beloved of yachtsmen. He took us to his house to meet his vivacious
French-Tahitian wife, Lysa, and half of his brood of children—the other
five being away at school in Papeete. We also met Coco, the 300-pound
pig, who insisted upon settling himself in the midst of any gathering
and who, once settled, was unbudgeable. He had been, Lysa explained
apologetically, only a very _leetle_ pig when one of the children
brought him home as a pet, but he had grown!
The abandoned dock where we tied up during our stay in Bora Bora was a
relic of the war. Here, during the late unpleasantness, several thousand
American troops had directed round-the-clock activity, a state of
affairs that remains a highlight in the memory of many on this island.
As one of them expressed it, “Maybe everybody have another war pretty
quick, yeah? Maitai!—Good! Then maybe more soldiers come—we work like
hell all day, all night—see plenty movies—eat plenty ice cream—get
plenty American babies!”
The Bora Bora attitude toward the mixed-blood children left on the
island was a strange contrast to the attitude toward war babies in
Japan. Every family on Bora Bora who has an “American” child is very
proud, and the children themselves are eager to brag, in hesitant
English, “I—am—_Américain_!” even if they look the very model of a
perfect Polynesian. When an article about the war babies of Bora Bora
was published in an American magazine a few years ago, a number of
people from America sent letters offering to adopt a child and take him
back to the States where he would have “all the advantages.” Not one
family could be found, however, who could be persuaded to give up so
valuable a treasure!
Because of their association with the U.S. military during the war, the
Bora Borans found it difficult at first to understand the anomaly of an
American family traveling in company with feared and hated Japanese.
“They good boys?” everyone demanded doubtfully. “They want to fight?”
We assured them that our companions had no desire to fight, but the
community reserved judgment for a day or two and kept an eagle eye on
the behavior of Nick, Mickey, and Moto. It didn’t take long to convince
them, though, and soon the Three M’s were in greater demand than any of
us. Day after day they squatted tirelessly on the dockside in the midst
of a crowd of admirers, and displayed postcards, magazine pictures of
Japan, and various souvenirs of their distant home.
It soon became evident that, if the French administration and the people
of the other islands had no affection for the people of Bora Bora, they,
in turn, had no affection for the French. “Bunch of thieves!” was the
way one of the Bora Boran natives described them, and he explained to us
how French officials had helped themselves to all the plumbing, the
quonset huts, and the fluorescent lighting which the Americans had left
behind “for the people of Bora Bora” and had carried them away to
install in Raïatéa, making Uturoa perhaps the best-lighted town of its
size in the entire South Seas.
I remember the day a French official, resplendent in gleaming whites,
came aboard for a social call. Big Joe, our nearest neighbor and the one
who spoke the best “American,” watched the proceedings anxiously from
the dock and as soon as Barbara had ushered our visitor below he drew me
aside.
“You want me throw him overboard, boss?” he whispered loudly.
“No—why?”
“He French—no good. Bunch of thieves. You want me punch him good?”
“It’s okay, Joe. He’ll be here only a short time.”
“I stay,” said Big Joe grimly. He settled himself on the gunwales and
remained there until our visitor had returned to his jeep (the only one
on the island) and driven out of sight.
Actually, Bora Bora was personified for us by Big Joe. He lived nearby
with his wife and an “American” daughter of about Jessica’s age, in a
compact house of woven side walls and a thatched roof, set high on
stilts. Working together, he and his wife made a living by making the
dance costumes of bleached fibers, elaborately decorated with hundreds
of yellow and brown cowrie shells, which sell for $25 to $30 American in
the tourist shops of Papeete. What Big Joe and his family made on the
deal we never did find out, although we suspected that the Chinese
storekeeper to whom they turned over their entire output managed to do
very well on the transaction.
In our own case, I am able to quote the price exactly, for I ordered two
of the outfits for Barbara and Jessica, complete with “grass” skirt, a
brassière of fine bark cloth trimmed with shells, and the handsome
crownlike headdress. When Joe brought over the completed costumes—and
Jessica’s, at least, had been made to order, for it fitted her small
size exactly—Big Joe waved away any mention of cost.
“But, Joe, you’ve got to tell me _how much_! We’re sailing tomorrow. If
you don’t tell me how much to pay you for these, I can’t take them!”
“Aw—never mind money. What I do with _money_?”
“But there must be something you need?”
Joe thought that one over. At last he asked, hesitantly, “You maybe got
an old pair pants? I could use pants. Or maybe old blanket?”
We had plenty of blankets on board—all bought at the Australian salvage
depot for a couple of shillings apiece. I gave Joe a couple, plus a pair
of pants that were hardly large enough for his vast size, and weighted
the whole down with a carton of cigarettes.
Joe looked at the items soberly, then said, “Wait a minute.” He went
over to his house and returned with two massive necklaces and two
bracelets made of large and beautifully matched cowries, one to adorn
each costume.
“Now okay,” he said, with a grin. He had no intention of letting me get
the best of him by adding something more than the exchange he’d
suggested.
So many memories come crowding back that even in writing it is almost as
hard to leave Bora Bora as it was in August, 1955, when we reluctantly
said good-bye to the Societies. How is it possible to pass on without
mentioning the dockside parties that foregathered nightly beside the
_Phoenix_, parties which sometimes started by a song or two in Japanese
by one of the Three M’s, or a cowboy or hillbilly record on our portable
victrola, but which always ended with the soft plucking of a guitar, the
strumming of homemade coconut ukuleles, and a completely spontaneous
exhibition of Tahitian dancing to the compelling rhythm of slit drum,
kerosene tin, or just the slapping of hands on a bare thigh. Everybody
sang—everybody joined in the dances—and the natural, unself-conscious
grace of even the little ones made it obvious why, year after year, the
dance teams of Bora Bora continue to walk off with all the prizes at the
Papeete fete.
And how can we fail to recall the simple services that were held three
times every Sunday at the small village church, services we will never
forget, not because we were inspired by the sermons, which were in
Tahitian and may or may not have varied from one service to another, but
because of the singing—the most beautiful and inspiring we have ever
heard. Everyone sang, some singing the words while others chanted or
hummed the melody or a kind of antiphonal accompaniment which filled the
room with such tremendous rolling resonance that we could hardly believe
there was not an organ somewhere, concealed behind the woven screen of
the altar or, perhaps, beneath the floor!
But nothing can be recaptured completely and there were other landfalls
ahead, other memories to gather.
“Please let us hear from you!” Lysa Sanford begged, adding a bit
wistfully, “Sometimes we don’t know if the yachtsmen we’ve entertained
even got to their next port!”
And, “Don’t forget—you promise to send us picture!” Big Joe reminded us,
referring to the many snapshots we had taken of him and his family.
“Plenty people take picture—but we never see!”
We remembered the Sanford’s yacht register, containing many blank spaces
for pictures that had been promised and never sent. We reminded
ourselves of the tiny Kodacolor print, now faded almost to invisibility,
which occupied an honored spot in the middle of Big Joe’s living room
wall—the only picture of himself that had ever been sent to him of all
that had been taken by passing yachts.
Then and there we resolved that the friends we made during our various
stops would not be forgotten; that the promises we made would be kept.
The hospitality, the favors, the gifts of fruit and vegetables and
souvenirs that were pressed on us everywhere were gifts we could never
repay in kind, but at least we would send, at the first opportunity, the
snapshots we had taken and a postcard to say we had not forgotten. The
chance to share vicariously in our experience, to travel with us by
means of whatever reports we could send, would perhaps be thanks enough
for the wonderful hospitality we had received.
And so we sailed from Bora Bora on August 16, knowing that no matter
what enchantments might lie ahead we would never see its like again.
6 WESTWARD
THROUGH THE SOUTH
SEAS: RAROTONGA, SAMOA, FIJI
“A broad reach, a quiet sea, a full moon....”
We set out for Rarotonga, capital of the Cook Islands. Although we had
official permission to visit these islands, we had no idea what our
reception would be—especially for the Japanese. The Cooks are
possessions of New Zealand, and of course that country and Australia
have Oriental exclusion policies. Moreover, we knew that World War II
was still well remembered in this part of the world.
For five days we had good trade-wind sailing, then a day of calm
followed by a sudden sharpening of the breeze. It looked like an easy
passage. Crew relations were good, although there still remained a gulf
to be bridged—either of communication or of differences between Western
and Eastern psychology.
One morning, after the wind had dropped off during the night, I was
awakened by the sound of the foresail boom slatting around. I went up to
the cockpit where Nick, at the tiller, was staring ahead as if in a
trance.
“Good morning,” I began. “Looks as if the wind’s dropped.”
Nick did not answer.
After a pause I said, “I wonder, if we rigged the foresail more forward,
would it work better?” There was no answer.
“What do you think, Nick?” I pressed.
“I don’t know,” he replied, in a completely indifferent tone. (Didn’t
know whether it would work? Didn’t know what I was talking about? Or
didn’t want to be bothered?)
“I’ll go take a look,” I said, and did so. While I was forward,
adjusting the sail, Nick called Ted to the next watch and went below. I
fought down my rising irritation and tried to understand, to put myself
in Nick’s place. The incident was trivial, and yet it was one of those
things that could be significant. True, there had been no emergency and
one man could easily do the job. Nick was tired and looking forward to
going off watch. On the other hand, why the silence which seemed rude or
sullen at the very least? What was the answer? I didn’t know.
The only conclusion to be drawn was that, at this stage, subtleties,
suggestions, and hints were out of place. If I wanted a job done I must
give a simple direct order even if it made me a Captain with a capital
C, rather than a yachting companion. So far as the work of the boat was
concerned, nothing must be left unclear. On the other hand, I couldn’t
look to Nick or the others for the kind of companionable discussion of
pros and cons of procedure that I was sharing more and more with Ted.
The Japanese seemed to prefer clear-cut orders and to look upon
preliminary discussions as an indication of inefficiency on the part of
their skipper. This placed an additional burden on me!
On the sixth day, just after noon, we sighted land off the port bow.
Simultaneously, with a noise like an explosion, the main after chain
plate on the port side parted. Immediately I put the boat about to take
the strain off the port shrouds. Everything else held.
When we inspected the damage, it was easy enough to see what had
happened. It was a matter of poor design—my design—in having made the
neck too narrow. This was a serious matter and meant that all the chain
plates would have to be replaced at the first opportunity. In the
meantime, we jury-rigged the shroud, reduced sail enough to ease the
strain, and worked our way gradually toward Rarotonga. By the middle of
the next afternoon we were off the entrance to Avarua, port of entry for
the Cook Islands.
The channel was easy enough to spot. It lay between the wrecks of two
ships that had missed the entrance and ended their trips, one on each
horn of the encroaching reef. The pass was narrow and the harbor beyond
obviously too small to maneuver in. Feeling less than happy about the
situation, we dropped the sails, and I started the engine, prepared to
go in cautiously under power.
At this moment a small tug came out and offered to take us in for 30
shillings (about $4). Never was a deal closed more swiftly. The captain
gave us a shouted rundown of the procedure: “Get lines ready at each
quarter—pass them to the native divers as soon as you get in.... As soon
as you’re inside, drop your anchor _at once_ and put the tiller hard
over ...” etc. I, in turn, repeated the orders to my crew in slow and
careful English, and assigned each man his position and function. Only
then, and under tow, did we tackle the entrance. It was a narrow
squeeze, but after much shouting and more sweating, we were finally
fixed in place like a fly in a spiderweb, with two anchors forward, two
lines aft to the dock, four set out to rings in the underwater coral,
and a final line secured to an interisland trawler, _Inspire_, which lay
to the tiny dock and threatened to overturn from the sheer weight of the
crowd that had rushed aboard her for a grandstand view of the
proceedings.
We were not left long in doubt about the hospitality of the Cook
Islands. Ten minutes after we were secure, a note was handed to me:
Dr. Earle Reynolds and Mrs. Reynolds:
Welcome to Rarotonga and the Cook Group. I hope you will call at the
Administration Building sometime at your convenience and please let me
know if there is anything we can do for you.
Yours sincerely,
G. Nevill, Commissioner.
While we cleaned up the boat and ourselves and donned our shore clothes,
we savored to the full the satisfaction of having arrived safe and of
being warmly welcomed. All of us were looking forward to the amenities
of shore living. As far as Nick, Mickey, and Moto were concerned, hot
baths were at the head of the list—the hotter the better. Personally, I
also wanted a cold beer, a good steak, and a crisp salad.
Just to make sure, I asked the bearer of the note whether it would be
possible for us to dine out in Rarotonga. He told me that the only
public dining room was at the Government Hotel, just off the docks, and
he offered to go there directly to make arrangements for hot baths and
dinner reservations for our entire group.
Barbara and I went ashore first, to pay our respects, and arranged to
meet the rest at the hotel. The Commissioner was quite as cordial as his
note. He invited us to tea at the Residency the following afternoon and
promised to put a car and driver at our disposal so we could all make a
trip around the island at our convenience.
When we reached the hotel, glowing with good cheer, we found our group
were not so happy. They had had the promised baths, but had been told
that dinner “for so many” was out of the question.
To the Japanese, sensitive to polite circumlocutions, this meant
discrimination and they were all for withdrawing forthwith. I could not
believe, judging from our reception, that any slight had been intended
and I approached the manager directly.
I found him full of welcome and apology. “It’s just that you came in so
late, sir—the government freezer closes at three, and each day we draw
our rations from there. We might have squeezed in one or two, but trying
to do for seven on such short notice would be hopeless. I trust you do
understand?”
“Then how about tomorrow night?” I wanted something definite to take
back to my companions.
“Oh, that would be excellent, sir! I think we can do you very well
indeed.”
And very well indeed they did do us, well enough to make up completely
for the letdown of having to open cans again on our first night in port.
There were few times during the rest of our stay when we had occasion to
eat on board, for the hospitality of Rarotonga was overwhelming. As a
family, we had little contact with the native Cook Islanders (whom the
government is careful to refer to as “Maori”), but Nick, Mickey, and
Moto saw a great deal of them. This disparity was quite against our own
inclinations. We simply had no invitations to native dances or
gatherings and were quite envious of the reports brought back by the
Three M’s, who had their choice of both worlds—and frequently chose the
more colorful!
From Rarotonga we again headed north, bound for American Samoa. We set
our course to sight Aitutaki, then headed northwest. It was good
sailing—a broad reach, a quiet sea, a full moon, and a seven-knot
breeze. Two days out I noted in the log: “Just informed today is Labor
Day. Well, not working too hard, anyway.”
At dusk on the seventh day out, we sighted the mass of Tau Island,
looming out of the mist, and jibed to the west for the night, turning
northwest again at dawn. At 0735 we picked up Tutuila, dead ahead, and
worked our way into the entrance of Pago Pago harbor, one of the best
protected in all the South Pacific.
By midafternoon we had been met and escorted to the docks and all was
secure. The weekly mail, we were informed, was due to leave within the
hour, so our first official act was to scribble hasty notes of
reassurance to family and friends. Our next—and one that gave us great
pleasure—was to accept the invitation of Phil Mosher, the representative
of Governor Lowe, to go with him to his house for hot baths and cold
drinks—an unbeatable combination for those who have just come in from
the sea.
We expected to spend about a week in Pago Pago; we stayed over a month
and hated to leave. A great many factors combined to extend our visit,
including the possibility that we might be able to haul out at a
government dock if we could stay two or three weeks until they could fit
us into the schedule. Also, we were offered a two-bedroom house (at the
cost of $1 a day), which gave Barbara that chance to move ashore which
she still seemed to crave. Jessica went off each day to the dependent
school, and both she and Ted were given placement tests to see if they
had lost ground in the course of their rather haphazard program of home
study. (They hadn’t. In fact, Ted was issued a certificate equivalent to
a high school diploma on the basis of the tests developed by the Army.)
Almost before she had been given a chance to adjust to the rather
frightening mob of thirty students—three of whom were in her own
seventh-grade class—Jessica was asked to give a talk to the entire
school about our travels. The prospect was so terrifying that she was
unable to eat breakfast, but when she returned at the end of the day she
was both relaxed and triumphant.
“Now I know how to do it,” she explained, when we asked about her
speech. “It’s easy.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Anything they wanted to know. I just showed them a map of the world and
pointed out where we’d been. Then I said, ‘Any questions?’”
Our stay in Pago Pago was a round of constant activity, but this time,
in addition to many enjoyable evenings with local officialdom, we were
able to see something of Samoan life as well. Our entree was through the
school system.
Barbara mentioned to Mr. Fort, the director of education, that she was
interested in visiting some of the Samoan schools. The next time he made
a trip to one of the outer villages for a meeting with the local school
board, Mr. Fort took her with him. She visited a number of classrooms,
waxed indignant over the folly of trying to teach reading to Samoan
pupils from stateside-oriented textbooks—“Mother and Betsy are going to
choose wallpaper for Betsy’s room”! Why, these kids have never even seen
a room with _walls_, much less wallpaper!—and sat in on a “Board of
Education” meeting in a little village called Lauli’i.
Afterward, when Mr. Fort introduced her to the various chiefs and
“talking chiefs” who make up any Samoan village council, there was so
much interest shown in the _Phoenix_ and her cruise that Barbara felt
called upon to offer hospitality. Remembering an incautious speech in
Rarotonga, when she had spoken at a school and invited “everybody
interested” to visit the _Phoenix_—and everybody, by the hundreds, had
come—she confined her invitation this time to “any representative of
your village who might like to see the way we live on the boat and
report back to his people.”
The very next day the pulenu’u (or mayor) of Lauli’i turned up. We
entertained him as best we could with cigarettes and warm beer and gave
him an exhaustive tour of the boat. His English, though far from fluent,
was adequate for communication.
“Many boats come this island,” he explained. “But my people—we never see
inside. When I go back Lauli’i, I tell my people many things your
family. How you live. What you show. How you are kind.”
He asked many questions about the United States which, he pointed out,
was his country also. (Samoans, as wards of the government, are a kind
of third-class citizen with certain fringe benefits but a great deal of
pride and loyalty.) Remembering the pleasure the people of the Societies
had in looking at pictures of Japan, we brought out a three-dimensional
viewer and a series of stereo pictures of National Parks. It was a great
success.
“I never before see like this,” at last said the pulenu’u, laying the
gadget aside reluctantly. “It is like I go there.”
“Take it back to your village,” Barbara urged. “Show it to your people
and then bring it back next time you come to town.”
The pulenu’u didn’t have to be urged. Stammering his thanks and
forgetting to finish his beer, he hurried off, clutching the viewer and
all the stereoscopic reels.
“But, mummy!” Jessica protested. “Don’t you remember what that man in
Honolulu said about the Samoans? You can’t trust them—they’ll steal you
blind! And you gave him my viewer!”
“Let’s give him a chance, hon. Remember the French officials in Tahiti,
who were supposed to ask for bribes before they’d give a boat
clearance—and who didn’t? And the Bora Borans, remember—who were
supposed to be greedy and spoiled. Were they?”
“But that yachtsman in Hilo, who’d just come back from here, said—”
“Let’s not take hearsay evidence. Let’s just keep on expecting people to
be honest and decent until we’re proved wrong. Okay?”
Jessica remained dubious. After all, it was her viewer and although we
promised to replace it if anything happened to hers, it might be many
months before we could. She didn’t have long to wait, though. Only a few
days later the pulenu’u came again, returning the viewer and all the
reels. He told us that his people had spent several evenings looking at
the pictures and discussing them and now, he continued, they wanted to
meet _us_! In fact, they wanted our entire group to come to Lauli’i and
make it our home for as long as we could stay. His own fale, he added,
would be put at our disposal. We accepted with alacrity although
Barbara, who had been there before, felt there might be some problems
connected with living for any length of time in a completely open
pavilion with only thin lauhala mats to sleep on.
We arranged for a government jeep to drive us out to the village and
piled it high with presents for our hosts: cases of corned beef, canned
vegetables and pineapple, and a five-pound can of hard candies for the
kids.
It was my first trip outside the port town and I soon began to see what
Barbara meant. The Samoan fale is nothing if not open. A thatched roof,
a floor of coral, and between the two, posts at regular intervals
marking off a circle or an oval. When it rains, shutters of woven
pandanus matting can be dropped on the windward side, but at all other
times the houses are as a cage at the zoo.