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It was a grey bleak dawn. The surf had been noisy on the reef all night and now as we
came from the houses for our ablutions, clouds scudded low across the sky, swept
along by a persistent SE wind. Hardly the SE trade winds that inspire romance in the
novel. This was a very persistent wind which had already travelled several thousand
miles and was not about to lose its strength because the island of Santa Cruz lay in its
path.
I made rather tentative inquiries from various villagers, on my way to wash in the
stream, as to whether it was safe to set off by canoe. Shouldn't be any problem was the
general answer. Others, perhaps more like my careful nature, suggested it would be
rough but we might get through. It was not much comfort and I found eating my
porridge rather dull and uninteresting as the noise of surf on the reef and the
movement of trees from the wind increased appreciably with each spoonful of gooey
porridge eaten. A number of villagers carried our gear to the coast where the waves
were indeed ebbing and flowing strongly across the fringeing reef. The Assistant
Medical Officer, David Dawea, almost a local as his mother was from Santa Cruz,
remarked in his lugubrious tone that we would probably get wet. But I had faith in
David's judgement and again asked if we should go or spend a quiet day in the village.
"We'll try it", said David, so we tied some of our gear into the two canoes while the
village people took the balance a few miles down the coast to the lagoon entrance. Better not get your bedding wet, was their comment. But the track was too rough for
the District Commissioner to walk; he must go by canoe they said. Now, the canoes
were only fifteen feet long, two feet at the widest part and had a free board of four
inches with three of us aboard. At least the canoes were of solid construction being
hollowed from a tree trunk.
Instructions were now issued as precise as any issued by Santa Cruz people. We were
to stand by the canoe in our allotted place - I was amidships in one, David amidships
in the other, and we would walk onto the reef holding the canoe at waist height. When
the steersman gave the word we were to drop the canoe, push, jump in, and paddle (like
mad). We heaved the rather weighty canoe up and clambered down to the reef. One
minute no water, the next minute water to our waist, as the waves ebbed and flowed
across the porous coral platform. The steersman with an eye on the wave formation
shouted "Now!" and away we went downhill into the next wave. But we had
successfully left the shore and though the sea was rather choppy we settled down to
paddle along the coast some 50 metres off the reef.
The first hour was comparatively easy. The sea was rough but the canoe rode well
and I only baled every few minutes. But as we approached the point, a tidal race
suddenly surrounded us and the sea became very steep with breaking tops. Then I was
baling continuously - one-handed, as one hand was reserved to hold me in the canoe as
we dropped and rose almost vertically in the short steep swells. The steersman, when I
chanced a glance behind, appeared in control but very concentrated and intense and it
was obvious he was too busy for a discussion as to whether we should turn round, if we
could, or continue, if we could. I shouted my concern to David in the other canoe as it
appeared on wave tops. But it was as I expected - "Well probably make it". Soon after
we drew away from the other canoe and within twenty minutes had passed into the
calm of Blamoli - the eastern lagoon. It was bliss - the noise had abated, we got most of
the water out of the canoe, we rested on our paddles and took in the peaceful scene as
we awaited the other canoe. But they must have dropped a long way behind and just as
we were becoming anxious they appeared through the entrance. "That was a fine
performance D.C.", said David, "We turned over and though we shouted, you people
continued on". We had to admit to not hearing or seeing the accident.so
The next day we were to canoe from the village called Nugu lying in the shelter of
Lord Howe Island to a bay from where we would walk along the south coast. This time
we had one large dugout canoe but all of our gear as well. As we left Nugu a sail was
hoisted - a simple affair but effective for the fresh following breeze. A mile short of the
bay, a mile to sea and fast losing the shelter of Lord Howe Island the following seas
became lumpy and began pooping us. With such a load of gear and people - there were
eight of us, there was not a great deal of room for baling. Within minutes it was
obvious not all was going to plan. The sail was dropped but too late, a series of waves
filled the canoe and we all hastily jumped into the sea to stop the canoe from capsizing
and throwing my food, mosquito net, camp bed, and more importantly my cash
imprest to the bottom of the Pacific. But one person did stay in the canoe and though
we suggested he join us he declined as we rocked the canoe to empty the water.
Eventually we all clambered back and paddled slowly but thankfully ashore. I was
upset about the man who stayed in the canoe and remarked upon it to this Nagu
villager when we had spread ourselves and gear on the beach to dry. "Yes, I wasn't
going to join you in the salt water because as I do a lot of fishing in this area I see plenty
of sharks that cruise in that place." Or that was the English version of his excuse in
Pidgin phraseology.
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