A FISHING ADVENTURE.
High noon in the tropics! The giant bakas twist and flicker in the
mirage, as though they were floating on the sultry air. The glaring
slopes roll and welter in the sun, whose convex gleams build up the
pearly dome of air. The landscape, viewed through the luminous
atmosphere, is adorned with all the enchantments of colour. A hanging
rock is clothed with luxuriant masses of the deeply blue clitoria. Tufts
and rosy tassels flutter from the dilo trees, and showers of pink
stamens illuminate the shadows cast by the boughs. The small grey-green
leaflets of the sensitive plant contract in quivering circles over a
rood of ground, as I set the nearest one in motion with my foot.
As the sun climbs to the zenith, a great silence reigns. There is a lull
in the almost ceaseless buzz and chirp of insect life. The bronze
lizards, with bright blue tails and sparkling diamond eyes, lie
motionless with heads raised, gasping in the heated air. The coloured
tree-snakes, which are hardly distinguishable from the foliage in which
they seek their prey, ensconce themselves in cool leafy wrappings. The
butterflies—the rare pale yellow, the small white silvery one resembling
the silkworm moth, and the richly coloured dark beauty with spots on its
wings like those in a peacock’s tail—which so bravely unfolded their
charms to the morning sun, have retired from the mid-day glare, and are
lying exhausted with outspread wings on glossy leaves. The cooing of the
wood-pigeon and the ring-dove is hushed. The hardy hawk no longer skims
the upper air. The parrots of splendid garb which animate and adorn the
woods—the winged gems which illuminate the atmosphere at every turn—are
lazily swinging in the sheltered foliage. The soil appears to undulate
with the flickering exhalations of heat. The tree-ferns lean aside in
langour. Not even the shrill trumpet of the mosquito is now heard.
The sun sinks towards the west, and soon the palpitating life of the
tropics is in full flow again. The chorus of innumerable insects is
deafening. Every tree, shrub, and blade of grass seems to live and to
breathe at every pore. The great heart of Nature with its teeming life
throbs around.
Lying lazily in the dark shadow of a bread-fruit tree, I watched through
the veil of leaves the strange procession of cloud-forms, following
their capricious imagery and their monstrous and curiously changing
shapes. Lolóma, playing in the leafy folds of a shaddock tree which
scented the neighborhood, was fancifully decorating herself with its
fragrant flowers, which resemble the orange blossom. When I told her
that was the bridal flower of English people, nothing would satisfy her
but a full description of the wedding ceremonies of the kai papalangis.
Disporting herself in the glories of a new parti-coloured liku, which
shone like shot silk in the sun, she tripped lightly on the sward,
courting my admiration of some fresh artistic arrangement of flowers. So
the hours fled away with childish prattle, the dreamy melody of merry
words, and the low soft laughter of perfect happiness.
When the sun had lost his power, the more vivid colours in the landscape
died out, and were succeeded by rich purple tints, and the long woodland
reaches assumed a tint of pale emerald beneath the indigo blue of the
sky. Then the populace came out to amuse themselves with the sport of
reed-throwing on the level turf, swimming in the surf on the coral
beach, engaging in loud-voiced fishing parties, or searching the
shell-strewn sand for decorative ornaments. There were bleaching on the
sand, volutes, harps, marginelles, cones, and every variety of
exquisitely colored shells, which, being daily washed by the sea,
retained their beauty for a long time. The orange cowrie is here the
costliest gift of the sea. This beautiful shell, once quite plentiful,
is now extremely rare. Wading out to the reef, which separates the
lagoon waters from the dark purple of the outer ocean, we enter on the
wonderfully beautiful submarine rainbow produced by the sun gleaming on
the sunken coral. The colors of the solar prism are marvellously
blended. The parrot fishes which glide about—the tiny fishes of pale
blue and bright green, with bands of black, white, and gold, and
sky-blue collars, which dart in and out of the subaqueous growths—give
an indescribable charm to the picture. It was Lolóma’s delight to watch
her own supple reflection gleaming in these tranquil depths. She was
bright as the sunshine, and wild as the sea-spray with which she
sported. As she rose from the waves, her limbs glistening, after a dive
in the surf, she was a veritable sea-nymph.
As the sun went down, the little town of Ramáka was enveloped in an
ethereal golden mist, that rose from the water and the shore. The
buildings floated on a lake of rose-hued radiance;—the mountaintops in
the background, bathed in a brief flush of crimson, seemed to flicker
with flame. When the great Eye of Day, as the Fijians poetically name
the sun, was closed behind the watery horizon, the rosy cones of the
hills faded to a duller hue. But soon the stars rushed out, for there is
no twilight in the tropics; the moon illuminated the sea with long lines
of rippling light; the reef, the ocean, the coral strand and the hills
above, shone like a sparkling garland of jewels, and the long cool night
was welcomed after the blazing heat of the day. Then the inhabitants
gave themselves up to evening amusements, prominent among which were the
fishing parties.
There were various methods adopted for catching fish. Fishhooks of wood,
shell, or bone, were used; and sometimes the craftsmen relied on the
glare of the torch made of bunches of dried reeds, when the finny spoils
were to be secured by spearing. Occasionally fish were temporarily
stupefied, and made easy of capture with the hand, by throwing into the
water the pointed fruit of the vutu rakaraka, and the stem and leaves of
the duvu ganga, which were also on some occasions drawn through the
water by a long vine or creeper. The favourite method, however, was the
construction of a fence of bark, leaves, and sticks, which enclosed the
fish in the middle of the circle. The space in the middle was gradually
contracted by hauling on both ends of the fence. Soon the space became
so small that the fish were forced to jump over the barrier on every
side. Then the fun commenced. Some caught the scaly creatures in their
hands, others speared them, and not a few scooped them up in hand-nets.
The babel of sounds with the shouting, prancing, splashing, and laughter
which all this gave rise to, as the merry people gathered in the silvern
harvest of the sea, it would be impossible to describe. Not infrequently
a single canoe was brought into requisition in the sport. The frail
skiff often got swamped in deep water. Nothing damaged, the occupants
would jump out, and pressing down one end until the greater part of the
water had run out, they let go suddenly; then swimming along by the
side, they baled out the remainder and jumped in again.
But the most curious fishing incident is that of the arrival of the
balolo—the Fijian whitebait season. The balolo is a strange annelidan,
which comes into these waters regularly each November, just after the
first quarter of the moon. Its periodical appearance is always predicted
with unerring certainty. The worm-like creature, with its cylindrical
jointed body, coloured green, red, brown, or white, is found floating on
the surface in millions in the early morning. The water becomes thick
with wriggling balolos, and they are scooped up by the hand. The Fijians
carry their vermicelli away in leaves, and bake them in ovens,
afterwards going in for a “diet of worms.”
I often joined in the fishing excursions. One evening, some hours after
the sun had sunk like a globe of fire beyond the watery horizon, and the
moon had risen high in the Heavens,—lured by the beauty of the
silver-shining sea, I had remained out on the reef, unmindful that the
prattling fishing parties had trooped home. Enchained by the magic
beauty of the spectacle, and lulled by the monotonous booming of the
heaving ocean, as it rolled against the great natural breakwater, I
hardly noticed that the tide was rapidly coming in, and that the water
on the highest point of the reef was already above my ancles. Turning
shorewards, my right foot sunk into a depression in the coral formation,
and I immediately felt that I was in the grip of a vice. My foot had
entered the expanded jaws of an enormous clam-shell, which instantly
shut upon it. These bi-valves, in shape like an oyster, have a terrible
power of holding whatever comes within their grip, though I was not
aware of it at the time. A good wrench failing to give me liberty, I
stooped and sought to disengage my foot with my hand. I might as well
have tried to tear a rock in two. The shell was firmly fixed in the
coral, which seemed to have grown round it, and no mortal fingers could
dislodge it from its position.
Now for the first time the desperate peril of my situation dawned upon
me. I was paralysed for a few moments with the thought that entered my
mind like a flash, that I had no chance of escape from death—a slow and
lingering death—death in its most agonising form—dying by inches while
in the full flow of health. My recent companions were all out of hail,
the town was two miles distant, and I should remain bound to this rock
till the flowing tide drowned me. The water rose with each succeeding
wave, and chilled me with the terror of the prospect. I shouted aloud
for help, though knowing none could come. My puny voice was lost in the
hollow murmuring of the sea, as it rambled among the branching coral and
cavernous ledges. Straggling members of the fishing parties were still
visible a thousand yards from me, but they were rapidly widening the
distance. Faint echoes of their jocund songs borne on the light wind,
added another pang to the thought that I should never rejoin them. They
would soon regain the town. I should probably not be missed for several
hours, and then no one would know where to search for me. Even now, with
the water up to my waist, and the sea breaking on the reef, I was not an
object that could be discerned more than a few paces off.
A long roller passed over my head. When it receded, I remained
shoulder-deep in the water. I shouted again, aimlessly. I tugged with
desperation at the trap which held me, and sickened at the sense of the
utter hopelessness of my position. I wondered how long I should live
after it became a question of holding my breath while the waters passed
over me. The feeling of fearful loneliness that crept over me was
intensified by the wild uproar of the waves as they dashed upon the
barrier, sounding in the broken spaces with a terrible bellowing and
hissing, which seemed to my excited fancy demoniacally malignant, as
though evil spirits were rejoicing in the prey so soon to be delivered
up to them, and were now sporting around it with malicious glee. The
moon threw down her soft light, striking with silvery sheen the familiar
peaks and headlands, and lacing the sea with paths of glittering
quicksilver. The stars were twinkling above like so many fireflies. The
beauty of the night only added to my misery.
The level water reached to my chin. I strained my neck to keep it from
gurgling in my throat. I shrieked again, and was answered by the deep
moaning of the sea. A heavy bank of clouds sailed over the moon and
obscured her light. There was nothing visible but the long stretch of
dusky waters. My death, thought I, is near at hand, and my last moments
are to be shrouded in pitying darkness. I could no longer bear the
frightful situation. With a wild despairing cry, I closed my eyes,
determined to end my life at once, and make no fresh struggle to keep my
lips above the salt flood. My voice was answered by an excited question
in Fijian: “Ah thava?” “What is that?” Could I be dreaming, or had I
already passed into the world of spirits? I felt my head seized by a
friendly hand, and then I sunk into unconsciousness.
Three men were poling along in their canoe from a point lower down the
coast, to which they had been to fetch firewood, and the prow of the
wanqua had almost run against me. These sailors took in the situation at
once. Their long sharp-pointed poles were brought to bear in detaching
the clam from the rock, one of their number sinking in the water and
directing the operation with his hands. Then I was lifted into the
canoe, the shell adhering bodily to my foot. I presently revived. After
I had been deposited in the town, one half of the shell was pulverised
by a hardwood club. The flesh on my ancle was a good deal torn by the
frantic exertions I had made to free myself. I was not long in
recovering from these injuries, but the incident itself made a lasting
impression on me, and ever afterwards I was very careful about wandering
on the reef alone.