From Strength to Strength

by Sara Henderson

  The boat had no engine and no modern winches. It was all hard work and muscles and there were not enough muscles to do the job.

  Charles knew he had to find a solution. No one on land knew where we were. Eventually we would land somewhere, but if it took too long, Charles could be landing without his bride of four months. I was looking decidedly grey.

  He and Ernesto went into deep discussion and the next morning I heard hoorays. They had conquered the problem. Charles had made a drag attached to a rope which went through a few pulleys and under a cleat and around a winch. The drag was thrown into the water and its movement through the water helped Charles hoist Ernesto to the top of the mast so he could thread the new halyard through the pulley on top of the mast.

  Charles carried me on deck to see the big mainsail unfurl. We felt the difference immediately. The boat seemed to leap out of the water. Charles quickly trimmed and balanced the boat and she was like a thoroughbred with the bit between her teeth. The bowsprit crashed through the waves with a vengeance and we headed for land.

  Charles assured me we would be on land soon. I was past caring. Twelve days without food had made me lightheaded and dizzy and even the prospect of dying didn’t faze me. All I could think of was at least I would no longer have to endure the relentless up and down motion of the boat.

  CHAPTER 6

  1960-1962

  On the thirteenth day, we limped into Manila Bay and, just to top everything off, were becalmed in the middle of the bay, with not a breath of wind. We finally had to be towed to anchor by a passing barge.

  By the time we stepped ashore, I was a very peculiar shade of green and I had lost so much weight that I was too weak to stand on my own feet. I put one foot on blessed ground and collapsed in a heap. Charles decided he had better get me straight to hospital. After a few days, the heaving stopped and after lots of medication, my stomach finally accepted some food. After a few more days of tests, we found out we were going to be three. It seemed that all my throwing up was morning sickness; the only hitch was it lasted for twenty-four hours instead of just the mornings. That damn stomach of mine couldn’t even tell time, and it never improved. Helped along by dysentery and a few other tropical bugs, I threw up for the next eight months.

  Living on board the boat didn’t help. As the months went by, I became an expert on the marine life that lived around the bottom of the boat. One evening, when the bay was unbelievably calm and I was not hanging over the rail, Charles came on board all smiles. Apparently a friend of his, Nick, had sent his girlfriend on a trip and her apartment was just sitting there with maids, airconditioning, the lot. When he heard how sick I was he had offered it to Charles. I didn’t waste any time moving in. Early next morning I was packed and ready. By the end of the day I was comfortably settled in a lovely airconditioned apartment being waited on, hand and foot, by three maids. To say the next three months were bliss would be an understatement. Being cool had a marvellous effect on my stomach—it actually stopped throwing up for a few hours a day—and being waited on hand and foot had a similar effect on me as a whole. If I could have stopped my stomach from demanding centre stage for most of the day, things would have been perfect.

  Well, almost. Charles was rebuilding his business again. He finally told me that he and Gus had lost their shipping company after defending a long court case. They won the court case but had gone out of business in the meantime. They had decided to start again, but this time not as partners. Charles would start again in the Philippines and Gus in Australia. So Charles was picking up what was left of the Manila office of their old company. We were living on the sailing boat because we did not have enough money to rent an apartment and the unplanned pregnancy didn’t help the budget at all.

  At that rather down time in our life Nick, the owner of the apartment, was a wonderful friend to have. In fact Nick was a wonderful friend to have at any time in one’s life. He owned a restaurant, legal, and a gambling den, illegal, the real McCoy. You went into a type of airlock room where I suppose they looked at you, then certain types were frisked for weapons. Another door opened and you could go into the den. It was right out of the prohibition days of America. The girlfriend’s apartment was just across the road. His wife and various children lived a few miles away.

  One evening Charles arrived at the apartment via the Casino and threw a large paper bag on the bed. I was hoping it contained food. It turned out to be full of money.

  ‘How much? Where did you get it?’

  ‘A loan from Nick, count it,’ he said casually. I did—there was 100,000 pesos in cash. We had no food in the house.

  ‘Can we buy hamburgers?’

  ‘You can buy caviar if you want.’

  ‘No, hamburgers will be just fine thank you.’

  I quickly dispatched one of the maids, who returned with hamburgers, thick chocolate milkshakes and delicious nut and cream-covered jelly rolls from the American Country Bake Shop.

  We had a picnic on a towel on the bed, and washed it down with San Miguel beer. And all during the meal, I counted out little piles of money, surrounding us with a ring of notes. It was a dinner that is imprinted in my memory bank forever.

  We were happily enjoying our last mouthful of jelly roll when the maid brought in a note from Nick. She said the messenger was waiting for a package. Charles read the note and told me to pack the money back into the bag. It seemed someone had had a run on the bank and Nick needed the 100,000 back for the night. We had to borrow 25 pesos from one of the maids to make up the 100,000 again.

  We never did see the loan again. Nick had a bad run at the gambling tables, and the lady friend whose apartment we were occupying had a few health problems. By the time this was all sorted out Charles had progressed far enough to earn food for the table. So I never did get to spend 100,000 pesos. Thank heavens I didn’t order caviar.

  The entire time I had been in Manila, I had seen nothing but the marine life around the waterline of our boat and the inside of a friend’s mistress’s apartment. So after the traumatic event of the birth of our first, and the recovery period, I was ready to explore Manila.

  We had now moved into our very own apartment, a surprise Charles had in store for me when I came out of hospital. After a few weeks of rest and not having to consider my stomach any more, I was very anxious to attack the shops, wherever they were. All my clothes had floated in sea water for the best part of two weeks so I really didn’t have much left. And our little girl was equipped to pose on a bearskin rug. So I asked Charles to take me shopping.

  He took me downtown and told me to sit in the foyer of a pleasant and very cool hotel. It was just around the corner from the bank, so I was to wait in comfort till he returned with some money. He wouldn’t be long and then I could shop till I was tired and he would take me home. After outlining this acceptable plan, he kissed me and departed. I didn’t see him again until five p.m. When he was ready to leave the office, he suddenly remembered that five hours previously he had left a wife sitting in a hotel foyer.

  There were many problems that prevented me from venturing forth, not the least of which were that I had no money, not one cent, and no idea where I was. Also, Charles had just moved into new offices and I could not remember the new number. After thinking it through many times, I decided that he would remember he had left me sitting there when it came time to eat, so I settled down to a long wait.

  However, I soon realised that the men who kept sitting next to me whispering sweet nothings and amounts of money in my ear were not telling me the latest stock market reports. It turned out that this particular hotel was a lucrative pickup centre for the white slave rings that were operating in the Far East at that time. Being a well-shaped redhead I was a very saleable product. So I spent the day moving round and round the horseshoe lounge. Eventually the girl on the magazine counter took pity on me and gave me a few magazines to read. Apparently she could tell I was not in the business. I buried my head in these but it made no difference. They
still sat next to me.

  I was so pleased to see Charles when he charged through the door, I forgot how angry I was. He came out with the same classic line of many months before.

  ‘Darling, I forgot you!’

  I burst into tears and he tenderly led me out.

  While we were waiting for our car, one of the unsuccessful bidders sidled up to Charles.

  ‘How much?’ he asked.

  Charles just stared at the chap, puzzled. Feeling much better, I replied, ‘Seven hundred and fifty.’

  ‘Wow, I hope you get your money’s worth!’

  ‘Oh he will,’ said I.

  Our car pulled up and we stepped in.

  ‘What on earth was that all about?’

  ‘Well, it seems you left me in the best pickup centre in town, and I have had a roaring day.’

  ‘What do you mean “seven hundred and fifty”? Over-rating yourself a bit, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, one guy got up to five hundred.’

  ‘I don’t know why I’m wasting my time at the office, better to put you in business!’

  He told the driver to take us home and, over champagne and strawberries, succeeded in making up for forgetting me. During that night he promised me he would never forget me again, and if he did, at least he would not say so. The next morning I awoke to find he had already departed for the office, but pinned to his pillow was a cheque.

  From that day on, I studied the city map and took money with me before I ventured forth. Having a husband like Charles, I knew it would happen again but this time I would be prepared.

  I was now into my second typhoon season on land, and it was well and truly with us. The weather had been low and overcast for many days, but then the skies took on a different appearance. A dark sludgy grey barrier hung menacingly over the city.

  I knew before Charles could tell me that I was about to experience my first really serious typhoon ashore. Manila has between ten and fifteen typhoons each year and usually three or four of them are equal to the ferocity of Cyclone Tracy, putting Manila out of action for about five days. After the water and flooding subside, people straighten their nepa huts and get on with living. The more substantial houses have air vents in the walls under the eaves, so that the air can flow through, leaving the roof behind.

  Charles came home from the office at about four-thirty. He had sent all the staff home to prepare their houses and families. Once the flooding started they would not be able to travel. Manila is built on a swamp, with very casual landfill, so after a few inches of rain, the whole city is awash. Charles was worried about the boat. He was not sure if the mooring would hold. If it did give way, the boat would smash to pieces on the sea wall. He decided he would go on board for the night and anchor her in the middle of the bay. If she did drag, there was plenty of room to manoeuvre and time for him to get under sail. The plan was, we would drive down to the boat and I would bring the car home. Our house was about fifteen miles from the boat.

  On the drive out there visibility was almost zero. But there weren’t too many other idiots out driving, just Charles and me. The last three miles of road was along the waterfront. Water was already running across it—it was like driving down a riverbed. It took about an hour for Ernesto to get the dinghy ashore, and for both of them to get back out to the boat. I anxiously watched every move, and by the time Charles turned to wave goodbye, I was exhausted.

  It was only then that I realised I still had to get home, and by myself. I drove off the wharf and turned onto Dewey Boulevard. My heart gave a lurch. In the last hour, while my eyes had been glued to Charles and Ernesto, the storm had intensified. Huge waves were breaking over the sea wall and crashing onto the road. I went to turn inland and saw that the water level for the first hundred yards was as high as the top steps of the houses. That meant the water was over three feet in depth. If the car stalled, I would have to spend the night there, as in those days, in Manila, there were no rescue teams like the NRMA.

  Not wishing to spend all night in the car, I decided to brave the waterfront. It was only about three miles!

  I had downtown Manila to myself. The typhoon had well and truly arrived. Driving on the right side of the road had me close to the wall. There was an area of grass between the wall and the road, but on this day it was far too narrow for my liking. I looked at that stretch of horror in front of me and hesitated. If the decision faced me today, I would turn left and drive one hundred yards to the Manila Hotel. But I was young and my one dramatic thought was, I must get home to my child.

  I edged gingerly onto the road, deciding to creep along slowly. The first wave hit the car, making it veer right across the lanes. It hit the gutter with such force that it lifted up on one side and balanced for a few split seconds. If a wave had come then it would have gone right over.

  The car came down with a crashing thud. It was clear I had to get to the other side of the road, as far away from the sea wall as possible. Another wave hit, the car jerked violently but it was up against the gutter, so no skidding. A few more of those waves and the engine would be swamped. I decided to surge ahead in between waves and stop as they hit. I could see an opening in the median strip—if I could get to the wrong side of the road I would be further away from the crashing waves.

  I gunned the engine. As the car came level with the opening, I hit the brakes, but no response—they were too wet. I could see the opening going by. I wrenched the wheel into a sharp turn just as the next wave hit. The car swung sideways and sailed through the break in the median strip. It was on a bed of water and the steering wheel had no effect. The amount of water was so great, the car was actually surfing. This time I knew it would turn over, it was travelling so fast.

  It whooshed into a tree with a deafening thud. The wave subsided and I looked around. The tree had struck the car just behind my door. I had turned one hundred and eighty degrees and was facing back the way I had come.

  Waves were still hitting and rocking the car, but nothing like on the other side of the median strip. She wasn’t even lifting off the ground. I was twenty feet down a side street, up against the tree, on the edge of a lawn.

  I put my hand on the ignition key and prayed. She started—great cars, Cadillacs—and I drove onto the wrong side of the road, very sure I wouldn’t meet any traffic.

  The ‘dash-stop theory’ was now out as I had no brakes, so I wedged the car in the gutter and drove steadily all the way. There was a side-rocking motion every time a wave hit the car, but with the wheels up against the gutter, she would give a few jerky movements and then settle. I made it home without further mishap. I was very glad when I switched off the engine in the garage.

  Of course Charles later told me all the things I should have done, and that everything I had done was wrong.

  Apart from the occasional typhoon, life was now going along very well. Business was on an upward trend and our number one had started to walk and talk and was an absolute delight. Then suddenly my stomach demanded centre stage again. This time we were in an airconditioned apartment and on solid ground, but it made no difference. It performed just as it had out in the middle of the China Sea. It was back to the apartment again. This time I threw up for six months—the first five, and just when I thought things were settling down, the ninth month as well, in fact right up until the time the doctor slapped our second little daughter on the bottom.

  As a surprise, Charles had arranged tickets on the Oriana for Mum and Dad to come and stay with us for the birth of our second child. Mum would not fly in an aeroplane—this was a genuine fear, she could not even bring herself to get on a plane to fly to Hong Kong for my wedding. And if Mum didn’t go Dad didn’t go. But the cruise ship was quite acceptable, so they came to visit.

  Our second daughter owes her life to my mother. If Mum had not been with me, I would never have gone to the hospital when I did and she would have died before she was born. I had no contractions at all, just this constant dull pain. I vomited most of th
e day.

  Mum finally said, ‘This is not right, we have to go to the hospital.’ My doctor had doctors on duty around the clock, and he would arrive in time for the delivery or if things were not proceeding according to schedule.

  The doctor on duty examined me and said there was nothing wrong and that I had not even started stage one yet. Mum wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  ‘Doctor, the baby is ten days overdue and my daughter has been vomiting all day. There is something wrong. She is not leaving this hospital until her doctor sees her.’

  ‘He won’t be in until morning.’

  ‘Then we’ll stay.’ He was sensible enough not to take on Mum. I was put in a private suite with a bedroom for Mum, and later another bed next to mine for Charles. He refused to stay at home and moved into the hospital, generally throwing the whole place into chaos.

  With Mum and Charles in charge, everyone was bumping into each other in the rush to do their bidding. Meanwhile I felt so miserable, I wished I could just pass away. The pain had been too much. I had not slept for days, and despite constant concern from all quarters all night I still had no rest. When my doctor arrived I was on the verge of total exhaustion.

  He was met with a feeble smile. I barely had the energy to move my facial muscles. Not the case with Charles, Mum and the assistant doctor. They were all shouting at each other across the bed. I was so ill by this stage, I started to cry. Dr Monahan moved everyone out of the room except the assistant and quietly started to examine me. A few seconds into the examination the silence was exploded by rapid-fire Spanish verbal abuse. The assistant doctor started running, other people came running, doors slammed. Faces and voices flashed at me at a thousand frames per second. Dr Monahan’s face appeared.

  ‘The baby is too big to enter the birth canal, I will have to perform a Caesarean section,’ he told me calmly. I was beyond caring what he did. In any case I wasn’t asked what I wanted, I was just informed of what was about to happen. I moved my hand in a gesture of hopelessness as he instructed the nurse to give me an injection to knock me out.