part of the room where the French journalists were gathered; total bafflement everywhere else. (That evening a major Japanese tabloid would publish a lovely sketch of the Sector — its shower and toilet prominently displayed!)
Another question: “When do you expect to leave?”
“As soon as I’ve had a chance to check out all the equipment and the weather turns favorable.”
“1 see. Which means when, exactly?”
For a moment I had forgotten that we were in Japan, where it is inconceivable for any project to be taken seriously unless its timetable has been rigorously projected.
“Well, uh, I should say … June twenty-third!”
June 19
The various people scheduled either to work with me on the project or cover it for the media were slowly arriving. The video crew. The photographer. The journalist from French television. And, none too soon, Bruno.
I had known Bruno for almost thirty years. He had helped me design and build the Captain Cook in the late 1970s, and he had rejoined my crew in Brittany for the launching and testing of the Sector. He had followed me to Japan to make sure the new boat would be functioning perfectly when I set out.
Bruno’s knowledge of all things nautical was phenomenal. He was a walking encyclopedia; he could answer any question having to do with ships and boats, ancient or modern, whether it was the overall length of the piping on a nuclear submarine or the meaning of the word chajuste.* He could tell you in a trice the weight of the Normandie’s propellers — or the age of its last captain.
More important, his practical knowledge was as great as his theoretical knowledge, and in nautical matters he tolerated no compromise on any front. His passion for the sea was such, in fact, that he often ran into difficulties with the land-based police, who tended to show abysmal ignorance when it came to maritime matters. For instance, Bruno’s car had been stopped more than once simply because the vehicle was outfitted — like any boat worthy of its name — with green lights to starboard and red lights to port.
• Archaic, and quite rare, French nautical term for steam engine.
No sooner had he landed in Japan than Bruno showed his true colors. His traveling companions suggested that he go up to Tokyo with them, where they were scheduled to meet Christopher and me. “Sorry, guys,” was his answer. “I came here to take care of Sector, which is due to arrive today, I’ll be at the airport to meet it.”
They pointed out to him that while Sector might indeed be arriving that day, it would be kept in a warehouse somewhere in customs. In which case, Bruno responded, “I’ll stay in the warehouse with it. I brought my sleeping bag, so that won’t be a problem.” Notified by phone of Bruno’s adamant stance, Christopher used all his considerable powers of persuasion to convince our walking encyclopedia that after fifteen hours of air travel he could profit from a few hours sleep without jeopardizing Sector’s future.
June 20
The customs officials at Narita Airport were perplexed. My freeze-dried food concentrate — all 120 kilos of it, or about 250 pounds — had just arrived, and these officials, food specialists all, could not for the life of them figure out into which category the material should fall. Importing food into Japan is tightly controlled, and they would doubtless have to open every aluminum-sealed package to verify its contents. Each package, by the way, contained a single dish.
I explained to the number one customs official that were he to do so, the food would be ruined, which would mean abandoning my project. Nonetheless I did open one package. He poured the mummified contents onto the table. He stared at it for a long moment, then looked up at me, looked down again at the “food,” then said to me, clearly in a state of disbelief, “You mean to say you’re going to eat this for five months?”
I told him that when you added a little hot water to what he saw before him, it turned magically into a juicy steak.
Gingerly, he put the dried steak back into its container. As he went about signing the customs forms, he asked us, in an apparent cultural aside, how the French ate their steaks, and what side dishes went best with them, in our opinion. As we left, I noted that he had put on his teapot to boil. Just add a little hot water, you say?
Having taken care of these
formalities, Mitsuru, Christopher, and I set out for Choshi by car, followed by Sector on a flatbed truck, with Bruno baby-sitting right beside it. As soon as the convoy arrived, Bruno set about preparing Sector for its Far-Eastern launching. Dear Bruno. Until the day I set off, he left Sector’s side only when he was forced to run some absolutely indispensable errand. He slept on board. He kept a round-the-clock check on its mooring lines. He checked and rechecked its fittings, constantly coming up with suggestions for improvements, to the point where his sense of perfection began to get on my nerves, But how many times, in the course of that interminable voyage at sea, did I think back with gratitude and wonder at the care and concern he had lavished on this frail craft, and thank him silently for some fitting or fixture which, because of him, functioned perfectly.
June 21
The rest of the crew were due to rejoin us from Tokyo. They weren’t exactly sure of their arrival time, because on their way they had to pick up an indispensable piece of video equipment we had forgotten to bring from France. One tiny piece of equipment and five healthy, reasonably sane adults — what could be simpler? Six hours later, they finally showed up. Wiped out and in a state of nervous exhaustion bordering on hysteria, they explained that they had gotten lost, not once, not a dozen times, but repeatedly, endlessly. Their only satisfaction was that they had found the missing piece of equipment. That was the good news. The bad news was that they had left it in the last taxi they had taken! To make matters worse, it had not stopped raining since we arrived. The rain didn’t stop our progress, but it did dampen our fragile morale. One did not need a crystal ball to know that my trials and tribulations had only begun.
The Riverside Hotel, where we were staying, was not exactly what one would call a palace. The intrepid traveler was greeted by a floor covering not of wool carpet but of a kind of plastic matting, bright green in color, like an artificial lawn.
The beds were a mite small, which had a certain virtue in that, had they been standard length, they would have spilled out into the hallway, and had they been any wider, the room would have been wall-to-wall bed. From the hotel’s name, one might infer that, in contrast to the minor drawbacks, the weary voyager would at least have a lovely view of the Tone River. Not so. Between the hotel and the lemon-colored waters of the river stood another building, its wall a scant ten feet from our windows.
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