hospitality. The large oval pavilion in which the chief had gathered for
the school board meeting on Barbara’s first visit had been transformed
for our benefit. Every family in the village must have contributed for
our comfort: a long wooden table, straight-backed chairs, a massive
wardrobe with a cloudy mirror on the door—all had been installed to make
us feel at home. Army cots had been set up for the men and, for Barbara
and Jessica, one end of the open pavilion had been curtained off with
beautiful tapa cloth to form an inner room. Within were two thick
mattresses, made up with clean sheets and elaborately embroidered pillow
cases, and draped about with folds of mosquito netting suspended from
the roof.
Our meals, too, deferred to Western taste. While the families of the
village gathered in the compound behind the fales to share their food in
Samoan style, we sat on the hard chairs that had been provided for our
comfort and ate from a conglomeration of Navy issue crockery with
monogrammed utensils (USN). Only the pulenu’u ate with us, while his
wife and a couple of the younger men waited on table. Our first meal,
indeed, was served up to us from our very own cans: corned beef, canned
peas, and pineapple. In spite of our insistence that these were for the
people of the village, the pulenu’u was sure we would not care for
Samoan food.
One evening a group of children from the pulenu’u’s family put on a
performance of native songs and dances for our benefit, and then we
played our portable victrola for them while Jessica demonstrated dances
of other islands. After the entertainment, the older people vanished
silently into the night, but the children lingered. Then the pulenu’u
unlocked the door of the large wardrobe, where he kept our gifts, and
brought out the big tin of hard candies.
Placing it on a table, he drew up a chair, and as the children passed by
in a single file, he carefully counted three pieces into each
outstretched hand. This was a nightly ritual, and we decided that the
candy, at that rate, would last quite a while.
On our last afternoon in Lauli’i all the village chiefs gathered once
more in the guest fale and an ava ceremony was held. It was a bit
unusual for a woman to be included in what is normally an all-male
affair, but we were told that “a brave woman is the equal of a man” and
Barbara, by sailing across the Pacific, evidently qualified.
The chiefs, clad only in lava-lavas (a kind of wrap-around skirt which
reaches the ground) and garlands of green leaves, settled themselves
around the room each in his preordained position, according to rank.
Ava, a slightly narcotic drink, is made from the fibrous roots of a
local plant, which is mixed with water according to a very precise
ritual. The resulting liquid is then passed to each in turn and drunk in
accordance with a ceremonial formula. We had studied up on the ceremony
in advance, had removed our watches and all jewelry as demanded by
etiquette, and were very careful not to offend by stretching our legs
out in front of us, or by standing up inside the house.
As guests of honor, we were served first, from the polished half-coconut
shell. Each of us carefully spilled a few drops on the matting in front
of us and uttered the proper incantation (Manuia—Good luck!) before
draining the cup. We could only hope we had not disgraced ourselves or
our country.
Back in Pago Pago we again took up our bustling activities. Thanks to
our rented house we were able to spread out a bit and, while Barbara
worked on her book, the boys and I set ourselves to painting and
redecorating the cabins. The haul-out we had planned proved impossible,
as we were too heavy for the cradle, but we got far enough out of the
water to have a good look at the bottom and found it in pretty fair
shape.
Since we had lingered so long, we were forced to shift our plans and
skip British Samoa. More and more we were realizing that a trip such as
ours must be a constant series of compromises. If we go to this place we
must miss that one; if we stay longer here we must skimp our visit
there. Weather conditions and the length of the seasons places limits on
the amount of time we can spend in any one area, while hundreds of
islands must be bypassed because one simply can’t go everywhere. Had we
allowed ten years for the trip instead of four, it still wouldn’t have
been enough but, even so, we were infinitely better off than those who
travel by plane or cruise ship with only a day or two in each port and
no way to meet people.
And so, knowing we would have no time at all in Fiji if we didn’t get
going, we sailed from Pago Pago on October 9, bound for Suva.
Throughout our nine-day passage we all scanned the sea with more than
usual attention, for a ship not much larger than the _Phoenix_ had
disappeared mysteriously only a few days before and all shipping in the
area had been alerted. _Joyita_, a charter boat operating out of Apia,
had departed for the Tokelaus, less than 250 miles away, but had never
arrived. The government boat from Pago Pago had joined with British
ships and planes from Apia to comb the area, but without success.
We did not sight any wreckage of _Joyita_, but on the fifth day we came
across what was, on the face of it, another mystery. Sighting the island
of Niuafoo to the northwest, we decided to make a detour to investigate.
This island is referred to in the Pilot Book as “Tin Can Island,” due to
the local custom of floating mail out to passing ships in a watertight
container. No one, however, attempted to float anything out to us and,
even with the aid of binoculars, we could see no sign of any inhabitants
save for a couple of horses up in the hills. Intrigued, we sailed all
the way around the island, rather close in. On the northeast tip we saw
a village with a number of houses still under construction, but no sign
of a living soul. It was as if everyone had simply walked away a few
minutes before.
This was indeed a weird situation and we speculated endlessly. Even if
everyone had gone on an excursion into the interior for some reason,
surely there would have been old people staying behind, there would have
been dogs around—and pigs—and chickens. And, no matter where they were,
the sight of our boat—an unusual visitor—should certainly bring out at
least one curious inhabitant!
Puzzled, we sailed on. Not until we reached Suva did we learn that the
entire population of Niuafoo, under the control of Queen Salote of the
Tongas, had only recently been evacuated because of a volcanic eruption
and the threat of further disturbances.
Eight days out we saw the loom of Wailangi Lala Island light and another
of those incidents occurred which demonstrate how narrow is the
borderline between success and disaster. Knowing it would be several
hours before we came up on the light, I went below to rest, leaving what
I thought were clear instructions with Mickey, on watch, that I was to
be called _before_ we reached it, so that we could make a necessary
change of course at the light. I slept fitfully and came up on deck
without having been called—to see the light already abeam and the boat
on a course that would very shortly have piled us on the rocks. I
changed the course and asked Mickey why he hadn’t called me according to
orders. His only reason was that he couldn’t remember what I had told
him, and thus had done nothing!
It is necessary to navigate very carefully in the Koro Sea. All day we
cruised among countless inviting-looking islands, wanting to stop, but
required to push on to Suva, the official port of entry for the Fiji
Islands. We knew that, on this trip at least, we would not have the time
to backtrack, for the hurricane season was approaching and by the first
of November, at the latest, we would have to be on our way south to New
Zealand, out of the area of tropical storms.
That night, as we worked our way through a tricky series of lights at
the western exit of the Koro Sea, I stayed on deck. I had no desire to
push my luck and knew there would be plenty of time to catch up on lost
sleep when we had dropped the hook in the harbor of Suva.
By afternoon on October 18 we were rounding Viti Levu with a good breeze
and at 1600 we dropped anchor off the Royal Suva Yacht Club. A very nice
birthday present for the Skipper!
As usual, the first hour or two was hectic. The port doctor cleared us
without difficulty, but the customs official sealed not only our guns
and liquor, but a case of root beer as well. (Beer, he insisted, is
beer!) The immigration officer was a bit bothered by the presence of
three Japanese tourists without visas, although I explained that I had
checked in advance and been assured that no visas would be necessary for
a short visit of a yacht to a crown colony. At last he solved the
dilemma by deciding officially to ignore their presence so long as they
did nothing to call attention to themselves. In other words, so long as
there was no trouble they had the freedom of the port.
After we had been cleared there came, as usual, the press, followed by
the Commodore of the Royal Suva Yacht Club, who presented the family
with honorary membership cards. When we introduced Nick, Mickey, and
Moto, emphasizing that they, too, were yachtsmen, there was an awkward
pause.
“Er—well—yes!” I almost expected him to add, “Raw_ther_!” Instead, he
drew me aside as soon as convenient and confided that the club was
forced to adopt a “Whites Only” policy—because of the Indians, you
know—and although he, personally, had nothing against the Japanese—and
he was sure that most of the others would feel the same—well, there it
was, you know, and all that.
As a family, we discussed the situation long and seriously and decided,
at last, that we could do more good by accepting the proffered
membership than by huffily refusing. As Jessica expressed it, “We’ll
make friends and sow destruction!” This we tried to do, taking every
opportunity of bringing our companions into the conversation: “They’ll
be the first Japanese yachtsmen ever to have sailed around the world”
and “Those chaps of ours are pretty good small-boat sailors. They made a
fine record in the All-Japan Intercollegiates—they sail Class boats much
like those you have here,” etc., etc. When we admired the clubhouse, we
expressed regrets that _all_ of us couldn’t see what a fine place they
had and described how wonderfully we had been treated by yacht clubs in
Japan. “Wonderful what a common interest in sports can do to bridge
international barriers, isn’t it?”
Our campaign didn’t seem to have much effect at first, but after a few
days we noticed that those who came aboard made a special effort to be
cordial to the Japanese, albeit somewhat ponderously.
We did not change the policies of the Royal Suva Yacht Club; Nick,
Mickey, and Moto never saw the inside of the clubhouse, and yet we felt
we had gained something when one of the senior members remarked, in
tones of obvious astonishment: “Those lads of yours are fine chaps—very
intelligent!” And he added thoughtfully, “It is rather a pity they can’t
go into the clubhouse—walk around a bit, what? Some of the trophies make
a good show—and then, there are the photographs.... Yes, it is a pity.”
We could not hope, during our brief visit, to sort out the rights and
wrongs of the complex issues here, but we found the racial tension in
Suva a disquieting contrast to that other crossroads of the Pacific:
Honolulu. Jessica, for instance, found that although a Girl Scout may be
“a sister to every other Girl Scout,” in Fiji her sisterhood does not
cross color lines. There are Fijian Guides, Indian Guides, and European
Guides—and never the troops shall meet, not even for an occasional
jamboree.
Barbara and Jessica, however, visited them all and were warmly received.
The Fijian Guides, wearing costumes of beautifully designed tapa, put on
a program of native dances and entertained the visiting Scout from
America with lemon tea (made by boiling lemon leaves in a tin can
“billy”). They even invited her into a native bure, the Fijian name for
the shaggy grass huts that are as completely closed and airtight as the
Samoan fale is open. But this was about all the Fijian life they saw.
True, the city of Suva itself is colorful, with its tall and picturesque
Fijian policemen, hair trained to a bushy headdress, wearing red and
white sulus with scalloped hems; its tiny, fine-featured Indian women in
gauzy saris, with jeweled pins in their nostrils; its blatant Chinese
shops; its bustling open-air market, like something out of the _Arabian
Nights_; its colorful flower vendors. These sights are all worth seeing
and remembering.
But over it all hangs a sense of tension. There are sharp contrasts in
Suva between the principal ethnic groups: the dominant British, the
cheerful Melanesians, the quiescent Chinese, and the restive Indians.
The last-named are rapidly increasing their economic and political
influence in the islands, and there is clearly a conflict brewing. There
is no contact between Fijian and Indian, nor between these groups and
the British. The British in turn have a patronizing affection for the
Fijians, but a dislike and distrust of the Indians, which is
reciprocated. The Chinese sit in the background and make money.
When we left Fiji we felt we knew even less of the people here than we
had in other Pacific islands, and we regretted it.
7 DOWN UNDER:
NEW ZEALAND AND AUSTRALIA
“Ah-h-h, yes-s-s!...”
On the trip from Suva to Auckland, New Zealand, we had a marine
hitchhiker along, a lanky, cheerful Australian, Bill Sherwood. Bill was
on his way home to take part in the World Championship 18-footer races
and, as we all liked him at once, he had little difficulty in persuading
us to give him a lift for the first 1,100 miles.
The first few days were quiet. Once we had cleared the several islands
of the Fiji group, south of Viti Levu, the course presented no
particular navigational hazards and we settled quickly into our sea
routines. With an extra man, I evolved a new system of watches to give
everyone, including the cook, a bit of change and occasional relief. We
continued our schedule of two-hours-on-eight-off, but each day one of
the men was relieved from tiller duty and put himself at the cook’s
disposal for such chores as peeling vegetables, washing the rice, or
washing up the pots and pans. Mickey wasn’t too happy about this,
evidently considering galley duty as beneath the dignity of a Japanese
gentleman, but since the Skipper took his own turn whenever it came
around, there was little Mickey could do but conform.
The missing ship _Joyita_ was still on our minds and, in the
early-morning darkness of the seventh day we had an encounter that gave
me some moments of uneasiness. A ship passed us fairly close to port,
only her riding lights showing. Changing course, she pulled ahead and
stopped as we sailed by. I recalled that other boats besides _Joyita_
had disappeared without a trace in this region and the thought of
pirates flashed across my mind. As we approached, I began signaling with
the flashlight: “Yacht _Phoenix_. American Yacht _Phoenix_. We are okay!
We are okay!”
I sent this several times, but there was no response of any kind from
the silent ship ahead. After we had passed, the vessel got underway
again and moved on out of sight.
We were working our way south now, out of the area of steady trades and
into the horse latitudes. Gradually the wind dropped and at last for
several days we were becalmed outright or made bare steerageway in very
light airs.
Far from being bored, we found these quiet and indolent days full of
interest. We lolled on deck, read aloud, fished (without success), shot
at cans for target practice, and slept. A great deal of time was spent
just staring at the gently heaving sea.
In some strange fashion, a sea that is utterly calm seems to me more
alive than a sea in a gale. An angry sea is a mechanical monster, all
sound, power, and threat of immediate destruction. But a calm sea, its
surface breathing slowly and gently like a sleeping giant, seems animate
and, in spite of its seeming gentleness, somehow more menacing.
At various levels below the surface we could see hundreds of life forms:
jellyfish of many shapes and colors and innumerable other floating
shapes ranging from tiny, confetti-like blobs to fairly large and
elaborate, flower-shaped creatures. We caught a man-of-war, floating on
the surface of the water like a child’s plastic bath toy, and Jessica,
who spent hours hanging over the gunwales, discovered a school of half a
dozen little banded fish, about eight inches long, who were escorting us
faithfully, in the shadow of the hull.
Our most memorable day at sea was the one we christened the Day of the
Albatrosses. In the glassy calm these birds, who had been following us
for hundreds of miles, one by one left the air and skidded in for a
landing on the quiet sea, braking with feet flat ahead as they hit the
water. We threw out bits of pilot cracker and soon they had been lured
up to the boat where they squabbled noisily over the scraps.
Our next move was obvious! Rigging a loop on the end of a bamboo pole,
we began to try our hand at lassoing them. To my amazement, when I
finally succeeded in dropping a noose over the head of my chosen victim,
he struggled hardly at all—nor did his neighbors show the least alarm at
his predicament. I pulled the ungainly creature alongside, Nick and I
lifted him by his outspread wings and held him while Barbara got a
picture, and then we released him. He withdrew only a few feet, grumbled
a bit, and smoothed his ruffled feathers. In no time at all, he had
forgotten the indignity and rejoined his fellows to battle under the
stern sprit—and another threatening noose—for the delectable bits of sea
biscuit.
During the next couple of hours each member of the family had a try and
all of us, including Bill Sherwood, earned our membership in
P.A.L.S.—the _Phoenix_ Albatross Lassoing Society. Since there weren’t
enough birds to go around, it is obvious that some of them must have
been captured more than once! (Sidelight on the mysterious East: Nick,
who was mildly interested in our capture of the first albatross, soon
went below without attempting to try his luck: Mickey, reading in his
bunk, never did appear throughout the excitement; neither of the two
bothered to wake Moto, who was taking a nap.)
At last a light breeze, out of the northeast, rippled the surface of the
sea in a tentative manner. After a few false starts, it settled down,
and we were again on our way. With the breeze came a large school of
porpoises and a solitary whale, who surfaced nearby as if to round out
the entertainment.
On the sixteenth day Ted calculated that we should be able to see the
lights of the north end of New Zealand soon after dark. At this
information Bill, suddenly infected with land fever, glued himself to
the upper shrouds and began to strain his eyes to the south. Every half
hour or so he descended, wondered volubly where the light could be, and
climbed to the crow’s nest again. Watching his antics, we realized how
really seasoned we had become. Naturally we would be glad to make our
landfall, but none of us was impatient. We knew we’d see the light
sooner or later. Poor Bill, however, was in a fever of eagerness and
doubt. Not until 2200 did a loud and happy shout come from aloft and
Bill climbed stiffly down to announce triumphantly that he had found the
lights, right where Ted had said they ought to be. Shortly afterward we
were able to see them from deck level.
By morning we could catch glimpses of land through the haze and set our
course for the entrance to the Bay of Islands. Once we were in the
straits, the wind came up strongly and sent us bowling in so that, by
midafternoon, we were riding to anchor off the little port of Russell
and ready to be granted pratique.
Russell, New Zealand, is a charming village of some two thousand souls,
a world-renowned center for big-game fishing. The clustered red roofs
and the green hills beyond were very inviting and we all looked forward
to our traditional celebration dinner ashore—and the nice, cold drinks
that would precede and accompany it. But now we were to have our first
taste of New Zealand casualness. We met with no difficulty in clearing
customs and immigration, the officials seeming far more interested in
the details of our passage than in trotting out regulations. But
quarantine? “Ah-h-h, yes-s-s ...” in a delightful New Zealand drawl.
That was a bit of a problem, that! The only doctor, you see, was out
fishing and there was no telling where he was or when he might be
expected back. It was a pity he had chosen this day to go fishing, but
there it was. We would just have to wait.
When we asked about the prospects of getting dinner ashore, we were
assured there would be no trouble, no trouble whatsoever. The Duke of
Marlborough could serve any number and no advance notice need be given.
The only thing, of course, was that we must get there before seven
o’clock, when the dining room closed.
Rather enchanted than otherwise with this evidence of the
small-townishness of Russell, we settled down to wait for the doctor’s
return. In the meantime we tuned in the news and learned that _Joyita_
had been found at last, a battered and empty hulk, drifting among the
islands of the Fiji group. Passengers and crew were missing and there
was no clue to their fate. No one of us said anything, but I was sure
that in all our minds was the knowledge that it could have been us.
The afternoon passed and the shadows lengthened. Finally the sun set and
Bill, who had been regaling us with descriptions of the huge steak he
intended to order, with two—no, three!—fried eggs sitting on top, began
to consult his watch more and more frequently. Every time a fishing boat
came in he dashed hopefully on deck, only to rejoin us below with
obviously sagging spirits. At last, and with only a few minutes to
spare, the doctor arrived—apologizing charmingly for the inconvenience.
He glanced around, gave us a clean bill of health, signed the guest book
with a flourish, and then took us ashore in his own boat and rushed us
to the hotel, where the entire gang was treated to a seven-course dinner
as guests of the management!
We spent a week in Russell and then, eager to reach Auckland, where mail
had been piling up (we hoped) for several months, we started cruising
down the coast. This was a type of sailing we’d had little experience
with. We found it fascinating to be always within sight of land, sailing
by visible landmarks rather than by celestial navigation. The
countryside was fertile and lovely, with brilliant green uplands dotted
with the woolly blobs of grazing sheep, while along the shore stretches
of sandy beach piled into yellow dunes or reared up in sheer sandstone
bluffs.
We made only one stopover, at Kawau Island, where we spent a most
enjoyable weekend tied up to the private dock of Roy and Irene Lidgard,
New Zealand’s number one entry in the Be Kind to Visiting Yachtsmen
sweepstakes. There we fished, went crabbing, helped crew the small-boat
races at the Kawau Yacht Club, and took long walks into the hills
hunting for elusive wallabies. The climax was a spontaneous potluck
picnic that eddied back and forth between the _Phoenix_, Jim Lawler’s
_Ngaroma_ out of Auckland, and the Lidgards’ front lawn.
Auckland, when we finally arrived, proved equal to its reputation as one
of the most yacht-conscious cities in the world. It supports more than
three dozen yacht clubs and its beautiful and extensive bay provides
opportunity for every type of yachting activity. Certainly the welcome
extended to overseas yachtsmen would be hard to beat and, for those who
are interested in racing events, the Annual One-Day Regatta, with its
hundreds of entries, is undoubtedly the largest and most varied of its
kind.
Our concern about our Japanese companions was quickly dispelled, for
although we did hear one or two uncomplimentary asides, most of our
visitors were happy to accept us all as yachtsmen rather than racial
types. In addition, a number of “Kiwis” who had spent some time in Japan
under the occupation came down to show the boys around as a gesture of
appreciation for courtesies shown them in Japan.