I Married Adventure

by Osa Johnson

  Of course, all were desperately seasick. Tochigi lay in his bunk most of the time as if paralyzed; Martin made for his at every opportunity.

  To top all this, the gasoline seeped out of the nonleakable tanks, filling the cabins with fumes; the flying-jib boom poked its nose into the water and broke off clean; the ship got into a trough and, through some fault in her construction, refused to heave to; the patent sea anchor, warranted not to dive, promptly started for the bottom when made fast; the beautifully and expensively fitted bathroom went out of commission the first day at sea; a particularly violent blast of wind carried away the jib and staysail; and in spite of the intricate electrical system, there were no lights and fans—the engine wouldn’t work—nothing worked! No ship ever went to sea with more things wrong with her. And so the unfortunate vessel creaked and groaned its way across the Pacific toward Hawaii, the sport of every wave.

  Luckily for Martin, the appetites of the crew were not at their peak, so most of the time preparing food was merely a matter of warming the contents of a can or two. No bride ever relied more on her can-opener than did Martin. At irregular intervals—dictated usually by the size of the waves—Martin baked bread which they say was not bad. But it was next to impossible to do any real cooking. Dishes defied all laws of gravity, and the stove was caked with food that had slopped over.

  On Monday, May 20, 1907, the Snark, after skirting disaster for twenty-seven days, dropped anchor in Pearl Harbor and furled her sails. It seemed a paradise to those six sea-weary souls. It was so good to be on solid ground again. According to the newspapers, the Snark had been given up as lost and reported gone down with all hands on board.

  Martin could hardly walk. The land tilted just like the ship, and for days he would find himself spreading his feet apart to keep from falling.

  He swam, he fished, he took pictures, he played. He did everything but cook. He put it more graphically than I can when he wrote, “For my part I had plenty of leisure. After an heroic silence of days, the crew finally broke out in protest against my cooking. They simply could stand no more of it. When on the sea, it had been eat it or starve; but now that they were ashore, there was a greater latitude of choices. We all boarded with different folks in the vicinity, and the poor harassed crew forgot its troubles in the delight of eating once more the things that humans eat, cooked as humans would cook them.”

  For nearly five months the Snark remained in the Hawaiian Islands, being completely overhauled from stem to stern. The engine was put into excellent shape; the boat had a full new coat of paint and, with the exception of Mr. and Mrs. London and Martin, a brand-new crew.

  For various reasons (Martin suspected it was mainly on account of the cooking, Captain Eames, Bert, and Tochigi all discovered urgent business back in San Francisco and resigned from the cruise. In their stead, the Londons signed on Captain Rosehill. Here was a real navigator! The way he sailed and anchored the Snark was marvelous to those landlubbers who had been handling the vessel as a small boy would a tub.

  Martin was advanced to engineer and was beside himself with pride. He had learned all the idiosyncrasies of the seventy-horse-power engine and was undoubtedly worthy of the promotion, but I suspect that Jack did it to get a new cook. Martin wrote to Jess Utz, his cooking teacher, “I guess, Jess, my cooking wasn’t so much of a success—they’ve hired someone else.”

  Wada, who was Japanese, was a very good cook and could speak fluent English. Nakata, also Japanese, was signed as cabin boy and could speak no English. A Dutchman who gave only the name of Herman was a good-natured deep-sea sailor whom they secured to round out the crew. He worked with great goodwill in storm or calm, always singing in one or another of a half-dozen languages.

  With these as a crew, the refurbished Snark sailed out of Honolulu, stopping at Hilo and the leper island of Molokai, and on October 7, 1907, cast off the shore lines to begin the two-thousand-mile sail across the Pacific. This part of the cruise was not nearly so unfortunate to incident as the first. It would have been a very pleasant journey except for the fact that in fair weather or foul the boat lunged, dipped, tipped, and surged, shifting and twisting with never an instant of quiet. Many times during a heavy blow the rails and deck would be buried in the sea. Sometimes the ship would be lifted high on the crest of a billow and the next moment plunged into a trough to be surrounded by towering waves.

  Once a storm was welcome—it saved their lives. During a frightful gale, one of the Japanese boys failed to close the tanks containing the drinking water. In the morning, not a drop remained in any of the storage tanks, and there was left about ten gallons in a small auxiliary tank. Immediately, Jack put each member of the party on an allowance of one quart a day.

  It is difficult for anyone who has never experienced a shortage of water to realize just how inadequate a quart a day is for comfort, especially in the tropics, where one perspires copiously. As the days went by, the thirst became maddening. Martin dreamed of the Saline River and of the old mill. He dreamed of carrying precious water to fill his mother’s washtubs. And always as he was about to bury his face in it he would awaken with a gasp.

  The situation became more and more acute as the small supply of that life-sustaining fluid dwindled. Twelve hundred miles from land, and no fresh drinking water!

  At last a storm was blowing up. They spread a large deck awning to catch as much water as possible. The storm swept toward them. They waited with eager anticipation! Then, to their infinite dismay, some prank of the wind stopped the squall within a few hundred yards.

  More rainless days went by!

  Death seemed a reality. Then they were awakened by the drum of a heavy tropical rain on deck. Again they spread the awnings, and this time they filled the water tanks to overflowing.

  In many, many years no vessel had ever attempted to cross the Pacific by this treacherous and isolated route. Some had tried it but had been blown far off their course. Others had never been heard from again. But the Snark and her crew accomplished the impossible, and in sixty-one days out of Hilo, Hawaii, they put safely into Taiohae Bay, in the Marquesas.

  For two idyllic weeks the London party basked in the hospitality of the Marquesans. They visited the Typee Valley, made famous by Herman Melville, and Martin took pictures by the score. Everyone felt a deep pang of regret when Jack decided they had better be getting on.

  Their next destination was Papeete, Tahiti, in the Society Islands, approximately one thousand miles to the west of the Marquesas. Between the two groups stretch the low coral reefs of the Paumotu Archipelago. For nine days, through seemingly unbearable heat, nasty squalls, and a steadily falling barometer, the Snark nosed its way carefully among these lagoons, which are usually avoided by whaling and trading ships. Large merchant ships have had to spend many weeks trying to get through. Little pearl luggers pile up on the white coral by the hundreds every year. And yet here they were, in the middle of the typhoon season, sailing the part of the world most dangerous for storms, navigating by blind guesswork through the treacherous currents and tides of those hidden atolls. Because of the low, black clouds, they had not been able to make proper observations.

  They were long behind schedule, and the authorities at Papeete had given them up for lost, so their welcome was an enthusiastic one when eventually they put into port.

  From the mail accumulated over a period of two months, Jack London learned that his affairs were in a frightful muddle, and that there was no way to unravel certain difficulties from a distance. So, leaving the Snark and its crew, he made a hasty voyage to San Francisco. Martin spent many days learning the language and songs of the Polynesians, which he later taught to me. He took pictures again, overhauled the Snark’s engine, swam, fished, and loafed through the lazy, carefree days until Jack’s return.

  Herman went on a prolonged drunk and was replaced by a French lad named Ernest. They also added Tehei, a huge Tahitian who was to prove inv
aluable to them. It was he who pointed the way through the maze of coral reefs as they journeyed from Tahiti to the island of Bora Bora.

  Within a day of Bora Bora it became necessary to use the engine. It ran like a watch for an hour or so, then started back-firing and knocking. It heated up until the engine room was almost unbearable, and Martin had to give it continual care. He would run it on two cylinders until they were hot, then turn them off and use the other two.

  He worked until he lost consciousness from the exhaust fumes and knew nothing until the big gong signaled “stop engines.” Martin roused himself enough to throw the switch and crawl on deck. When he came to, several hours later, Mrs. London was bathing his face with cold towels. They said his heart was barely beating. A sound—the clang of a gong—had saved his life.

  After ten delightful days at Bora Bora, they set sail for the Samoan group, with the decks knee-deep in fruit, chickens, vegetables, and all sort of delicacies. In fact, the Snark was so packed with the result of native hospitality that walking was difficult, and every now and then oranges, bananas, and coconuts would slide into the sea.

  The Manua Islands were sighted thirteen days later and soon the Snark lay anchored off Tau, the largest of the group, and for several days was entertained by Tui-Manua, the descendant of a long line of the most powerful South Sea island kings. The next stop was Pago Pago, and then Apia, Samoa, the largest of the Polynesian cities and the site of the grave of Robert Louis Stevenson, which, of course, they visited.

  From the Samoan islands to the Fiji Islands the distance is nine hundred miles. In the teeth of a hard summer gale, the Snark tossed for three days, and then suddenly the squall ceased as quickly as it had formed, leaving them rolling on a glassy-smooth sea completely surrounded by reefs. Around and around they sailed for two days and two nights, looking for an opening. It was like a labyrinth. Eventually Martin discovered a gap of a mere two hundred feet in the reef. How they got into that place without piling up still remains a mystery.

  Another week, and the Snark was anchored in Suva, Fiji, the most modern city in that part of the world. When they sailed from the harbor a few days later, they had a new captain. Jack took over the navigating and eventually landed at the island of Tanna, in the New Hebrides, where Martin got his first glimpse of real “savages.” For a week Jack and he made pictures of the natives and their villages and huts, trading tobacco and cheap jewelry for curios, then continued the cruise.

  The Solomon Islands next appeared on the horizon, and the Snark dropped anchor in Port Mary at Santa Anna Island.

  * * *

  —

  A note from Martin’s diary: “Sunday, June 28, 1908: Hundreds of natives ran down the beaches, and tumbling into canoes, darted after us, all the time screaming at the top of their voices…people who in looks and action fully justified my expectations of what South Sea Islanders would be.

  “They had big heads of bushy hair. Half of them wore large nose rings of tortoise shell and of wild boar tusks. All of them were adorned with earrings…. One had the handle of an old tea cup in his ear…. One of the islanders had tin wire sardine can openers in his ears; but the strangest of all was the one who had the shell of an alarm clock depending from the cartilage of his nose.

  “Their cheeks were tattooed in monstrous designs; little boys ornamented just as fantastically as were the elders. Their teeth were filed to points and were dead black; their lips, large and negroid, were ruby red.

  “These natives are all head hunters. This village and the one across the bay are continually at war with each other and each tribe collects the heads of the other…. I’m very much frightened about my right foot. On the shin a large sore, big as a dollar, has started, and it is eating right into my leg. It seems that no medicine on board will cure it, and there is no doctor within thousands of miles that we know of. Jack, I’m afraid, has one of these eating ulcers, too. If no doctor is on Florida Island, and if we are no better when we get there, I think we’ll sail for Sydney, Australia, for treatment, and that without delay.”

  * * *

  —

  Making a leisurely cruise of the larger islands, the Snark company saw thousands of natives, and while they never actually witnessed a cannibal feast, they saw plenty of evidence of the practice. Nosing in and out of the islands, the crew of the Snark formed a complete list of casualties. The sores were caused by poisonous coral by which they had been scratched when swimming and to which white people were very susceptible. Jack and the captain, as well as Martin, were affected. The others were down with island fever.

  * * *

  —

  More from Martin’s diary: “In addition to the ulcers and fever, a new trouble has come into the life of the Snark family. Jack’s hands have begun to swell, turn very sore and peel skin. The nails are very hard and thick and have to be filed. And it is the same with his feet…. The traders and beach-combers could diagnose ulcers and fever, but not this. Both Jack and Mrs. London are considerably alarmed at this strange manifestation.”

  * * *

  —

  There are dozens of islands in the Solomon group, the interiors of which have rarely been penetrated by white people. There are others where no white person has ever set foot. Once the Snark was caught in the tail end of a hurricane and nearly beached on the shores of an island not marked on their chart, and when the natives saw them you cannot imagine their amazement.

  After two months of oceanic cruising, with three white people in a serious state and Jack’s mysterious illness growing steadily worse, the Snark crew decided to put in at Penduffryn, the largest copra plantation of the Solomon Islands, and it was here that Martin made his first motion-picture exploration. It came about by another of those many accidents that shaped the course of his life.

  Pathé Frères of France had sent three French cameramen to Sydney to photograph the reception of the American fleet, then ordered them to the Solomon Islands for pictures of savages. It had been the dream of two traders (a Mr. Harding and a Mr. Darbishire) to organize an expedition to make motion pictures of the cannibals in the interior of Penduffryn, and the arrival of the Frenchmen made this possible.

  Martin, entranced with the large professional motion-picture camera, the first he had ever seen, hovered around during the preparations for the trip and asked innumerable questions. He ached to be a member of the party, and, unexpectedly, his opportunity came when the three cameramen, unused to the damp climate, were stricken with island fever. Martin offered his services and, after obtaining permission from Jack, went into the interior up the Mbalisuma River to a village called Charley—named, he was told, after a native of more-than-average bravery. No white had ever before been in this area, and some unique and interesting pictures were obtained.

  Jack’s strange malady grew worse. The gaping sores with which Martin and the rest suffered forced a decision. Something had to be done, and their only hope seemed to be the doctors of Sydney. So, leaving the two Tahitians and Wada to look after the Snark, Jack, Mrs. London, and Martin boarded the Makambo and on November 15, 1908, found themselves once more in civilization. Jack and his wife went to the St. Malo Hospital in Ridge Street, North Sydney, and Martin entered the Sydney Homeopathic Hospital, on Cleveland Street.

  Martin lay on his hospital cot and reviewed the cruise. It had been uncomfortable (his bunk was inches too short), it had been hard work, it had been dangerous—but it had been glorious. He had seen much, but there was still much more to be seen. He tried to figure out a way to get a motion-picture camera, which he felt he must have to record the rest of the cruise. He planned various things he would do to make the Snark more comfortable, the appliances he would buy, the ventilators he would—

  And then the letter from Jack London. It read in part: “The biggest specialist in Australia in skin diseases has examined me, and his verdict is that not only in his own experiences had he never seen anything like it,
but that no line is to be found about it in any of the medical libraries…. I must get back to my own climate…. I shall have to give up my voyage around the world….”

  Martin was dazed. It couldn’t be. Why, the Snark had been their home for two whole years. It was like deserting an old friend in a far corner of the earth.

  Sell the Snark!

  Abandon the voyage!

  It took a long time for Martin to realize that this was really the end of the cruise. Finally he demanded his clothes of the nurse and went to Jack at the hospital.

  It was all too true. Jack was a sick man, and the accommodations aboard the Snark were not suited to the needs of a sick man. He had to have fresh fruits, fresh vegetables, and fresh meats in place of canned foods and salted meats.

  And so Martin, with a pilot, returned to the Solomons and sailed the Snark back to Sydney, a journey of more than two months. From then on things moved rapidly. The Snark was sold and all business wound up as quickly as possible.

  Little was said in parting. Jack tried to express his appreciation to Martin for his loyalty and for standing by, but he gave it up.

  They shook hands, promising to meet in America.

  * * *

  —

  Martin left Sydney on March 31, 1909, “heading” home via Tasmania, Ceylon, Aden, the Suez, Naples, Genoa, and, of course, Paris.

  One summer evening of 1909 found him at the gates of Luna Park, in Paris. His pockets held just eleven francs; the admission price was ten. It was the fourteenth of July, and a dispassionate and uninformed onlooker might have concluded that the Bastille had fallen only that day. Martin pushed his way through the shrieking merrymakers and wished he had a job. Unexpectedly, one presented itself.