Part 10

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.

We had worried, however, without realizing the extent of Samoan 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.