“Not far, to the Indian store. Come, we load up the boat.” James carried Esther’s bundle down to the boat and Compton followed with his gear over the sea wall where a wooden, twelve–foot skiff was tethered to a length of rusting rebar in the mud beyond the wall. The hull of the skiff had once been painted yellow green and red, but now all three colors merged into a dull brown. The gunnels were gouged and darkly stained with what was probably blood. A relatively new fifteen-horse outboard powered the boat. Compton followed James into silt filled shallows that sucked a shoe from his foot. Bending to find it, his gear bag rolled off his shoulder and into the water.
James set his bundles in the bow among spools of fishing line, rags, buoys, gaffs and a plastic bucket of rusted hooks and lures. Pushing aside the debris, he made room for Compton’s gear. Compton found his shoe and threw it in along with the gear. Conspicuously absent from the debris was any evidence of emergency equipment.
While Compton contemplated his next move, the possibility of grabbing his things and bolting, James covered the front section of the boat with a vinyl sheet, firmly securing the edges.
“What’s that for?” asked Compton.
James gestured out to sea and the white water that gleamed atop the barrier reef several miles from where they stood. “It goin’ to get plenty wet.” He held the boat and waited for Compton to get in. I still have time to run, thought Compton, who hesitated at the side of the boat and while he paused Moses came around the corner carrying the containers of fuel. “Get in,” said James, and Compton awkwardly hefted himself into the boat. Moses returned and carried the fuel to the water where he and James spoke for a moment, then he stuffed something into James’s hand and scrambled aboard. He pulled the rebar out the mud, exchanged it for a ten-foot long tree branch that was worn smooth with use, and poled the boat out of the mud flats and across shallow rocks into three feet of silty water, where he lowered the outboard engine. A southeasterly wind blew across the barrier reef, down the island and into their faces, and by the time Moses had fired up the engine the boat had drifted a hundred yards from where James stood on the sea wall. When they passed him he waved heartily, almost anxiously, to Compton’s mind, as if he were witnessing the beginnings of a perilous voyage from which the wayfarers might never return.
Ahead, in the open seas far beyond the barrier reef, three jade-green islands rose like enchanted South Sea kingdoms found in forgotten fairytales. Due to their configuration, it was impossible for Compton to determine which island they would be heading toward. He pointed to the one on the far right and gestured to Moses. “Which one?”
Moses shouted over the noise of the wind and outboard. “It looks like there is three islands, eh. Is what you call…?
“An illusion?”
“That’s it, illusion. Only two islands. Qamea is on the right, not far, nine miles, but very much farther than that.”
“Is this the Somosomo Strait?”
“No, we be crossing the Tasman Strait, out past the barrier reef.”
Compton looked out over the three miles of relatively flat water to the edge of the barrier reef and its roiling white water. He surveyed the boat as if to calculate the level of abuse it could take before sinking. Headway appeared barely discernable as the motor droned steadily in the current raged water. Along the shore, ramshackle houses built on rotting stilts and lava stones overlooked the water. Brown skinned forms, all with splashes of color, roamed like grazing animals at a water hole. Slick-skinned children splashed like seal pups in the emerald water, their laughter blown pollen caught in scattered fragments above the wind and motor sounds. Figures stood like lava statues on rock promontories that jutted out into the sea, sporting all manner of primitive fishing gear, waiting steadfastly for a fish to bite. They passed a sandy beach, white as a bridal grown with coconut trees bordering the beach, a vision of perfection, seen in a thousand post cards, yet not a soul was to be seen on or near the beach. Compton pointed and asked, “Why isn’t there anyone on that beautiful beach?”
Moses, his focus unwavering on the boat’s direction, was busily weaving in and out and around looming coral heads that if struck could rip the prop and lower unit asunder. He scarcely looked at Compton and replied, “No fish on that beach and no time to lay down for the tan, eh.” He extended his arm, as if in proof. “Fijians already tan enough, eh,” he said, chuckling at the obvious.
As they neared the barrier reef the wind seemed to pick up and with it, the seas. The boat began to buck and roll and plunge its bow into oncoming waves and sea spray found its way into the boat, spritzing the men head to foot. Moses seemed to accept the spray and without attempting to duck out of the way, simply blinked it away. Compton moved closer to the bow and was able to avoid or duck under some of the spray, but couldn’t avoid it all and within ten minutes both he and Moses were soaked to the skin.
The barrier reef appeared to be no more than a mile away and Compton calculated it would be reached in twenty minutes. Yet it was nearly an hour before they arrived at its edge. Although Compton was somewhat familiar with boats and sea conditions and was unfazed by the spray and pounding so far endured, he now considered with serious concern the seas that awaited them once outside the protection of the barrier reef. There a boiling caldron of white geysers exploded from monstrous breakers that struck its entire length.
“Is there another way to Qamea?” he shouted to Moses.
“No roads across this water, brother. No place to land a plane, no ferry boats. Maybe a fishing boat, at the south end of Taveuni but by the time we get there, we be in Qamea, eh.”
At the edge of the barrier reef the water turned green in the shallows and massive coral heads loomed white and treacherous inches below the hull as if Medusa and her slick skulled sisters were rising from the depths to destroy the tiny boat and devour its occupants. Fear clutched Compton and lodged in his throat. In grasping the gunnels, his knuckles turned bloodless as the moon. He held on, fully expecting the wood boat to come crashing down on his pale head, splintering to pieces in a single shattering moment. Moses had cut the engine and lifted the lower unit of the outboard out of the water. In the howling wind, Compton had not noticed that the engine was no longer running. Moses, who had the pole out, possessed the focus of a man who was, in effect, holding life by the slimmest of tendrils. As he poled the boat into the breaking surf, it seemed an impossible task to Compton and disaster seemed inevitable. As is often the case in life-threatening situations, the oddest things come to mind, and he thought about his wallet but could not let go of the boat to ensure that when his lifeless body was found, at least he could be identified. He checked landfall to see that, if in fact he did survive the sinking, he might be able to swim to shore. Moses was now poling the boat into the breaking surf through a narrow fifteen-foot passage that wove between coral mountains. A large breaker sucked away the water and Compton found himself gazing at a naked coral head that seemed to tower above the boat like some aquatic alien whose principal intent was the annihilation of their ever so fragile vessel. The boat was pushed with such force in every direction it seemed an impossibility to give it any bearing by way of a pole. The sea rose again and the pale heads of death submerged as if frightened or wary of intruders, seeking yet another way to cripple the feeble craft. Suddenly the shallows fell away into blue water and the boat lifted high on the rolling swells of the open ocean that, from Compton’s perspective, had every intention of hurling the tiny craft back into the bubbling caldron of the barrier reef. Cat-quick, Moses dropped the lower unit of the outboard back into the water and was starting it up when a breaking wave, clearly capable of pushing the boat back into the exposed reef, rose up like a five story building that was about to topple directly over them. Moses fired the engine, jammed it into gear and gave the boat full throttle. It caught water and began to climb the green wall of water higher and higher. Compton clung to the gunnels and could only stare upwards. White water fell from the great wave’s lips and kissed the boat and everything in it. Moses then turned to port midway up the liquid precipice and quartered it, slipping off the edge and dropping off its back in free fall. Sliding into a deep swell trough, he now powered out of danger and into the same southeast wind that pushed the seas with unabated power. A wave broke into the boat, drenching everything and filling it to the thwarts. Moses kept the power to the engine and they slowly pulled further away from the reef. When they were a safe distance, he slowed and they both bailed, using a plastic jug that had been cut in half. Off again, up a mountainous body of water to its crest, then slamming down on the back side that dropped away beneath them like a hideous unending roller coaster ride whose insane keeper had no intention of relinquishing control. Each wave brought a bone jarring crash that had Compton cringing in expectation of the boat splintering apart. Frequently he lost sight of the green island that rose in the near distance and would glance back at Moses, whose smile had vanished and whose dark eyes were filled with the sea, judging angles, speed and height of the oncoming waves. The boat torqued and twisted in the crushing seas and Compton rode it like a wild horse, continually shifting and rolling in his saddle of a seat to maintain a fine balance or be thrown overboard.
In the next hour, they scarcely made headway, or so it seemed. The island appeared no nearer and the foaming reef was still easily visible behind them. Moses steadily baled while watching the seas and steering the boat. Another great wave broke upon them, dumping blue water into the boat and swamping fuel cans, flipping over the hook and lure bucket and disconnecting the fuel line, killing the engine. Moses threw Compton his half of the bailing cup and without further instruction, Compton began to bale frantically in calf-deep water as Moses righted the fuel containers and cleaned out the fuel line before reattaching it.
As both men worked in diligent haste, Compton asked, “Does this happen every time you make a crossing?”
Moses shook his head as he worked. “It is the sea, nothing ever happens the same way. Sometimes worse, sometimes better, more difficult without the engine, eh.”
Compton could not imagine how one might traverse this water without an engine, and did not ask.
Into the third hour, all conversation had ceased and they had sunk into a mechanical state of balancing and baling.
By the fourth hour, the island had acquired dimension and in its lee they found a measure of sanctuary. Coconut trees were visible on the shoreline and Compton licked his lips, sitting down exhausted. Moses poured a cup of water from a container and gave it to him.
“Ever been on a boat ride like that one, Michael?” Compton did not answer, for Moses had burst out in high-pitched laugher that was very nearly a cackle. “Fiji water always testing. Never make a man too proud, eh?“ Moses shook his head and laughed again, thoroughly amused. Compton didn’t know if he was laughing at him or the circumstances that, from his point of view, were far from entertaining. Yet he did feel a certain sense of exhilaration. Suddenly laughter erupted out of him, quite unexpectedly and he knew it was a release of some kind, a nrvous relief, and may well have been why Moses was laughing.
In the dusk, they shivered in the sunless wind. “We very near. Jest about the next point.”
They motored around the point and down the island for a quarter of a mile and came to a small cove enclosed by a barrier reef. Moses ran up to it, pulled up the engine, and poled over the reef in water so shallow the boat bottomed out on a coral head. They had to wait for a bit of surge to lift it free. Compton caught the scent of smoke, as did Moses. “The smell of smoke is the smell of home, eh.” He poled into a mangrove near shore and floated into a pathway that had been hacked out of the lush, bush-like trees. A wild bird screeched. Without the noise of the engine, wind or sea, the rippled sound of a fish breaking the surface was heard and lent an otherworldly feeling to the place. In the fading light, the mangrove became dark, and on the still air came the pungent taste of rot. Compton could feel his senses sharpen and another self sniffed the strange, sweet air. In places the path had overgrown and they had to duck low to avoid the overhanging branches. The green corridor serpentined deeper towards the land, from where fragrances wafted that he could not identify. Around the last coil the mangroves disappeared and in a clearing on high ground above the blackened water stood a ramshackle dwelling.
The structure was a mishmash of wood and thatch, with a window-sized opening that ran the length of the facing wall and half the length of the far right-hand wall. At its apex smoke curled tightly above a corrugated roof. In the open doorway a large woman stood barefoot. Some of her was very young and some of her was very old. She wore a brown and white cotton dress that fell to her large feet, and her body seemed to fill the dress. Yet she moved from the doorway and down the steps with the grace of a dancer. Long hair touched her shoulders in silky waves and her skin was the color of walnut. When she smiled, two large front teeth protruded well past her upper lip and the upper left side of her jaw had no teeth at all. Grand, gummy gaps occurred on both sides of her lower jaw, yet her smile was open and warm as though her teeth were perfect and as white as seashells.
Moses jumped out and plunged the rebar into the mud and tied off the boat. He helped Compton with his gear and led the way out of the oozing mud to the foot of the house.
“Hello, hello,” greeted Moses. “I’ve brought a visitor.” He then spoke in rapid Fijian to the woman. When all was explained, he returned to English. “Michael, this is my mother, Mariah. This is Michael from America.” She nodded, but didn’t extend her hand. “Look at this, “ exclaimed Moses, pointing to Compton’s feet, coated with black mud up to his calves. He hurriedly went to a fifty-gallon steel drum that sat at the side of the house and returned with a pitcher of water. Kneeling at Compton’s feet, he began to wash his legs and feet. It was an awkward moment for Compton, for another man had never done such a thing. He wondered why he would do it. Because I’m white or have money?