Here are some excerpts from the my collection of short stories Blood in the Water. If you find the stories intersting the book may be purchased from the author for $15 plus shipping.
Hope you enjoy.
Blood in the WaterFishing Tales of the Islands
© Copyright 2013 M.N. Muench. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
Contents
Blood in the Water…………………….
Night Fishing …………………………..
Fishermen..……………………………..
Boat Anchor..………………………….
Archimedes Fish Fry……………....
By Hook and Line…..……………....
“Birds!”cried Sione, “There!” he screamed as he stood at the bow of the small boat, and pointed off to the starboard quarter. Aleki threw the twenty-four foot fishing boat into a wide turn, and it heeled into the blue pacific swell. The black specks in the direction of Sione’s pointing arm moved slowly up the starboard gunwale, toward the bow, as the boat surged down the rolling sea. The horizon filled with the next swell as it rose high before them, and they waited to crest it, and take another look toward the working birds.
“Many?” called Aleki excitedly, from his position at the outboard in the stern.
“Yes. Working!” answered Sione, fighting to keep his balance as the boat roller-coastered through the ten-foot swell. Sione, had the best eyes in the boat, and was standing in the bow acting as lookout. All morning long they had run a game of hide-and-seek with large schools of mostly skipjack tuna and yellow-fin, with bonito, rainbow runners, and dolphins mixed in. They were reaping a great bounty. They had managed to stay near the schools, keeping the time between action to a minimum. It had been a matter of good teamwork. Aleki had developed the intuition to guess the direction of the next rising, and Sione had been quick to see the working birds. The result was a bilge filled with two to twenty pound fish, a magnificent catch, and sure to bring in a good profit for the four men aboard. The boat rose to the top of a swell, and Sione stood, hanging onto the anchor line with one hand, and pointing off to the port with the other. Aleki adjusted the course and the boat plunged down the back of the swell, and toward the bottom of the trough.
The other men in the boat were busy with their own tasks. Lafo, who sat to starboard amidships, was furiously working at a great tangle of line. Ioane, who sat next to him, bent toward the stern, bailer in hand, waiting for the rush of bloody bilgewater to surge back as the boat climbed the opposite wall of the swell. There was a tense, pleasant excitement running through the crew. Each knew the minutes between contacts were as critical as the brief moments of frantic action occurring as they swung through a feeding school. Lafo worked the two lines quickly in and out of the tangles. It was serious business. All lines would have to be in the water when they hit the school. With two lines tangled, they would cut their strikes by half, and it was likely they would have only one or two passes before the school sounded, or outran the boat. Then it would be long loops around a vacant ocean as Aleki and Sione searched to find another sign of working birds.
The boat hit the bottom of the swell. The motor changed pitch as water surged against the stern and reached the exhaust manifold, and the strain of climbing the opposing face dragged at the prop. Looking back across the watery valley, Ioane could see the zigzag, light blue ribbon of bubbles churned up by the prop. As the boat rode up the wave, the stern filled with bloodied water and scum, and he bailed furiously. Then, as they cut across the crest, a burst of cool spray rode the stiff breezes, adding to the layers of dried sweat and salt caked on their skins.
“There!” screamed Sione, as the boat started its rapid fall through the next trough.
“Many?” yelled Aleki. “How far?”
“Many! Not far. Soon!”
“Lafo get those lines untangled. Ioane help him!” ordered Aleki. Ioane dropped the bailer, and looked at Lafo, who handed him one of the lures. The extra hands made quick work of the last of the tangles in the lines. Sione stood as the boat crested the swell, and Aleki did the same. Lafo and Ioane had each payed out the mother-of-pearl shell lures a good five to ten yards behind the boat. A few hundred yards away a whirling mass of brown foot boobies, terns, shearwaters, and frigate birds circled and cried, diving wildly into the water, rising, and diving again.
Aleki grabbed his line, threw the spindle into the bilge, and guided the line out over the stern with his left hand as he held the long wooden handcrafted tiller bar between his knees. The spindle bounced around the bottom of the boat as he alternately pulled at the line, and let lengths of it pay out. Meanwhile, Sione had let his line out on the starboard side of the boat. Pandemonium erupted as the boat reached the birds. The water started to boil with thousands of fish forming the upper layer of a school extending as far down into the clear blue water as the eye could see. Shiny underbellies and glistening heads sparkled everywhere in the deep. Fish jumped so close to the boat the men could have touched them if they had not been so intent on their lines. Hundreds of birds from a half dozen species circled, screeching, hovering, and then falling among waves of bait spattering the water like sheets of driving rain.
“Sau i'a!” (Come fish!) screamed Aleki.
“Maua!” (Caught!) screamed Lafo, as he pulled madly at his line.
“Ua sau i'a!” (The fish comes!) laughed Ioane, as his line went taut. At the same instant, a fish rose to the surface behind the boat, occasionally skipping along the water, then sounding, and taking the line off at a greater angle. Ioane was in a frantic tug-o-war, straining to pull in handfuls line that looped haphazardly onto the floorboards. The thick line cut at his hands as the fish fought to escape. The nylon lay in piles all about the bilges, catching on fish, sharp corners, and gear, tangling in on itself, and shuffling in with Lafo's line. Lafo sat to port, battling his own fish, creating another chaos. They glanced at each other, grinning wildly, arms straining to land their fighting catches.
Forward, Sione felt a strike, the line going rigid in his hands. He cursed when just moments later it went slack again, the fish slipping the hook, and then almost instantly, he cackled loudly as another fish hit, this one heavy and hard on the line.
Fish boiled out of the water around the boat, jumping after bait spraying the surface in long waves of fear, like sheets of driving rain. Birds screamed, dove at fish, bait, and occasionally picked up lures. The men howled maniacally, laughed, and cursed, as they bathed in the excitement of the hunt. Blood sprayed about the boat, its origin uncertain. There was utter chaos as dozens of species sought to feed.
Aleki tugged madly at his line, occasionally grabbing it in his teeth, and often forced to steer the boat with the tiller bar between his knees. Lafo landed a ten-pound skipjack. It leaped wildly about the bilge, as he laughed and yelled, trying to pin it to the floorboards so he could get at the hook. Blood flew from its mouth and gills, splashing over the insides of the boat, and covering Lafo's legs and arms in crimson ribbons of slime.
Moments later, just as Lafo managed to get his fish pinned against the bulwarks, Ioane landed his. It danced around on the end of the line, flapping and jerking, spurts of blood spattering the bilges, and still living bait flying from its mouth. A spine poked into Lafo’s leg as he worked the hook out, and he growled painfully at the battling fish. With slimy, blooded hands, he tossed his line over again—only to find Ioane's fish had tangled in piles of his line. Cursing the convulsing beast, he grabbed a wooden club and started beating madly at the fish, whacking the floor, and nearly braking Ioane's toe, as the fish instinctively avoided the blows of the heavy club. Then, after a few good whacks, the near insane men ripped the hook out, and worked frantically to get the lines back into the school.
Just as they solved the tangle, Aleki pulled his fish up to the boat, and Ioane reached out and gaffed the fish, pulling it aboard. Larger than the others, it flexed and sprung madly about the stern, as Ioane beat it with the handle of the gaff. The hook slipped. The line thrown back in, the men ignoring the newly caught fish, which continued to choke up bubbly blood, yellow ooze, and pieces of baitfish, while they concentrated on the hunt.
Almost as fast as the lures were over the side, they were hit again. All four men pulled madly, screaming wildly, laughing, and riding the adrenalin high of predation to the limits of their physical strength. The killing filled them, and kept them keyed, as they fought to land their catch. Ioane, whose lure was no more than a few feet behind the boat when it was struck, pulled his fish aboard, picked up a short club, and beat it silent, all the time cussing, screaming, and happy.
“Lafo! Here!” yelled Aleki, as he passed him his own taut line. Aleki was busy trying to find the school, which had sounded. He, like the birds, circled bewildered. Two more fish hit the lines, but the mad excitement ebbed quickly, leaving them breathing hard and a bit stunned.
Sione shortened his line, and stood in the slightly rolling boat. The birds had already scattered. The ocean was empty, and they pushed across the rolling swells, looking for the school of fish.
“How many?” asked Aleki.
“Two,” said Ioane.
“Two,” said Sione.
“Three,” said Lafo.
“And I got two,” said Aleki. “Sione how many in the boat?”
Sione looked toward the front of the boat where the fish lay piled under the cowling, and in a box sitting in front of the thwart. “Maybe thirty, could be forty. Time to head back,” he said looking at the sun. “It is late.”
“But we are catching fishing!” said Aleki, unwilling to let go of the joyous madness.
“Yes,” said Sione, looking off to the east, “but we have to sell these when we get in, and clean the boat, and load the truck. It will all take time. I want to be home in time for prayers!” he laughed. “How about you, Ioane? Do you want your wife to say the blessing tonight, or are you satisfied with today's catch?”
“There is another day,” said Ioane, who did not want to sound like he was opposing Aleki. But he was tired. The work had been hard, the sun hot, and he was never comfortable fishing this far out, preferring fishing inside the reef from a small outrigger, where there were no swells, and one could see the bottom.
No one asked Lafo what he thought. If they had, he would not have remained quiet. Hard work was hard work, and he expected to shoulder more than his share of it. In the boat, or at home, he would be bending his muscles to something until just before he went to sleep. He sat there, his head down, fiddling with a tangled line.
Aleki stared out toward the horizon. There were no birds in sight. Yet, how he wanted to continue the chase! He did not want it to stop. It was satisfying to have a good catch. The new boat and the motor made a great difference. He wanted to show the village how successful he could be. He looked at the mountains of the island rising from the sea many miles to the south. Sione was right, however. As much as Aleki hated to admit it, Sione knew more about fishing than he did. The day's work was not over, and there was much to do besides catch fish. Ioane was right too, there would be other days.
“Ok. It is good. We head back. Lafo get those fish forward, Ioane you get the lines put away,” said Aleki, as he looked at Sione, and nodded his agreement. Aleki put the boat in a wide arc, and headed it toward the hazy blue island. Sione helped Lafo pack the fish into burlap bags, and they pushed them between the two seats around the spare seven-horse motor stored there. Others, he stuffed under a tarp pushed under the front cowling. Assessing it all, Sione was concerned about the added weight of so much fish. The freeboard was down to less than four inches, and the swell would now be passing across their port stern quarter. It made for some tricky running back to the village. He trusted Aleki, who had learned much in the recent months, and appeared a cautious man. Aleki had not been fishing long, but he was starting to behave like a man who had. He took care of his boat and the motors, always brought supplies and back-up, and he was fair in his division of the catch. Sione noticed even Lafo received his full share, which was not often the case among the village chiefs who owned boats, and hired crews for them.
Looking out over the rolling ocean, and then down at the freeboard, he thought about asking Aleki if he wanted relief at the tiller. He had second thoughts, however; he had already contradicted Aleki once. To do so again would only invite friction. He did not want to antagonize Aleki. He liked him. Instead, Sione sat quietly in the bow and rearranged the gear to best trim the boat. Looking off toward the island, he gauged it would be a hard two hours before they reached the reefed lagoon of the village. The sun bore down on the boat as it made its way over the rolling seas, and now, the action over, its heavy warm weight caused the men to doze. The brightness and the salt caking their eyes caused them to blink, and each blink became longer, as weary muscles relaxed, and thoughts drifted toward pleasant expectations of cool showers and long rests. Sleep became a siren, beckoning, calling each one to the paradise of forgetfulness. On a long roll and pitch, Ioane lost his balance, keeling over into the bilge as the boat raced down a swell and hit a rouge chop. He climbed up sheepishly, but met only mild smiles, as the others could only be thankful the diversion had allowed them to set aside the heavy dullness slipping over their own minds.
“Lafo hand me the water,” said Sione. Lafo passed him a jug, he took a few long swigs, washing down the piece of taro he had been chewing on intermittently. Looking at Aleki, he held up the jug, Aleki nodded, and Sione passed it to Lafo, and pointed toward Aleki. Taking the jug, Aleki took a long hard pull. Its sweetness caressed his raw throat, and its revitalizing effect was immediate. Aleki looked around as he stood in the boat, the tiller between his knees. It was a strange sea washing past the stern of the boat; long rolling swells had quickly risen to at least fifteen feet. A chop was running out of the east, from just north off the swell. It was making handling more difficult.
The boat now wallowed as it hit the bottom of a swell, and wanted to crab, to turn broadside to the wind and sea. When it did, the engine lost power, and the seas would surge against transom as the swell overtook the boat. Aleki found he had to over-steer at the bottom of a trough, and gun the engine to keep speed, to avoid the chance of broaching. Thinking it over, as he rode down each swell, and went through the actions repeatedly, he realized the boat was overloaded.
Shifting the weight would do little good. Sione had already arranged it so as much was amidships as possible. There was just too much weight aboard. Aleki could not see how he could lighten the load without cutting his crew, or catching fewer fish. He needed the extra motor, and he needed the tanks of fuel he carried. To go short one man could cut into the catch. It was not just one fewer line in the water; it was two fewer hands.. He shook his head, and wondered how he could do what the Fisheries Office people had told him was possible with this boat and engine.
The trip became long, and in his weariness, Aleki found it hard to concentrate on handling the boat. He could see the others drifting off, and could only envy their leisure. He thought of asking Sione to take over for a while, but he did not think it would be right. It was, after all, his boat, and his responsibility. So, he fought against the curtain of exhaustion by talking to the others.
“Sione do you think we can sell the fish this side of Solosolo, or will we have to go into town?”
“Town, probably. I think we can sell some of this at the hotels, and much along the way, at the major stores. No need for the afternoon market. This is quality catch. We should be able to set a good price, and make only the best stops.”
“How much money?”
“That depends what will we keep,” replied Sione, reluctant to talk sums of money.
Aleki mulled over Sione's response, for it contained much meaning.
What they kept was what did not go to the village. He had agreed with Sione before he bought the boat and motor, it was to be a business run on European rules, and not by Island custom. They agree contributions to the village were necessary, they just needed to limit the percentage they passed out to powerful chiefs, ministers, their families, friends, and others, to about twenty to thirty percent of the catch. The rest they would sell for cash, to pay expenses, with any profit divided among the crew by shares. What the men did with their money was up to them. But, the reality of it was hard. When a boat landed, everyone in the village expected something. Aleki had real problems dealing with that. He left much of it to Sione, who, though of lesser title, had the political shrewdness of a long-standing failauoga, or talking chief. Sione could often filibuster their way out of town under the limits they had set. Aleki had to admit, coming home was, for him, the hardest part of fishing.
Sione glanced off to the east as he felt the wind hitting the back of his neck. A squall line had come over the horizon, and was rapidly heading their way. He figured it would quickly overtake them, and long before they reached the safety of the reef. There was nothing to do but wait and see. Twenty minutes later, the first of the towering gray clouds knotted angrily over a gray parallelogram of rain and raced to intercept them. The sea chop rose with freshening winds. Sione motioned to Aleki, who looked back toward the billowing clouds and nodded. They knew they would be in for a difficult time, but understood they could do little but be more cautious.
The winds rose for ten minutes, and gusts soon whipped the tops of the swells, causing them to break into foaming horses that raced the boat down the swell. The sun still shone brightly, but off to the northeast, the sky filled with the oncoming squall; a growing expanse of ugly clouds bound to the dark ocean by a black curtain of rain. The clear blue water quickly turned murky, then green, and deepened into a tarnished gunmetal gray, as the clouds blotted out the sun. The temperature dropped rapidly, and the wind whipped spray slapped against the boat each time it surged off the top of a swell. The wind gusted, and scattered drops of rain pelted the water, the boat, and the men.
They searched the boat for the sweaters and jackets they had long since shed. The windblown spray, coupled with the sunburns of a long day's fishing, caused them to chill quickly, raising the hairs on their legs and arms, and bringing on unwelcome shivers. The rain fell steadily. Whipped by the wind, it beat the ocean frothy. Beads of driving rain stung the flesh, raising welts, and making it hard to see, and each man sought protection as best he could. Ioane hid under a sheet of plastic, slumping down in the bilge, his back against the thwart. Lafo simply pulled his coconut frond hat down low over his forehead, and sat, the rain pelting him, waiting patiently for the squall to pass.
Aleki tied a yellow southwester to his head, but he found it was still almost impossible to see. A watery curtain had descended between him and Sione in the bow. He was running the boat by feel; and every time he looked back to gauge their position on the swells, he was blinded by the driving rain. On one occasion, the boat crabbed before he expected it to, the engine lost thrust, and water surged over-the-transom, as the boat was fighting onto the windward surface of the wave and overtaken by the following swell. He quickly gunned the engine, outracing the overwhelming surge, and corrected the course. Though only a little water found its way into the boat, it sent a rush of fear from his groin. It showed him how close they were to mishap. Riding the back of another wave, he was alarmed to see the water in the bilge was to his ankles. Water cascaded down his face, blinding him, and he forcing him to work the rudder by feel.
“Lafo! Ioane!” he yelled, urgently. “The bailers! Quick! Bail!”
Ioane picked up a bailer, and turned to the rear of the boat. He scooped the water out of the bilge, and threw it over the side. Each scoop caught in the wind, blowing right back at him. He switched sides, tossing the water to the lee, but it was still miserable work. Ioane was feeling worse every minute, his fear causing him to bail madly. Lafo saw their danger and bailed quickly. He passed no judgment on its effectiveness; it simply needed doing. He understood there was much futility in life, and was resigned; having gotten in the boat, nothing remained for him but to work until he could get out.
Sione, alerted by the yawing of the boat, and the change in the pitch of the engine, looked to the stern in time to see the water surge over the transom. It was not much water, but a bad sign. Aleki had acted correctly, but it meant trouble. The squall was getting fierce, the wind was whipping up a chop, making it even more difficult to control the boat, and the sea spray was blowing into the boat as quickly as the rain. If he had been at the tiller, he would have turned the boat around, and headed back it into the swell and wind. It was safer to head into a storm, though he felt it would cause too much confusion to try to get Aleki to do this now. He picked up a large coconut shell from the bilge, and started scooping out the bloodied water. “With three working, maybe we can stay even,” he thought hopefully.
The squall peaked, the wind gusted, and rain lashed the sea in sheets, whipping the choppy surface into a white froth that slid across the gray-blue marble sea, like snow over a frozen lake. Aleki steered blindly, water cascading down his face. He moved the tiller by the feel of the pitch and roll of the boat, and intuition. He could see nothing, even with his back to the wind. Ioane and Lafo, who were only a few feet from him, were blurry images. The water in the bilges rose above his ankles, and then disappeared as they hurtled down the next ravine between high swells.
They hit the bottom of the trough heavily, and he felt the bow bury, pulling up sluggishly. He gunned the engine, but the weight of the water in the bilge drove the bow lower. The boat wanted to crab broadside to the swell. He pushed the tiller around, fighting to keep it running diagonally along the swell, revving the engine, but even at full throttle, the boat hesitated, and was slow in gaining momentum. The swell surged over the transom, broaching the boat, and five gallons of water poured in before Aleki could regain control, and gun the engine, pushing the boat ahead of the following swell.
His bowels tightened as the water rushed back over his ankles. When they reached the crest, the full force of the storm beat the boat, and lashed them with a stinging mixture of salt spray and rain. Then the boat slipped fast down the next ridge of the swell, almost out of control. The bow dug in as it hit bottom, sticking there, and rising from the water ever so slowly. Aleki gunned the engine as the bow shed water from the cowling, but it did no good. The following swell came surging in over the transom in one long rush.
“Oh, God!” he pleaded silently. “Not now!” The motor refused to die! There was still a chance. “Bail!” he screamed into the wind, “Bail!” ..................
Night Fishing
“So Sa'aga, what was that story you told about Tomas and his son?” asked Sauaso, with a raised eyebrow to the others sitting on the mats. “Tell us about that night,” he continued in a soothing voice, as he cued Lalo to pour Sa'aga another glass of Steinlager Export Only beer.
There were six men sitting in the small back fale of Sauaso's family. It was a secluded place, where the sea breezes blew the mosquitoes away, far from the prying eyes of the women of his family, and others who might cluck and chick their cheeks loudly about men drinking on a Saturday afternoon.
But, his crew was thirsty, and tired. A morning of fishing had baked them nut-brown. The salt breezes had crusted their eyelids and turned their eyes red. They had worked hard, had a good catch, come home, cleaned the gear, showered quickly, and then piled into Sauaso's truck, to sell the catch along the road in the villages toward town. Now they were done, and it was Sauaso's responsibility to relax his crew, to get them moderately drunk and happy. He needed these four scaly turtles again on Monday. He raised an eyebrow, and Lalo poured Sa'aga another drink, as Sauaso urged him to tell one of the renowned fishing stories of the district. A story they had all heard before, had all heard Sa'aga tell before, but a tale that never lost its ability to send a chill down one’s back. It was a fine story to suck down a beer with, and feel the cool breezes rush over salt chafed and sunburned skin. It was a good story to tell after you had come home, and could look out on the sea from the comfort of a small earthbound fale.
Sa'aga saw Lalo pouring the beer before he heard the question. He was thirsty, and the first few glasses had been poured slowly. He wanted this one, would be grateful for the cool bitterness that would slip down his throat, and yearned for the soft shudder to spread from his shoulder blades. Sauaso let him eye the beer, and drink a long swig, raised an eyebrow, and the glass was filled again, almost before it hit the mat. Sa'aga tossed back another gulp, and then looked at Sauaso almost uncomprehendingly. At first he was a bit embarrassed at his lack of courtesy to the others. Then, Sauaso's request slipped slowly out of his subconscious; and he was thankful for the extra few glasses. He felt a slight shudder of fear and remembrance move over him, rather than the cool alcohol shiver he had been expecting.
He looked at Sauaso, and then slowly at the others, who sat calmly awaiting his decision. Taking another long pull on the brew, he let out a long breath, and started. “I used to fish with Tomas when I was younger. He was the only man in the village who would let a young man like me go out,” he said pointing at his mangled legs. “It wasn't because he was European. He never made it easy on me. I worked as hard fishing then as I do now,” he added proudly. “Tomas, he said I was a good worker, and better than the other boys, and he gave me a fair share. So, I was happy working with him. First, we had an ali'a[1] with a twenty horse Johnson. It was always either too wet and damn cold, or blistering hot. I hated that double-hulled demon! But, we fished well, and Tomas managed to save enough money from the catches to buy a new Fisheries diesel. A big boat, almost thirty feet, with high gunnels to kept it dry and allow you to get out of the wind if you got cold. It was better than the ali’a. Big enough for five men, and gear. Less than we get in Sauaso's whaleboat, but the diesel had a narrower beam, which allowed it to move better through the chop. It was nearly flat bottomed and rolled more in a swell, though. Not a boat Ropati would like,” he said smiling at one of the men across the mat.
Ropati giggled, and the others laughed, and kidded him for his well-known tendency to seasickness even in the slightest swell. Sauaso nodded. Lalo poured another round, and passed the green Gray’s tobacco box. Sa'aga rolled a cigarette looking into the cardboard box of stringy soft brown tobacco like he was seeing the threads of his memories.
“He was a good man,” he said to his friends, “and a real fisherman.”
He passed the box of tobacco, as the others nodded in silent agreement. Then he continued. “We fished for six months, and everything was good. The engine was reliable, and the boat held together well. We went out three or four days a week. It was mostly bottom fishing, but sometimes chasing the schools of aku. The boat was a bit slow to go after the schools, so we mostly went bottom fishing at night, far out near the triple humps,” he said referring to a place they all knew. “Tomas liked the humps. He liked filoa[2] because they sold well, and we could catch many out there. But the boat rolled badly in the swell that comes up over those humps, so we always had trouble keeping the boat crewed. We would get fellows to join us for a few weeks, and then after they had a pocket full of money, they would suddenly say it made them too sick to go there all the time. So, you know, we were always looking for crew. But Tomas liked the humps, and said he would find some hard cases someday, who could put up with the rock and roll of that boat.”
“Well, like I said, we did well for six months. Then his oldest son asked if he could join us. The kid was a bit young, close to fourteen, but he was big, and he could work. Tomas told me he did not want to take him out, but on weekends it was always hard to get a full crew together, so he relented. You know the boy turned out to be a real fisherman. He could hook ‘em. I would have to help occasionally on the bigger fish, but he caught more than his share. The boy only had one problem. He thought he knew all the answers. He wouldn't always listen to Tomas, or even me. A strange fourteen year old don't you think?” he said, smiling at the others. Sa'aga looked around at the faces, which were filled with hidden anticipation, and then, at his ever so full glass. He took a long drink, a hit of his grays, and then let out a long smoky breath, peering into its fog as if it could tell his fortune. The time had come.
“One Saturday night when the moon rose like a giant orange, and the sea was as silvery smooth as the beach at low tide, we went out to the humps. It was slow. You know, good weather, bad fishing. Get a night when you cannot hold down your guts, and the fish are jumping into the boat. Well it was a perfect night. We sat there bouncing our weights off the bottom for an hour, and nothing. The boy was in the bow, I was amidships, and Tomas was fishing off the stern. We talked for a while, but dozed a bit as the time crept by. The boy was laying on the forward seat. You know, we were all tired, and I didn't take much notice. We were not catching anything. But I should have noticed! I had warned him a few times about it. I should have looked to make sure, but I didn't,” he said condemning himself sadly to the others.
The others stared back at him, sympathy showing on their faces. Each man already knew what it was Sa'aga had not done, yet each awaited his revelation…………………..
Fishermen
It was a clear and beautiful morning, filled with soft mountain breezes that lightly swayed the coconut fronds, and brought a slight chill to the air. The village was already awake as the sun sent daggers of orange fire across the eastern sky. Families had gathered in the small fale along the beach of the bay. Quick meals of hot sweet cocoa scented with lime leaves and thick with bits of freshly roasted beans, and large, hard, ship’s biscuits, were eaten in haste as people prepared for the morning’s work.
Fa'afetai walked slowly toward the sea, feeling the light breezes on his bare legs, and staring out at the bay. The waves played easily over the coral buttresses near the point, and the glassy shimmer of the distant ocean spoke of a day of little chop and ideal fishing. He squatted on his haunches, and studied the subtlies of the water as it shimmered like an octopus, following the slow transition of the sky from silver to pale blue. He breathed deeply occasionally; filling his lungs with the pleasantly damp air whispering past him, and watched the breezes dancing out onto the surface of the bay.
It was a morning all a morning could ever be. Even the flies appeared overcome by the beauty, and wandered slowly over damp surfaces, drunk on the dew left by the long quiet night. High on the mountain, across the bay, the trees suddenly turned a golden green, almost bronzed by the first light of the sun. Slowly, the golden glow worked its way down the steep cliffs, burning away the light mists, and subtly bringing on the verdant green chaos of day. He sat there at sunrise, day after day, for years, watching. There was always something to learn about the dawn, always a detail revealed, a new appreciation, a change from the day before. He always learned something about the life he lived, and the day to come. Today, as he studied the long stretch of beach he noticed a coconut tree had fallen in the night. It lie across the beach, its head resting in the rippling tide, roots upturned, its trunk pointing toward a coral cove at the edge of the reef; a favorite fishing spot. He knew the tree, had climbed it as boy, run out along its narrowing trunk, and drop into the shallow surf. Now it lay across the sands, finally overcome by the tides of the bay.
An omen? Perhaps. Fa'afetai studied the tree, and slowly let his eyes follow the pointing trunk to the white foam washing the edge of the underwater cove. It was a calm, blue sea he saw, but in his mind he had a vision of a fairyland of coral castles, valleys, and caverns of stone. It was the world beneath the waves, the land of the hunt, where he could fly like a gull through the water.
So, the morning’s adventure lies before him, even as asthe sun marched down the beach like a band of warriors setting the world ablaze. When they struck him with their hot flares, he rose from his seat, and walked slowly toward home to get his spear, goggles and fins.
“Fa'afetai, a very good morning to you, honored chief,” called a man in his midthirties, walking slowly from a fale near his own. “I trust you found a good beginning to this day”, he continued, “and it will bring us a greater appreciation of our short, but happy lives,” he said with a soft smile.
“Ho, Samuelu! Greetings, my most favored spokesman. Yes, it is a beautiful morning. May we thank the Good Lord for that. The start of a fine day, and, if blessed, one upon which we will be most fortunate,” laughed Fa'afetai. “See the old coconut tree that fell into the sea last night?” he asked, gesturing to the far beach. “It points toward the outer cove. The seas are mild, and the heat of this early morning says the sea breezes will not pick up until late in the day. So, good friend, today it is the spear. The aku will wait. Besides, the early heat does not speak well for a man's good luck on the deep blue swells of yonder ocean. Get your dive gear and your canoe, and off we will go to find our fortune!”
The men laughed at their unnecessary formality, for they had known each other since the times when the sea had been, the smallest of waves brushing the sands of this same beach. A time when they had danced at its edges with fairies only they could see, and been drawn to a world playing a siren’s song, which made them fishermen. Today, as they had done for years, they prepared to go out together, into the sea they loved, respected and yet, always feared.
They were in the water quickly. Their canoes were sleek and beautifully cared for, and glided over the bay with the lightest of strokes. Each canoe was custom-built. Together the men had sought the trees for the hulls, wandering for months in the uplands before finding just the right ones, then under a shed between their fale, they had hollowed out the trunks with adzes and chisels. Built together, they were, never-the-less, as different as the trees from which they were hued, and the men who would sit in them. The canoes were unique creations of beauty and understanding. Fa'afetai's was longer, deeper and wider, because of his added weight, while Samuelu had made the outrigger longer in relation to the hull, to counter his preference for paddling on the outer side. They were the fastest canoes on the coast, and proved it in many celebration day races.
They reached the cove, and tied their canoes to coral heads in the shallow waters of a tidal channel. Then, fixing their gear; handmade goggles, spears with Hawaiian slings, and duck feet—gifts from departing Peace Corps—they slipped into the large sunken valley in the underwater world of the cove. The water was cool on their skin, and clear, the bottom, at seventy feet, unclouded and close. Fish floated all about them like exotic birds. Some basked in the sunny waters unmoving, while others danced like hummingbirds and butterflies from coral flower to coral flower.
At the open edge of the bowl they saw large gray clouds of coral sand, evacuated by a small school of giant parrotfish, which dashed off when the men dropped into the water. On the bottom, in a meadow of sand, they could make out a giant ray, lying motionless and almost invisible. But, the good fishing was along the walls of the cove, where the coral flowed like soft putty, making canyons and caverns where the choicest of fish hid.
The men started working the inner curve of the bowl. They knew the area like the paths of their village. They would drop down along the wall, and work their way along the long crevices that eventually closed into caverns, and there, up in the darkest places, lurked the tasty red squirrel and soldier fish. Fish too quick for most to spear, but not too quick for either Fa'afetai or Samuelu.
Each dive lasted about two minutes, and each one resulted in a catch. These they strung on a coconut frond fiber attached to their waists; and when they had a half-dozen or so each, they would swim back to the boats to unload their catch and grab another tether.
“The water is beautiful today, eh Fa'afetai,” said Samuelu as they clung the sides of their canoes. “I enjoy it most when it is like this—clear and cool. I could stay out here forever.”
“Samele would not appreciate a fish for a husband,” Fa'afetai laughed. “Yes, I sometimes wish I was born a turtle, with a life where I could always glide along the edges of these canyons and coves.”
“You know the aku[3] are the fish to chase, and the hunt is always exciting; but it is only when we spearfish that I feel the cool calculation of the hunt,” confided Samuelu.
“It is the water,” nodded Fa'afetai. “It cleanses you. The coolness of the ocean seeps into your pores, and brings a soft peace to your soul. When we aku fish, we fight the sun and the sea. We wear broad hats and shirts, and still, the sun’s fire heats our brains, and makes us mad, I think. The madness is part of the reason for going out; to drench oneself in the blood lust of the chase. No better way to feel like a man, a predator, than to chase the aku. Yet here, in the cove, it is quiet, swift, and clean. We must seek a fish, aim, and let fly our spear. Except for a bit of wriggling, and biting the head, it is complete. The skill is difficult to learn, the kill is direct, and not so steeped in the traditions of the hunt.”
“I feel much more apart of this,” said Samuelu, dipping his head in the water to cool it from the heat of the sun. “I love the aku,” he continued as he resurfaced, “but days like this bring me peace of mind. I am always happy when you choose the spear rather than the pole. Yes, it is the coolness that seeps into me, and when I go home—well, Samele says I am a softer and gentler lover in the night. She teases me sometimes about the aku chase. When we leave in the morning, she often complains quietly about it meaning we will make love until dawn. It is true, I am on fire when we come home late in the afternoon, the canoe full of blood, the smell of the fish, and the salt caked on my lips. I can see why the men toward town drink so much after chasing the schools. But for me,” he laughed, “I prefer my wife's cure for the madness of the day.”
“Yes,” said Fa’afetai. “I understand.” ………………………
Blood in the Water…………………….
Night Fishing …………………………..
Fishermen..……………………………..
Boat Anchor..………………………….
Archimedes Fish Fry……………....
By Hook and Line…..……………....
Blood in the Water
“Birds!”cried Sione, “There!” he screamed as he stood at the bow of the small boat, and pointed off to the starboard quarter. Aleki threw the twenty-four foot fishing boat into a wide turn, and it heeled into the blue pacific swell. The black specks in the direction of Sione’s pointing arm moved slowly up the starboard gunwale, toward the bow, as the boat surged down the rolling sea. The horizon filled with the next swell as it rose high before them, and they waited to crest it, and take another look toward the working birds.
“Many?” called Aleki excitedly, from his position at the outboard in the stern.
“Yes. Working!” answered Sione, fighting to keep his balance as the boat roller-coastered through the ten-foot swell. Sione, had the best eyes in the boat, and was standing in the bow acting as lookout. All morning long they had run a game of hide-and-seek with large schools of mostly skipjack tuna and yellow-fin, with bonito, rainbow runners, and dolphins mixed in. They were reaping a great bounty. They had managed to stay near the schools, keeping the time between action to a minimum. It had been a matter of good teamwork. Aleki had developed the intuition to guess the direction of the next rising, and Sione had been quick to see the working birds. The result was a bilge filled with two to twenty pound fish, a magnificent catch, and sure to bring in a good profit for the four men aboard. The boat rose to the top of a swell, and Sione stood, hanging onto the anchor line with one hand, and pointing off to the port with the other. Aleki adjusted the course and the boat plunged down the back of the swell, and toward the bottom of the trough.
The other men in the boat were busy with their own tasks. Lafo, who sat to starboard amidships, was furiously working at a great tangle of line. Ioane, who sat next to him, bent toward the stern, bailer in hand, waiting for the rush of bloody bilgewater to surge back as the boat climbed the opposite wall of the swell. There was a tense, pleasant excitement running through the crew. Each knew the minutes between contacts were as critical as the brief moments of frantic action occurring as they swung through a feeding school. Lafo worked the two lines quickly in and out of the tangles. It was serious business. All lines would have to be in the water when they hit the school. With two lines tangled, they would cut their strikes by half, and it was likely they would have only one or two passes before the school sounded, or outran the boat. Then it would be long loops around a vacant ocean as Aleki and Sione searched to find another sign of working birds.
The boat hit the bottom of the swell. The motor changed pitch as water surged against the stern and reached the exhaust manifold, and the strain of climbing the opposing face dragged at the prop. Looking back across the watery valley, Ioane could see the zigzag, light blue ribbon of bubbles churned up by the prop. As the boat rode up the wave, the stern filled with bloodied water and scum, and he bailed furiously. Then, as they cut across the crest, a burst of cool spray rode the stiff breezes, adding to the layers of dried sweat and salt caked on their skins.
“There!” screamed Sione, as the boat started its rapid fall through the next trough.
“Many?” yelled Aleki. “How far?”
“Many! Not far. Soon!”
“Lafo get those lines untangled. Ioane help him!” ordered Aleki. Ioane dropped the bailer, and looked at Lafo, who handed him one of the lures. The extra hands made quick work of the last of the tangles in the lines. Sione stood as the boat crested the swell, and Aleki did the same. Lafo and Ioane had each payed out the mother-of-pearl shell lures a good five to ten yards behind the boat. A few hundred yards away a whirling mass of brown foot boobies, terns, shearwaters, and frigate birds circled and cried, diving wildly into the water, rising, and diving again.
Aleki grabbed his line, threw the spindle into the bilge, and guided the line out over the stern with his left hand as he held the long wooden handcrafted tiller bar between his knees. The spindle bounced around the bottom of the boat as he alternately pulled at the line, and let lengths of it pay out. Meanwhile, Sione had let his line out on the starboard side of the boat. Pandemonium erupted as the boat reached the birds. The water started to boil with thousands of fish forming the upper layer of a school extending as far down into the clear blue water as the eye could see. Shiny underbellies and glistening heads sparkled everywhere in the deep. Fish jumped so close to the boat the men could have touched them if they had not been so intent on their lines. Hundreds of birds from a half dozen species circled, screeching, hovering, and then falling among waves of bait spattering the water like sheets of driving rain.
“Sau i'a!” (Come fish!) screamed Aleki.
“Maua!” (Caught!) screamed Lafo, as he pulled madly at his line.
“Ua sau i'a!” (The fish comes!) laughed Ioane, as his line went taut. At the same instant, a fish rose to the surface behind the boat, occasionally skipping along the water, then sounding, and taking the line off at a greater angle. Ioane was in a frantic tug-o-war, straining to pull in handfuls line that looped haphazardly onto the floorboards. The thick line cut at his hands as the fish fought to escape. The nylon lay in piles all about the bilges, catching on fish, sharp corners, and gear, tangling in on itself, and shuffling in with Lafo's line. Lafo sat to port, battling his own fish, creating another chaos. They glanced at each other, grinning wildly, arms straining to land their fighting catches.
Forward, Sione felt a strike, the line going rigid in his hands. He cursed when just moments later it went slack again, the fish slipping the hook, and then almost instantly, he cackled loudly as another fish hit, this one heavy and hard on the line.
Fish boiled out of the water around the boat, jumping after bait spraying the surface in long waves of fear, like sheets of driving rain. Birds screamed, dove at fish, bait, and occasionally picked up lures. The men howled maniacally, laughed, and cursed, as they bathed in the excitement of the hunt. Blood sprayed about the boat, its origin uncertain. There was utter chaos as dozens of species sought to feed.
Aleki tugged madly at his line, occasionally grabbing it in his teeth, and often forced to steer the boat with the tiller bar between his knees. Lafo landed a ten-pound skipjack. It leaped wildly about the bilge, as he laughed and yelled, trying to pin it to the floorboards so he could get at the hook. Blood flew from its mouth and gills, splashing over the insides of the boat, and covering Lafo's legs and arms in crimson ribbons of slime.
Moments later, just as Lafo managed to get his fish pinned against the bulwarks, Ioane landed his. It danced around on the end of the line, flapping and jerking, spurts of blood spattering the bilges, and still living bait flying from its mouth. A spine poked into Lafo’s leg as he worked the hook out, and he growled painfully at the battling fish. With slimy, blooded hands, he tossed his line over again—only to find Ioane's fish had tangled in piles of his line. Cursing the convulsing beast, he grabbed a wooden club and started beating madly at the fish, whacking the floor, and nearly braking Ioane's toe, as the fish instinctively avoided the blows of the heavy club. Then, after a few good whacks, the near insane men ripped the hook out, and worked frantically to get the lines back into the school.
Just as they solved the tangle, Aleki pulled his fish up to the boat, and Ioane reached out and gaffed the fish, pulling it aboard. Larger than the others, it flexed and sprung madly about the stern, as Ioane beat it with the handle of the gaff. The hook slipped. The line thrown back in, the men ignoring the newly caught fish, which continued to choke up bubbly blood, yellow ooze, and pieces of baitfish, while they concentrated on the hunt.
Almost as fast as the lures were over the side, they were hit again. All four men pulled madly, screaming wildly, laughing, and riding the adrenalin high of predation to the limits of their physical strength. The killing filled them, and kept them keyed, as they fought to land their catch. Ioane, whose lure was no more than a few feet behind the boat when it was struck, pulled his fish aboard, picked up a short club, and beat it silent, all the time cussing, screaming, and happy.
“Lafo! Here!” yelled Aleki, as he passed him his own taut line. Aleki was busy trying to find the school, which had sounded. He, like the birds, circled bewildered. Two more fish hit the lines, but the mad excitement ebbed quickly, leaving them breathing hard and a bit stunned.
Sione shortened his line, and stood in the slightly rolling boat. The birds had already scattered. The ocean was empty, and they pushed across the rolling swells, looking for the school of fish.
“How many?” asked Aleki.
“Two,” said Ioane.
“Two,” said Sione.
“Three,” said Lafo.
“And I got two,” said Aleki. “Sione how many in the boat?”
Sione looked toward the front of the boat where the fish lay piled under the cowling, and in a box sitting in front of the thwart. “Maybe thirty, could be forty. Time to head back,” he said looking at the sun. “It is late.”
“But we are catching fishing!” said Aleki, unwilling to let go of the joyous madness.
“Yes,” said Sione, looking off to the east, “but we have to sell these when we get in, and clean the boat, and load the truck. It will all take time. I want to be home in time for prayers!” he laughed. “How about you, Ioane? Do you want your wife to say the blessing tonight, or are you satisfied with today's catch?”
“There is another day,” said Ioane, who did not want to sound like he was opposing Aleki. But he was tired. The work had been hard, the sun hot, and he was never comfortable fishing this far out, preferring fishing inside the reef from a small outrigger, where there were no swells, and one could see the bottom.
No one asked Lafo what he thought. If they had, he would not have remained quiet. Hard work was hard work, and he expected to shoulder more than his share of it. In the boat, or at home, he would be bending his muscles to something until just before he went to sleep. He sat there, his head down, fiddling with a tangled line.
Aleki stared out toward the horizon. There were no birds in sight. Yet, how he wanted to continue the chase! He did not want it to stop. It was satisfying to have a good catch. The new boat and the motor made a great difference. He wanted to show the village how successful he could be. He looked at the mountains of the island rising from the sea many miles to the south. Sione was right, however. As much as Aleki hated to admit it, Sione knew more about fishing than he did. The day's work was not over, and there was much to do besides catch fish. Ioane was right too, there would be other days.
“Ok. It is good. We head back. Lafo get those fish forward, Ioane you get the lines put away,” said Aleki, as he looked at Sione, and nodded his agreement. Aleki put the boat in a wide arc, and headed it toward the hazy blue island. Sione helped Lafo pack the fish into burlap bags, and they pushed them between the two seats around the spare seven-horse motor stored there. Others, he stuffed under a tarp pushed under the front cowling. Assessing it all, Sione was concerned about the added weight of so much fish. The freeboard was down to less than four inches, and the swell would now be passing across their port stern quarter. It made for some tricky running back to the village. He trusted Aleki, who had learned much in the recent months, and appeared a cautious man. Aleki had not been fishing long, but he was starting to behave like a man who had. He took care of his boat and the motors, always brought supplies and back-up, and he was fair in his division of the catch. Sione noticed even Lafo received his full share, which was not often the case among the village chiefs who owned boats, and hired crews for them.
Looking out over the rolling ocean, and then down at the freeboard, he thought about asking Aleki if he wanted relief at the tiller. He had second thoughts, however; he had already contradicted Aleki once. To do so again would only invite friction. He did not want to antagonize Aleki. He liked him. Instead, Sione sat quietly in the bow and rearranged the gear to best trim the boat. Looking off toward the island, he gauged it would be a hard two hours before they reached the reefed lagoon of the village. The sun bore down on the boat as it made its way over the rolling seas, and now, the action over, its heavy warm weight caused the men to doze. The brightness and the salt caking their eyes caused them to blink, and each blink became longer, as weary muscles relaxed, and thoughts drifted toward pleasant expectations of cool showers and long rests. Sleep became a siren, beckoning, calling each one to the paradise of forgetfulness. On a long roll and pitch, Ioane lost his balance, keeling over into the bilge as the boat raced down a swell and hit a rouge chop. He climbed up sheepishly, but met only mild smiles, as the others could only be thankful the diversion had allowed them to set aside the heavy dullness slipping over their own minds.
“Lafo hand me the water,” said Sione. Lafo passed him a jug, he took a few long swigs, washing down the piece of taro he had been chewing on intermittently. Looking at Aleki, he held up the jug, Aleki nodded, and Sione passed it to Lafo, and pointed toward Aleki. Taking the jug, Aleki took a long hard pull. Its sweetness caressed his raw throat, and its revitalizing effect was immediate. Aleki looked around as he stood in the boat, the tiller between his knees. It was a strange sea washing past the stern of the boat; long rolling swells had quickly risen to at least fifteen feet. A chop was running out of the east, from just north off the swell. It was making handling more difficult.
The boat now wallowed as it hit the bottom of a swell, and wanted to crab, to turn broadside to the wind and sea. When it did, the engine lost power, and the seas would surge against transom as the swell overtook the boat. Aleki found he had to over-steer at the bottom of a trough, and gun the engine to keep speed, to avoid the chance of broaching. Thinking it over, as he rode down each swell, and went through the actions repeatedly, he realized the boat was overloaded.
Shifting the weight would do little good. Sione had already arranged it so as much was amidships as possible. There was just too much weight aboard. Aleki could not see how he could lighten the load without cutting his crew, or catching fewer fish. He needed the extra motor, and he needed the tanks of fuel he carried. To go short one man could cut into the catch. It was not just one fewer line in the water; it was two fewer hands.. He shook his head, and wondered how he could do what the Fisheries Office people had told him was possible with this boat and engine.
The trip became long, and in his weariness, Aleki found it hard to concentrate on handling the boat. He could see the others drifting off, and could only envy their leisure. He thought of asking Sione to take over for a while, but he did not think it would be right. It was, after all, his boat, and his responsibility. So, he fought against the curtain of exhaustion by talking to the others.
“Sione do you think we can sell the fish this side of Solosolo, or will we have to go into town?”
“Town, probably. I think we can sell some of this at the hotels, and much along the way, at the major stores. No need for the afternoon market. This is quality catch. We should be able to set a good price, and make only the best stops.”
“How much money?”
“That depends what will we keep,” replied Sione, reluctant to talk sums of money.
Aleki mulled over Sione's response, for it contained much meaning.
What they kept was what did not go to the village. He had agreed with Sione before he bought the boat and motor, it was to be a business run on European rules, and not by Island custom. They agree contributions to the village were necessary, they just needed to limit the percentage they passed out to powerful chiefs, ministers, their families, friends, and others, to about twenty to thirty percent of the catch. The rest they would sell for cash, to pay expenses, with any profit divided among the crew by shares. What the men did with their money was up to them. But, the reality of it was hard. When a boat landed, everyone in the village expected something. Aleki had real problems dealing with that. He left much of it to Sione, who, though of lesser title, had the political shrewdness of a long-standing failauoga, or talking chief. Sione could often filibuster their way out of town under the limits they had set. Aleki had to admit, coming home was, for him, the hardest part of fishing.
Sione glanced off to the east as he felt the wind hitting the back of his neck. A squall line had come over the horizon, and was rapidly heading their way. He figured it would quickly overtake them, and long before they reached the safety of the reef. There was nothing to do but wait and see. Twenty minutes later, the first of the towering gray clouds knotted angrily over a gray parallelogram of rain and raced to intercept them. The sea chop rose with freshening winds. Sione motioned to Aleki, who looked back toward the billowing clouds and nodded. They knew they would be in for a difficult time, but understood they could do little but be more cautious.
The winds rose for ten minutes, and gusts soon whipped the tops of the swells, causing them to break into foaming horses that raced the boat down the swell. The sun still shone brightly, but off to the northeast, the sky filled with the oncoming squall; a growing expanse of ugly clouds bound to the dark ocean by a black curtain of rain. The clear blue water quickly turned murky, then green, and deepened into a tarnished gunmetal gray, as the clouds blotted out the sun. The temperature dropped rapidly, and the wind whipped spray slapped against the boat each time it surged off the top of a swell. The wind gusted, and scattered drops of rain pelted the water, the boat, and the men.
They searched the boat for the sweaters and jackets they had long since shed. The windblown spray, coupled with the sunburns of a long day's fishing, caused them to chill quickly, raising the hairs on their legs and arms, and bringing on unwelcome shivers. The rain fell steadily. Whipped by the wind, it beat the ocean frothy. Beads of driving rain stung the flesh, raising welts, and making it hard to see, and each man sought protection as best he could. Ioane hid under a sheet of plastic, slumping down in the bilge, his back against the thwart. Lafo simply pulled his coconut frond hat down low over his forehead, and sat, the rain pelting him, waiting patiently for the squall to pass.
Aleki tied a yellow southwester to his head, but he found it was still almost impossible to see. A watery curtain had descended between him and Sione in the bow. He was running the boat by feel; and every time he looked back to gauge their position on the swells, he was blinded by the driving rain. On one occasion, the boat crabbed before he expected it to, the engine lost thrust, and water surged over-the-transom, as the boat was fighting onto the windward surface of the wave and overtaken by the following swell. He quickly gunned the engine, outracing the overwhelming surge, and corrected the course. Though only a little water found its way into the boat, it sent a rush of fear from his groin. It showed him how close they were to mishap. Riding the back of another wave, he was alarmed to see the water in the bilge was to his ankles. Water cascaded down his face, blinding him, and he forcing him to work the rudder by feel.
“Lafo! Ioane!” he yelled, urgently. “The bailers! Quick! Bail!”
Ioane picked up a bailer, and turned to the rear of the boat. He scooped the water out of the bilge, and threw it over the side. Each scoop caught in the wind, blowing right back at him. He switched sides, tossing the water to the lee, but it was still miserable work. Ioane was feeling worse every minute, his fear causing him to bail madly. Lafo saw their danger and bailed quickly. He passed no judgment on its effectiveness; it simply needed doing. He understood there was much futility in life, and was resigned; having gotten in the boat, nothing remained for him but to work until he could get out.
Sione, alerted by the yawing of the boat, and the change in the pitch of the engine, looked to the stern in time to see the water surge over the transom. It was not much water, but a bad sign. Aleki had acted correctly, but it meant trouble. The squall was getting fierce, the wind was whipping up a chop, making it even more difficult to control the boat, and the sea spray was blowing into the boat as quickly as the rain. If he had been at the tiller, he would have turned the boat around, and headed back it into the swell and wind. It was safer to head into a storm, though he felt it would cause too much confusion to try to get Aleki to do this now. He picked up a large coconut shell from the bilge, and started scooping out the bloodied water. “With three working, maybe we can stay even,” he thought hopefully.
The squall peaked, the wind gusted, and rain lashed the sea in sheets, whipping the choppy surface into a white froth that slid across the gray-blue marble sea, like snow over a frozen lake. Aleki steered blindly, water cascading down his face. He moved the tiller by the feel of the pitch and roll of the boat, and intuition. He could see nothing, even with his back to the wind. Ioane and Lafo, who were only a few feet from him, were blurry images. The water in the bilges rose above his ankles, and then disappeared as they hurtled down the next ravine between high swells.
They hit the bottom of the trough heavily, and he felt the bow bury, pulling up sluggishly. He gunned the engine, but the weight of the water in the bilge drove the bow lower. The boat wanted to crab broadside to the swell. He pushed the tiller around, fighting to keep it running diagonally along the swell, revving the engine, but even at full throttle, the boat hesitated, and was slow in gaining momentum. The swell surged over the transom, broaching the boat, and five gallons of water poured in before Aleki could regain control, and gun the engine, pushing the boat ahead of the following swell.
His bowels tightened as the water rushed back over his ankles. When they reached the crest, the full force of the storm beat the boat, and lashed them with a stinging mixture of salt spray and rain. Then the boat slipped fast down the next ridge of the swell, almost out of control. The bow dug in as it hit bottom, sticking there, and rising from the water ever so slowly. Aleki gunned the engine as the bow shed water from the cowling, but it did no good. The following swell came surging in over the transom in one long rush.
“Oh, God!” he pleaded silently. “Not now!” The motor refused to die! There was still a chance. “Bail!” he screamed into the wind, “Bail!” ..................
Night Fishing
“So Sa'aga, what was that story you told about Tomas and his son?” asked Sauaso, with a raised eyebrow to the others sitting on the mats. “Tell us about that night,” he continued in a soothing voice, as he cued Lalo to pour Sa'aga another glass of Steinlager Export Only beer.
There were six men sitting in the small back fale of Sauaso's family. It was a secluded place, where the sea breezes blew the mosquitoes away, far from the prying eyes of the women of his family, and others who might cluck and chick their cheeks loudly about men drinking on a Saturday afternoon.
But, his crew was thirsty, and tired. A morning of fishing had baked them nut-brown. The salt breezes had crusted their eyelids and turned their eyes red. They had worked hard, had a good catch, come home, cleaned the gear, showered quickly, and then piled into Sauaso's truck, to sell the catch along the road in the villages toward town. Now they were done, and it was Sauaso's responsibility to relax his crew, to get them moderately drunk and happy. He needed these four scaly turtles again on Monday. He raised an eyebrow, and Lalo poured Sa'aga another drink, as Sauaso urged him to tell one of the renowned fishing stories of the district. A story they had all heard before, had all heard Sa'aga tell before, but a tale that never lost its ability to send a chill down one’s back. It was a fine story to suck down a beer with, and feel the cool breezes rush over salt chafed and sunburned skin. It was a good story to tell after you had come home, and could look out on the sea from the comfort of a small earthbound fale.
Sa'aga saw Lalo pouring the beer before he heard the question. He was thirsty, and the first few glasses had been poured slowly. He wanted this one, would be grateful for the cool bitterness that would slip down his throat, and yearned for the soft shudder to spread from his shoulder blades. Sauaso let him eye the beer, and drink a long swig, raised an eyebrow, and the glass was filled again, almost before it hit the mat. Sa'aga tossed back another gulp, and then looked at Sauaso almost uncomprehendingly. At first he was a bit embarrassed at his lack of courtesy to the others. Then, Sauaso's request slipped slowly out of his subconscious; and he was thankful for the extra few glasses. He felt a slight shudder of fear and remembrance move over him, rather than the cool alcohol shiver he had been expecting.
He looked at Sauaso, and then slowly at the others, who sat calmly awaiting his decision. Taking another long pull on the brew, he let out a long breath, and started. “I used to fish with Tomas when I was younger. He was the only man in the village who would let a young man like me go out,” he said pointing at his mangled legs. “It wasn't because he was European. He never made it easy on me. I worked as hard fishing then as I do now,” he added proudly. “Tomas, he said I was a good worker, and better than the other boys, and he gave me a fair share. So, I was happy working with him. First, we had an ali'a[1] with a twenty horse Johnson. It was always either too wet and damn cold, or blistering hot. I hated that double-hulled demon! But, we fished well, and Tomas managed to save enough money from the catches to buy a new Fisheries diesel. A big boat, almost thirty feet, with high gunnels to kept it dry and allow you to get out of the wind if you got cold. It was better than the ali’a. Big enough for five men, and gear. Less than we get in Sauaso's whaleboat, but the diesel had a narrower beam, which allowed it to move better through the chop. It was nearly flat bottomed and rolled more in a swell, though. Not a boat Ropati would like,” he said smiling at one of the men across the mat.
Ropati giggled, and the others laughed, and kidded him for his well-known tendency to seasickness even in the slightest swell. Sauaso nodded. Lalo poured another round, and passed the green Gray’s tobacco box. Sa'aga rolled a cigarette looking into the cardboard box of stringy soft brown tobacco like he was seeing the threads of his memories.
“He was a good man,” he said to his friends, “and a real fisherman.”
He passed the box of tobacco, as the others nodded in silent agreement. Then he continued. “We fished for six months, and everything was good. The engine was reliable, and the boat held together well. We went out three or four days a week. It was mostly bottom fishing, but sometimes chasing the schools of aku. The boat was a bit slow to go after the schools, so we mostly went bottom fishing at night, far out near the triple humps,” he said referring to a place they all knew. “Tomas liked the humps. He liked filoa[2] because they sold well, and we could catch many out there. But the boat rolled badly in the swell that comes up over those humps, so we always had trouble keeping the boat crewed. We would get fellows to join us for a few weeks, and then after they had a pocket full of money, they would suddenly say it made them too sick to go there all the time. So, you know, we were always looking for crew. But Tomas liked the humps, and said he would find some hard cases someday, who could put up with the rock and roll of that boat.”
“Well, like I said, we did well for six months. Then his oldest son asked if he could join us. The kid was a bit young, close to fourteen, but he was big, and he could work. Tomas told me he did not want to take him out, but on weekends it was always hard to get a full crew together, so he relented. You know the boy turned out to be a real fisherman. He could hook ‘em. I would have to help occasionally on the bigger fish, but he caught more than his share. The boy only had one problem. He thought he knew all the answers. He wouldn't always listen to Tomas, or even me. A strange fourteen year old don't you think?” he said, smiling at the others. Sa'aga looked around at the faces, which were filled with hidden anticipation, and then, at his ever so full glass. He took a long drink, a hit of his grays, and then let out a long smoky breath, peering into its fog as if it could tell his fortune. The time had come.
“One Saturday night when the moon rose like a giant orange, and the sea was as silvery smooth as the beach at low tide, we went out to the humps. It was slow. You know, good weather, bad fishing. Get a night when you cannot hold down your guts, and the fish are jumping into the boat. Well it was a perfect night. We sat there bouncing our weights off the bottom for an hour, and nothing. The boy was in the bow, I was amidships, and Tomas was fishing off the stern. We talked for a while, but dozed a bit as the time crept by. The boy was laying on the forward seat. You know, we were all tired, and I didn't take much notice. We were not catching anything. But I should have noticed! I had warned him a few times about it. I should have looked to make sure, but I didn't,” he said condemning himself sadly to the others.
The others stared back at him, sympathy showing on their faces. Each man already knew what it was Sa'aga had not done, yet each awaited his revelation…………………..
Fishermen
It was a clear and beautiful morning, filled with soft mountain breezes that lightly swayed the coconut fronds, and brought a slight chill to the air. The village was already awake as the sun sent daggers of orange fire across the eastern sky. Families had gathered in the small fale along the beach of the bay. Quick meals of hot sweet cocoa scented with lime leaves and thick with bits of freshly roasted beans, and large, hard, ship’s biscuits, were eaten in haste as people prepared for the morning’s work.
Fa'afetai walked slowly toward the sea, feeling the light breezes on his bare legs, and staring out at the bay. The waves played easily over the coral buttresses near the point, and the glassy shimmer of the distant ocean spoke of a day of little chop and ideal fishing. He squatted on his haunches, and studied the subtlies of the water as it shimmered like an octopus, following the slow transition of the sky from silver to pale blue. He breathed deeply occasionally; filling his lungs with the pleasantly damp air whispering past him, and watched the breezes dancing out onto the surface of the bay.
It was a morning all a morning could ever be. Even the flies appeared overcome by the beauty, and wandered slowly over damp surfaces, drunk on the dew left by the long quiet night. High on the mountain, across the bay, the trees suddenly turned a golden green, almost bronzed by the first light of the sun. Slowly, the golden glow worked its way down the steep cliffs, burning away the light mists, and subtly bringing on the verdant green chaos of day. He sat there at sunrise, day after day, for years, watching. There was always something to learn about the dawn, always a detail revealed, a new appreciation, a change from the day before. He always learned something about the life he lived, and the day to come. Today, as he studied the long stretch of beach he noticed a coconut tree had fallen in the night. It lie across the beach, its head resting in the rippling tide, roots upturned, its trunk pointing toward a coral cove at the edge of the reef; a favorite fishing spot. He knew the tree, had climbed it as boy, run out along its narrowing trunk, and drop into the shallow surf. Now it lay across the sands, finally overcome by the tides of the bay.
An omen? Perhaps. Fa'afetai studied the tree, and slowly let his eyes follow the pointing trunk to the white foam washing the edge of the underwater cove. It was a calm, blue sea he saw, but in his mind he had a vision of a fairyland of coral castles, valleys, and caverns of stone. It was the world beneath the waves, the land of the hunt, where he could fly like a gull through the water.
So, the morning’s adventure lies before him, even as asthe sun marched down the beach like a band of warriors setting the world ablaze. When they struck him with their hot flares, he rose from his seat, and walked slowly toward home to get his spear, goggles and fins.
“Fa'afetai, a very good morning to you, honored chief,” called a man in his midthirties, walking slowly from a fale near his own. “I trust you found a good beginning to this day”, he continued, “and it will bring us a greater appreciation of our short, but happy lives,” he said with a soft smile.
“Ho, Samuelu! Greetings, my most favored spokesman. Yes, it is a beautiful morning. May we thank the Good Lord for that. The start of a fine day, and, if blessed, one upon which we will be most fortunate,” laughed Fa'afetai. “See the old coconut tree that fell into the sea last night?” he asked, gesturing to the far beach. “It points toward the outer cove. The seas are mild, and the heat of this early morning says the sea breezes will not pick up until late in the day. So, good friend, today it is the spear. The aku will wait. Besides, the early heat does not speak well for a man's good luck on the deep blue swells of yonder ocean. Get your dive gear and your canoe, and off we will go to find our fortune!”
The men laughed at their unnecessary formality, for they had known each other since the times when the sea had been, the smallest of waves brushing the sands of this same beach. A time when they had danced at its edges with fairies only they could see, and been drawn to a world playing a siren’s song, which made them fishermen. Today, as they had done for years, they prepared to go out together, into the sea they loved, respected and yet, always feared.
They were in the water quickly. Their canoes were sleek and beautifully cared for, and glided over the bay with the lightest of strokes. Each canoe was custom-built. Together the men had sought the trees for the hulls, wandering for months in the uplands before finding just the right ones, then under a shed between their fale, they had hollowed out the trunks with adzes and chisels. Built together, they were, never-the-less, as different as the trees from which they were hued, and the men who would sit in them. The canoes were unique creations of beauty and understanding. Fa'afetai's was longer, deeper and wider, because of his added weight, while Samuelu had made the outrigger longer in relation to the hull, to counter his preference for paddling on the outer side. They were the fastest canoes on the coast, and proved it in many celebration day races.
They reached the cove, and tied their canoes to coral heads in the shallow waters of a tidal channel. Then, fixing their gear; handmade goggles, spears with Hawaiian slings, and duck feet—gifts from departing Peace Corps—they slipped into the large sunken valley in the underwater world of the cove. The water was cool on their skin, and clear, the bottom, at seventy feet, unclouded and close. Fish floated all about them like exotic birds. Some basked in the sunny waters unmoving, while others danced like hummingbirds and butterflies from coral flower to coral flower.
At the open edge of the bowl they saw large gray clouds of coral sand, evacuated by a small school of giant parrotfish, which dashed off when the men dropped into the water. On the bottom, in a meadow of sand, they could make out a giant ray, lying motionless and almost invisible. But, the good fishing was along the walls of the cove, where the coral flowed like soft putty, making canyons and caverns where the choicest of fish hid.
The men started working the inner curve of the bowl. They knew the area like the paths of their village. They would drop down along the wall, and work their way along the long crevices that eventually closed into caverns, and there, up in the darkest places, lurked the tasty red squirrel and soldier fish. Fish too quick for most to spear, but not too quick for either Fa'afetai or Samuelu.
Each dive lasted about two minutes, and each one resulted in a catch. These they strung on a coconut frond fiber attached to their waists; and when they had a half-dozen or so each, they would swim back to the boats to unload their catch and grab another tether.
“The water is beautiful today, eh Fa'afetai,” said Samuelu as they clung the sides of their canoes. “I enjoy it most when it is like this—clear and cool. I could stay out here forever.”
“Samele would not appreciate a fish for a husband,” Fa'afetai laughed. “Yes, I sometimes wish I was born a turtle, with a life where I could always glide along the edges of these canyons and coves.”
“You know the aku[3] are the fish to chase, and the hunt is always exciting; but it is only when we spearfish that I feel the cool calculation of the hunt,” confided Samuelu.
“It is the water,” nodded Fa'afetai. “It cleanses you. The coolness of the ocean seeps into your pores, and brings a soft peace to your soul. When we aku fish, we fight the sun and the sea. We wear broad hats and shirts, and still, the sun’s fire heats our brains, and makes us mad, I think. The madness is part of the reason for going out; to drench oneself in the blood lust of the chase. No better way to feel like a man, a predator, than to chase the aku. Yet here, in the cove, it is quiet, swift, and clean. We must seek a fish, aim, and let fly our spear. Except for a bit of wriggling, and biting the head, it is complete. The skill is difficult to learn, the kill is direct, and not so steeped in the traditions of the hunt.”
“I feel much more apart of this,” said Samuelu, dipping his head in the water to cool it from the heat of the sun. “I love the aku,” he continued as he resurfaced, “but days like this bring me peace of mind. I am always happy when you choose the spear rather than the pole. Yes, it is the coolness that seeps into me, and when I go home—well, Samele says I am a softer and gentler lover in the night. She teases me sometimes about the aku chase. When we leave in the morning, she often complains quietly about it meaning we will make love until dawn. It is true, I am on fire when we come home late in the afternoon, the canoe full of blood, the smell of the fish, and the salt caked on my lips. I can see why the men toward town drink so much after chasing the schools. But for me,” he laughed, “I prefer my wife's cure for the madness of the day.”
“Yes,” said Fa’afetai. “I understand.” ………………………
Boat Anchor
Sale sat back against a support pole of the fale, took a long drag on the Grays he had just rolled, and moaned loudly, letting the smoke escape slowly from his lungs. “Thanks be to those who cooked this wonderful meal,” he said, as he winked at Sisifo and Sala, his wife and eldest daughter. He smiled at his cousin, who lay on the mats like a collection of half filled bags of copra.
“It is good to have you here Filo,” he said. “It is almost a year since you have come home. We like having you with us again. It is time we had the opportunity to show our thanks to you for all your help with the boys,” he added, alluding to Filo's boarding of his two older sons in town during the school year.
“Think nothing of it Sale,” said Filo, waving his hand depreciatingly in the air, from his prone position on the mats. “I'm happy to do it. It is family. We are all family, Eh?” he concluded waving his hands again, and giggling softly.
“Well I am in your debt cousin, and I thank you, all the same.”
“It is fine being here,” said Filo, as he rolled onto his large stomach to make himself a cigarette from the green Gray’ tobacco box Sale slid to him across the mats. “Sometimes, I think about quitting that damn job in town, coming back home, perhaps starting a small plantation. Who knows, maybe even doing some fishing. I imagine I could make good money planting taro and banana. The price of fish is so high in town, anyone could make much money fishing!”
“The price of fish is high enough here in the village to make a fisherman rich,” added Sale lazily, as he took another drag on his cigarette. “But you need a boat, and a motor for that, and it is only old Fagaese and Tupua who have them,” he added, shaking his head sadly, as he exhaled the rest of the smoke.
“The high chief and the faifeau[4]!” exclaimed Filo, shaking his head, and chicking his tongue and cheek against his teeth, in sympathy. “Always the same, always the politicians and the pastors. They always have a lock on the opportunity. Doesn't it make you sick, Sale?”
Sale looked at his cousin cautiously. He was uncomfortable with such talk. “No,” he said softly, “Why should it make me sick? It's just the way it is.”
“Don't you wish it were different? Don't you wish you had a chance to make more money? Be a big man?”
“I don't know. I never thought about it,” said Sale. “My family, my work; the days are full. I am happy. The boys do well, and my daughters even better. Sisifo still smiles for me. What more can a man of my age ask?”
“More money! Wouldn't you like to have more money? Build a European house? Own a new truck?” asked Filo, becoming more animated.
“I like the fale. My great-grandfather built this house. It feels like family. My father made this mark on the post when he was three,” he said with a smile, pointing at a notch on the dark hand rubbed support post he was sitting against. “My truck runs fine. I paid for it two years ago.” Sale gazed at his cousin blankly, and wondered what he wanted, dreading what he was about to be bound to, but puzzled why Filo danced around it so. “Must be the way they act in town,” he thought. He smiled inwardly at his cousin, amazed at his town ways. “And what would I have to do to be able to afford a European house,” he said rhetorically, reluctantly wanting Filo to get to the point of this unwanted conversation.
“Well, if you owned a boat, you could go fishing, and sell the extra fish in the village. Maybe, even truck the rest to town! You would be rich real fast, no doubt about that! And you could build a European style fale!”
“Filo, I don't own a motor, and I don't even own a boat, let alone know how to use either of them. I don't have money for either. But you are right, if I had them, I guess I could make money.”
“Well! I know how we can get them!” exclaimed Filo, with an excited smile lighting up his face, and announcing the reason for his visit.
Sale sat staring at his cousin, saying nothing, hoping if he just became inert, and looked outside, perhaps Filo would forget what he was saying. Hoping Filo would pass out, as he always did, from all the food he stuffed into his gut at evening meal. Hoping the oozy, sick feeling in his own stomach would go away. Hoping the nightmare vision of bobbing around endlessly in a small boat, would fade from his mind. But his hopes were in vain. He sat there watching light breezes sway the giant leaves of the breadfruit tree just outside the fale, until the uneasiness in his gut threatened to take his dinner. Shuddering lightly, he looked back at Filo, who was still all smiles. “At least ten of them!” thought Sale. “A big one on his face, the two meaty ones on his neck. There was a smile inside each arm, and he could see a few half-hidden smiles on Filo's enormous belly as they peeked out through the opening in the lavalava he had draped over his shoulders.” Sale thought he could even see a few on Filo's feet. “He's all smiles,” he cried silently, “and I'm getting the shaft!” He smiled a small, painful, and reluctant smile of his own back at Filo.
“It will be easy Sale!” said Filo triumphantly. I have a friend who will help us. He works for the Development Bank. We can get a loan! And I can get us a boat and motor through the Agriculture Department, where I work. It will all be very simple.”
“Filo, if it is so simple, why do you need me? Your thoughtfulness is greatly appreciated, but certainly not necessary.” said Sale trying to make one final escape from the unavoidable reality of the boat and motor. But, Filo ignored Sale's graciousness, and sped on.
“These loans, and boats and motors, are only for villagers. Town people, and particularly Bank and Agriculture Department employees, cannot receive them. No. But if you applied, you would get one for sure!”
“But I'm not a fisherman, why would I get one?” asked Sale, not wanting to know.
“Because I manage the list of those who are approved for a boat and motor, and my friend does the same for development loans at the bank. I just need you to apply. You apply, and I approve the boat and the motor, and my friend will see to the approval of the loan for the boat and motor!”
“Filo, my dear cousin, if I get the loan, doesn't that mean I must then repay the loan for the boat and motor?”
“Don't worry! We will be rich men! The boat and the motor will allow us to catch plenty fish! Paying the loan will be easy.”
“I don't know. I have my plantation, it keeps me busy. I'm not much of a fisherman, you know. I get seasick very easily. They say it is not good fishing here, anyway. I don't think I own any hooks. Don't eat much fish anyway. Never did like the water. Ummmm,” he said, running out of excuses.
“Sale! Sale for me? It will be a grand adventure. Do this for me, so I can come home. Please!” whined Filo, in an all to familiar tone of voice.
And Sale did as he always knew he would, as he always did from the time they had been young boys hauling coconuts home from the plantation after school, and Filo wanted to go play in the sea, when there was work to do. He said, “Sure cousin,” and, as in all the other instances, he found himself staring into the stern face of his father, having no excuse for the utter stupidity he had just committed, hearing his father chicking his cheek slowly against his teeth, and watching the old man shake his slightly bowed head in painful sadness. It was always that way when he let Filo talk him into something stupid. But, he could never refuse his cousin’s pleading requests. Nothing had changed, except his father was gone, and now he looked up to find Sisifo gazing at him, shocked, and with the same sad look his father had always had on his face, at times like this……………………..
Archimedes Fish Fry
Ulavale Pisupo sat in a small fale at the back of his wife’s family compound, eating a meager meal of boiled green banana, covered in salty coconut cream sauce, a few small reef fish he had speared that morning, and a strong cup of tea from a large white enameled metal cup with bright purple and red tulips painted around the outside. His mind was not fully on the food, which was good, because the banana were still a bit raw, the pe’epe’e coconut sauce was a bit too salty, the small fried reef fish, mushy, and the tea tasted of soap. Ulavale was thinking of more complex matters than food. He was trying to figure out how to scrape together a few tala to take his daughter to the hospital in town, and money was not something to which he had easy access.
His options were few, and equally unpleasant. He could go to Moipune, the matai of his family, his wife’s eldest brother, and ask for it. But, Moipune was an arrogant man, who preferred to spend money on himself, and who would make a great scene when Ulavale asked for a few tala, and likely not give it to him, despite his need. Worse, he would order Ulavale to work in his high plantation for another week, just out of spite. Another possibility would be to go to the Priest, and explain his problem. The Father was a good man, and generous, but very poor as a result. In all likelihood, Father George would offer him a cup of coffee, and pray with him. He liked the Father, for he was a gentle man, but he would not likely have the cash, and it was foolish to ask where there was no chance of receiving. Then, there was Pulemanu, a chief in the village, who owned a fishing boat. Ulavale could go out fishing with Pulemanu, and be paid in fish, or perhaps some tala. But, Pulemanu was a hard man. He knew he was one of the few places Ulavale could turn for cash, and he made Ulavale pay dearly. It would be long, demanding, and strenuous work, and in the end, he would barely get what he needed.
Ulavale sat cross-legged on the mats, eating his small meal off a section of a green banana leaf, thinking about his unpleasant choices. The child was sick, and the illness had not gotten better in the last week, as he had hoped. She was now unable to eat her food, and what she did eat, came flying out the other end. His wife, Pesemalie, did what she could, but it was obvious there was little they could do here in the village. A trip to the district hospital had not helped either. The district doctor had only told him what he already knew. He needed to take the child to the hospital in town. The money must be made. He was tired of working long hours in the hills for his brother-in-law, and begging him would likely be useless anyway. There was only one option open to him. There had never been a choice, but Ulavale felt better for considering what few choices he had; it gave him reason to do what no rational man would likely choose to do otherwise.
He thanked his wife for the meal, grabbed his walking stick, and started toward the house of Pulemanu. Ulavale walked about a hundred yards, and rested a bit. His right leg was weak, and on occasion, like now, he found he needed to rest it while the tingling subsided. When it was better, he moved on. The sun was high in the sky, and cast a blinding glare off the white sand of the village paths. He pulled his coconut frond hat down over his eyes, and marched on.
Pulemanu’s fale was large, and of ‘European’ style, meaning it was a square mostly open sided concrete building with a corrugated metal roof. When he got there, Ulavale stood outside the fale, muttered an abject greeting, and waited. He could see Pulemanu inside, and knew the man was aware of his presence, but Pulemanu was a big man in the village, so Ulavale had to wait. He stood there in the sun for a few minutes, and a young boy came to the door. The boy knew Ulavale, and he smiled and asked him how he was.
“I am fine, thank you Simione,” replied Ulavale. “And how are you?”
“Good, thank you. The dog had puppies, and I will keep one as my pet,” replied the boy.
“Good, but let it stay with its mother for some time, else it will sicken and die.”
“I will remember Ulavale, thank you. You come to see Pulemanu?”
“Yes, I am here to speak with the chief.” Before the boy could reply, a harsh yell from inside the fale chased him from the doorway. “The game begins,” thought Ulavale sadly.
Pulemanu knew why Ulavale was at his door, and he was quite glad for it. The man was a good worker and fisherman, his occasional fits not withstanding. Pulemanu could always use Ulavale in his boat. But, Pulemanu was a big man in the village, and it did no good to show he needed anyone, particularly one as lowly as Ulavale. So, he acted like he was hardly aware the man stood in the sun at the bottom of the steps. After making him wait outside for some time, he acknowledged Ulavale.
“Oh, Solē you come?”
Ulavale heard the call, and slowly got down, and crab-climbed the steps to the front door of the fale. He took the last few on his knees, resting his forearms on the floor of the fale, and hanging his head low. “Yes, I come. Greetings to you great chief Pulemanu. Great respect I pay to such a chief as you,” he replied.
“Yes. Yes. I am a very busy man. There are many things I must do,” said Pulemanu confirming his own importance. “Get to the point, Solē. What is it you are wanting of me. I have little time for such as you.”
“Honorable Pulemanu, I am seeking the opportunity of joining you on your fishing boat when you next go out.”
“Solē, many men want to go fishing in my boat,” lied Pulemanu. “Why should I take such as you?”
“Pulemanu, I have worked for you many times. You know I will work hard. I catch many fish,” said Ulavale stating the truth.
“Many people catch fish, and work hard, you are no exception,” replied Pulemanu, once again telling a lie.
“I will come early, to load the boat, and work late, cleaning it for you, sir.”
“Ohhh! Solē. You say these things, yet you do not always choose to work for me. Why is that, Solē? Why do you come to me now, when all last week you did not come at all?”
“Pulemanu, your honor, I had family obligations. I spent many days in the high hills working on our family plantations. Only that has kept me from taking advantage of the grand opportunity you offer by giving me a place in your boat,” said Ulavale, only half lying in return.
“You work all week in the plantations, and you do not even bother to bring me a basket of taro? I, who am so helpful to you, so often? You sadden me, Solē, that you would so quickly forget my beneficence.” said the chief, wishing he had some taro to eat with his evening meal. “And now you expect me to once again show you great kindness by allowing you to fish in my boat?”
The statement was so outrageous Ulavale could not find an answer. He simple crouched silent, on the steps.
Finding he could wheedle no taro from the man, Pulemanu returned to the standard script. “What is it you want of me? A place in the boat, for some part of the catch? So be it,” he said offhandedly, quietly satisfied he could give Ulavale almost nothing for his work, and pocket the profit. It would make up for the taro the man failed to bring him, he thought peevishly.
“Honored chief, please, there is something I must also ask of you,” said Ulavale in a low muttered voice Pulemanu understood only because of the comment’s place in the degrading play they acted out.
“Get on with it, man, can you not see I am busy,” replied the chief
“Sir, I am needing some tala, for this service you are allowing me to perform. I am thankful for your most generous offer of a part of the catch, but I am needing a few tala for the taking of my family to town. My daughter is sick, and I need to visit the hospital.”
“Tala? It is not enough I offer you a place in my boat, and some part of the catch, but now you are asking for tala as well?” replied Pulemanu. If it had been any other of the untitled men who worked for him, he would have taken the tala from the thick wad of bills he always carried in his lavalava, and crumpled them up, and tossed them negligently on the floor before the groveling man. But, this was Ulavale, one who had fits, and fell on ground drooling, and making noises. A man who would occasionally keel over, and urinate on himself. Even his name, Ulavale Pisupo[7], told the story of a time he had fallen down while carrying a large tin of pisupo into a great fiafia, a party of epic size. He had lay there, shaking and drooling, the can of pisupo still in his arms and resting on his chest. It was quite funny. Many in the village had gathered around to laugh and ridicule. It had become a village joke, and he was given the name Ulavale Pisupo as a remembrance of the event. No, it would not do to just throw money at such a one. “You must work for me twice if you want that many tala, Solē,” he said smiling as he watched Ulavale’s bowed head twitch at the news.
“As you say, honored chief. I will gladly go out in your boat twice. Tonight, and once again when I come back from town. And for this you will give me three tala for the bus fares I need to go to town?”
“I wish you to work for me tonight, and tomorrow as well. The price of fish is best before the weekend. You must work for me tomorrow, your trip to town can wait,” ordered Pulemanu, taking pleasure in taunting the man.
“Great chief, my daughter is seriously ill. I must take my wife and child to the hospital as soon as possible. Please, to have some understanding of this,” begged Ulavale.
“Solē! Always you have excuses! Yes, yes!” said Pulemanu, satisfied the man had groveled humiliatingly before him, and now tiring of the game, wanting a nice nap. “Come to my house at 4:00, and you can load the boat. Now I am busy. Off with you!” said Pulemanu turning his back on front door.
“Thank you so much, honored chief, your kindness is greatly appreciated,” muttered Ulavale as he touched his forehead to the floor of the fale, and walked his knees back down the stairs until he could stand and not have his head above fale floor. He picked up his stick, and made his way back home. The glare of the sun off the sand attacked his eyes as he walked, and he started to see arcs of geometric patterns spanning his vision. When he looked directly at something, it disappeared in a fuzzy collection of jagged gray geometric forms. He hurried, hoping the attack would not peak before he could make it back to the fale. He was in sight of his home when his right leg went tingly, and his right arm went numb. He pushed on, using his stick as a brace, the sounds of the day coming to him as if he walked in a dream, and strange but familiar thoughts and memories floated through his consciousness. He knew he had but a few minutes before he must either lie or fall down. Finally, he was at the fale. He ignored a call, grabbed a pillow, and quickly lay on the mats as the seizure swept over him. Perhaps ten minutes later, he felt the disoriented unreality of the experience begin to ebb.
Pesemalie had seen him walking back to the fale, and when she called to him, and he did not answer, she understood what was happening. She had a cool cup of water waiting for Ulavale when he awoke. It was all she knew to do. When Ulavale sat up to drink his water, she was relieved to see he had not wet himself, as it always left him so sad.
“Iopa, It was a quick one,” she said to him, using his Christian name, as he drank his water.
“I got home before it was bad,” he said in response, and taking a long drink of water. “I go out with Pulemanu on his boat tonight. I will need a meal to take along.”
“We have no tinned fish. I will ask Manulele for a can from the store.”
“No need. I will eat before I go. There is taro, no?”
“Only the banana. Moipune has taken all the taro into his house.”
“I will eat a hardy meal of green banana, then,” he laughed. He will give me three tala for the work, added Ulavale, avoiding the fact he would have to fish twice. “We will take Alofa’ia to town tomorrow, to the hospital. She does not get better. Perhaps a European doctor can help. We will stay at my cousin’s house.”
“I have tried so hard,” said Pesemalie sadly.
“I know,” said Ulavale, soothingly. “You are a good mother. Even so, the child sickens, and you are not well either. Now we must go to town. It will be all right,” he said reaching out and touching her hand lightly. “Now, I will sleep for a few hours. It will be a long night in that old barge of Pulemanu’s,” he said with a smile, and a sad shake of his head. He lay back down to sleep, feeling the secondary effects of the seizure coming back down on him…………………
Sale sat back against a support pole of the fale, took a long drag on the Grays he had just rolled, and moaned loudly, letting the smoke escape slowly from his lungs. “Thanks be to those who cooked this wonderful meal,” he said, as he winked at Sisifo and Sala, his wife and eldest daughter. He smiled at his cousin, who lay on the mats like a collection of half filled bags of copra.
“It is good to have you here Filo,” he said. “It is almost a year since you have come home. We like having you with us again. It is time we had the opportunity to show our thanks to you for all your help with the boys,” he added, alluding to Filo's boarding of his two older sons in town during the school year.
“Think nothing of it Sale,” said Filo, waving his hand depreciatingly in the air, from his prone position on the mats. “I'm happy to do it. It is family. We are all family, Eh?” he concluded waving his hands again, and giggling softly.
“Well I am in your debt cousin, and I thank you, all the same.”
“It is fine being here,” said Filo, as he rolled onto his large stomach to make himself a cigarette from the green Gray’ tobacco box Sale slid to him across the mats. “Sometimes, I think about quitting that damn job in town, coming back home, perhaps starting a small plantation. Who knows, maybe even doing some fishing. I imagine I could make good money planting taro and banana. The price of fish is so high in town, anyone could make much money fishing!”
“The price of fish is high enough here in the village to make a fisherman rich,” added Sale lazily, as he took another drag on his cigarette. “But you need a boat, and a motor for that, and it is only old Fagaese and Tupua who have them,” he added, shaking his head sadly, as he exhaled the rest of the smoke.
“The high chief and the faifeau[4]!” exclaimed Filo, shaking his head, and chicking his tongue and cheek against his teeth, in sympathy. “Always the same, always the politicians and the pastors. They always have a lock on the opportunity. Doesn't it make you sick, Sale?”
Sale looked at his cousin cautiously. He was uncomfortable with such talk. “No,” he said softly, “Why should it make me sick? It's just the way it is.”
“Don't you wish it were different? Don't you wish you had a chance to make more money? Be a big man?”
“I don't know. I never thought about it,” said Sale. “My family, my work; the days are full. I am happy. The boys do well, and my daughters even better. Sisifo still smiles for me. What more can a man of my age ask?”
“More money! Wouldn't you like to have more money? Build a European house? Own a new truck?” asked Filo, becoming more animated.
“I like the fale. My great-grandfather built this house. It feels like family. My father made this mark on the post when he was three,” he said with a smile, pointing at a notch on the dark hand rubbed support post he was sitting against. “My truck runs fine. I paid for it two years ago.” Sale gazed at his cousin blankly, and wondered what he wanted, dreading what he was about to be bound to, but puzzled why Filo danced around it so. “Must be the way they act in town,” he thought. He smiled inwardly at his cousin, amazed at his town ways. “And what would I have to do to be able to afford a European house,” he said rhetorically, reluctantly wanting Filo to get to the point of this unwanted conversation.
“Well, if you owned a boat, you could go fishing, and sell the extra fish in the village. Maybe, even truck the rest to town! You would be rich real fast, no doubt about that! And you could build a European style fale!”
“Filo, I don't own a motor, and I don't even own a boat, let alone know how to use either of them. I don't have money for either. But you are right, if I had them, I guess I could make money.”
“Well! I know how we can get them!” exclaimed Filo, with an excited smile lighting up his face, and announcing the reason for his visit.
Sale sat staring at his cousin, saying nothing, hoping if he just became inert, and looked outside, perhaps Filo would forget what he was saying. Hoping Filo would pass out, as he always did, from all the food he stuffed into his gut at evening meal. Hoping the oozy, sick feeling in his own stomach would go away. Hoping the nightmare vision of bobbing around endlessly in a small boat, would fade from his mind. But his hopes were in vain. He sat there watching light breezes sway the giant leaves of the breadfruit tree just outside the fale, until the uneasiness in his gut threatened to take his dinner. Shuddering lightly, he looked back at Filo, who was still all smiles. “At least ten of them!” thought Sale. “A big one on his face, the two meaty ones on his neck. There was a smile inside each arm, and he could see a few half-hidden smiles on Filo's enormous belly as they peeked out through the opening in the lavalava he had draped over his shoulders.” Sale thought he could even see a few on Filo's feet. “He's all smiles,” he cried silently, “and I'm getting the shaft!” He smiled a small, painful, and reluctant smile of his own back at Filo.
“It will be easy Sale!” said Filo triumphantly. I have a friend who will help us. He works for the Development Bank. We can get a loan! And I can get us a boat and motor through the Agriculture Department, where I work. It will all be very simple.”
“Filo, if it is so simple, why do you need me? Your thoughtfulness is greatly appreciated, but certainly not necessary.” said Sale trying to make one final escape from the unavoidable reality of the boat and motor. But, Filo ignored Sale's graciousness, and sped on.
“These loans, and boats and motors, are only for villagers. Town people, and particularly Bank and Agriculture Department employees, cannot receive them. No. But if you applied, you would get one for sure!”
“But I'm not a fisherman, why would I get one?” asked Sale, not wanting to know.
“Because I manage the list of those who are approved for a boat and motor, and my friend does the same for development loans at the bank. I just need you to apply. You apply, and I approve the boat and the motor, and my friend will see to the approval of the loan for the boat and motor!”
“Filo, my dear cousin, if I get the loan, doesn't that mean I must then repay the loan for the boat and motor?”
“Don't worry! We will be rich men! The boat and the motor will allow us to catch plenty fish! Paying the loan will be easy.”
“I don't know. I have my plantation, it keeps me busy. I'm not much of a fisherman, you know. I get seasick very easily. They say it is not good fishing here, anyway. I don't think I own any hooks. Don't eat much fish anyway. Never did like the water. Ummmm,” he said, running out of excuses.
“Sale! Sale for me? It will be a grand adventure. Do this for me, so I can come home. Please!” whined Filo, in an all to familiar tone of voice.
And Sale did as he always knew he would, as he always did from the time they had been young boys hauling coconuts home from the plantation after school, and Filo wanted to go play in the sea, when there was work to do. He said, “Sure cousin,” and, as in all the other instances, he found himself staring into the stern face of his father, having no excuse for the utter stupidity he had just committed, hearing his father chicking his cheek slowly against his teeth, and watching the old man shake his slightly bowed head in painful sadness. It was always that way when he let Filo talk him into something stupid. But, he could never refuse his cousin’s pleading requests. Nothing had changed, except his father was gone, and now he looked up to find Sisifo gazing at him, shocked, and with the same sad look his father had always had on his face, at times like this……………………..
Archimedes Fish Fry
Ulavale Pisupo sat in a small fale at the back of his wife’s family compound, eating a meager meal of boiled green banana, covered in salty coconut cream sauce, a few small reef fish he had speared that morning, and a strong cup of tea from a large white enameled metal cup with bright purple and red tulips painted around the outside. His mind was not fully on the food, which was good, because the banana were still a bit raw, the pe’epe’e coconut sauce was a bit too salty, the small fried reef fish, mushy, and the tea tasted of soap. Ulavale was thinking of more complex matters than food. He was trying to figure out how to scrape together a few tala to take his daughter to the hospital in town, and money was not something to which he had easy access.
His options were few, and equally unpleasant. He could go to Moipune, the matai of his family, his wife’s eldest brother, and ask for it. But, Moipune was an arrogant man, who preferred to spend money on himself, and who would make a great scene when Ulavale asked for a few tala, and likely not give it to him, despite his need. Worse, he would order Ulavale to work in his high plantation for another week, just out of spite. Another possibility would be to go to the Priest, and explain his problem. The Father was a good man, and generous, but very poor as a result. In all likelihood, Father George would offer him a cup of coffee, and pray with him. He liked the Father, for he was a gentle man, but he would not likely have the cash, and it was foolish to ask where there was no chance of receiving. Then, there was Pulemanu, a chief in the village, who owned a fishing boat. Ulavale could go out fishing with Pulemanu, and be paid in fish, or perhaps some tala. But, Pulemanu was a hard man. He knew he was one of the few places Ulavale could turn for cash, and he made Ulavale pay dearly. It would be long, demanding, and strenuous work, and in the end, he would barely get what he needed.
Ulavale sat cross-legged on the mats, eating his small meal off a section of a green banana leaf, thinking about his unpleasant choices. The child was sick, and the illness had not gotten better in the last week, as he had hoped. She was now unable to eat her food, and what she did eat, came flying out the other end. His wife, Pesemalie, did what she could, but it was obvious there was little they could do here in the village. A trip to the district hospital had not helped either. The district doctor had only told him what he already knew. He needed to take the child to the hospital in town. The money must be made. He was tired of working long hours in the hills for his brother-in-law, and begging him would likely be useless anyway. There was only one option open to him. There had never been a choice, but Ulavale felt better for considering what few choices he had; it gave him reason to do what no rational man would likely choose to do otherwise.
He thanked his wife for the meal, grabbed his walking stick, and started toward the house of Pulemanu. Ulavale walked about a hundred yards, and rested a bit. His right leg was weak, and on occasion, like now, he found he needed to rest it while the tingling subsided. When it was better, he moved on. The sun was high in the sky, and cast a blinding glare off the white sand of the village paths. He pulled his coconut frond hat down over his eyes, and marched on.
Pulemanu’s fale was large, and of ‘European’ style, meaning it was a square mostly open sided concrete building with a corrugated metal roof. When he got there, Ulavale stood outside the fale, muttered an abject greeting, and waited. He could see Pulemanu inside, and knew the man was aware of his presence, but Pulemanu was a big man in the village, so Ulavale had to wait. He stood there in the sun for a few minutes, and a young boy came to the door. The boy knew Ulavale, and he smiled and asked him how he was.
“I am fine, thank you Simione,” replied Ulavale. “And how are you?”
“Good, thank you. The dog had puppies, and I will keep one as my pet,” replied the boy.
“Good, but let it stay with its mother for some time, else it will sicken and die.”
“I will remember Ulavale, thank you. You come to see Pulemanu?”
“Yes, I am here to speak with the chief.” Before the boy could reply, a harsh yell from inside the fale chased him from the doorway. “The game begins,” thought Ulavale sadly.
Pulemanu knew why Ulavale was at his door, and he was quite glad for it. The man was a good worker and fisherman, his occasional fits not withstanding. Pulemanu could always use Ulavale in his boat. But, Pulemanu was a big man in the village, and it did no good to show he needed anyone, particularly one as lowly as Ulavale. So, he acted like he was hardly aware the man stood in the sun at the bottom of the steps. After making him wait outside for some time, he acknowledged Ulavale.
“Oh, Solē you come?”
Ulavale heard the call, and slowly got down, and crab-climbed the steps to the front door of the fale. He took the last few on his knees, resting his forearms on the floor of the fale, and hanging his head low. “Yes, I come. Greetings to you great chief Pulemanu. Great respect I pay to such a chief as you,” he replied.
“Yes. Yes. I am a very busy man. There are many things I must do,” said Pulemanu confirming his own importance. “Get to the point, Solē. What is it you are wanting of me. I have little time for such as you.”
“Honorable Pulemanu, I am seeking the opportunity of joining you on your fishing boat when you next go out.”
“Solē, many men want to go fishing in my boat,” lied Pulemanu. “Why should I take such as you?”
“Pulemanu, I have worked for you many times. You know I will work hard. I catch many fish,” said Ulavale stating the truth.
“Many people catch fish, and work hard, you are no exception,” replied Pulemanu, once again telling a lie.
“I will come early, to load the boat, and work late, cleaning it for you, sir.”
“Ohhh! Solē. You say these things, yet you do not always choose to work for me. Why is that, Solē? Why do you come to me now, when all last week you did not come at all?”
“Pulemanu, your honor, I had family obligations. I spent many days in the high hills working on our family plantations. Only that has kept me from taking advantage of the grand opportunity you offer by giving me a place in your boat,” said Ulavale, only half lying in return.
“You work all week in the plantations, and you do not even bother to bring me a basket of taro? I, who am so helpful to you, so often? You sadden me, Solē, that you would so quickly forget my beneficence.” said the chief, wishing he had some taro to eat with his evening meal. “And now you expect me to once again show you great kindness by allowing you to fish in my boat?”
The statement was so outrageous Ulavale could not find an answer. He simple crouched silent, on the steps.
Finding he could wheedle no taro from the man, Pulemanu returned to the standard script. “What is it you want of me? A place in the boat, for some part of the catch? So be it,” he said offhandedly, quietly satisfied he could give Ulavale almost nothing for his work, and pocket the profit. It would make up for the taro the man failed to bring him, he thought peevishly.
“Honored chief, please, there is something I must also ask of you,” said Ulavale in a low muttered voice Pulemanu understood only because of the comment’s place in the degrading play they acted out.
“Get on with it, man, can you not see I am busy,” replied the chief
“Sir, I am needing some tala, for this service you are allowing me to perform. I am thankful for your most generous offer of a part of the catch, but I am needing a few tala for the taking of my family to town. My daughter is sick, and I need to visit the hospital.”
“Tala? It is not enough I offer you a place in my boat, and some part of the catch, but now you are asking for tala as well?” replied Pulemanu. If it had been any other of the untitled men who worked for him, he would have taken the tala from the thick wad of bills he always carried in his lavalava, and crumpled them up, and tossed them negligently on the floor before the groveling man. But, this was Ulavale, one who had fits, and fell on ground drooling, and making noises. A man who would occasionally keel over, and urinate on himself. Even his name, Ulavale Pisupo[7], told the story of a time he had fallen down while carrying a large tin of pisupo into a great fiafia, a party of epic size. He had lay there, shaking and drooling, the can of pisupo still in his arms and resting on his chest. It was quite funny. Many in the village had gathered around to laugh and ridicule. It had become a village joke, and he was given the name Ulavale Pisupo as a remembrance of the event. No, it would not do to just throw money at such a one. “You must work for me twice if you want that many tala, Solē,” he said smiling as he watched Ulavale’s bowed head twitch at the news.
“As you say, honored chief. I will gladly go out in your boat twice. Tonight, and once again when I come back from town. And for this you will give me three tala for the bus fares I need to go to town?”
“I wish you to work for me tonight, and tomorrow as well. The price of fish is best before the weekend. You must work for me tomorrow, your trip to town can wait,” ordered Pulemanu, taking pleasure in taunting the man.
“Great chief, my daughter is seriously ill. I must take my wife and child to the hospital as soon as possible. Please, to have some understanding of this,” begged Ulavale.
“Solē! Always you have excuses! Yes, yes!” said Pulemanu, satisfied the man had groveled humiliatingly before him, and now tiring of the game, wanting a nice nap. “Come to my house at 4:00, and you can load the boat. Now I am busy. Off with you!” said Pulemanu turning his back on front door.
“Thank you so much, honored chief, your kindness is greatly appreciated,” muttered Ulavale as he touched his forehead to the floor of the fale, and walked his knees back down the stairs until he could stand and not have his head above fale floor. He picked up his stick, and made his way back home. The glare of the sun off the sand attacked his eyes as he walked, and he started to see arcs of geometric patterns spanning his vision. When he looked directly at something, it disappeared in a fuzzy collection of jagged gray geometric forms. He hurried, hoping the attack would not peak before he could make it back to the fale. He was in sight of his home when his right leg went tingly, and his right arm went numb. He pushed on, using his stick as a brace, the sounds of the day coming to him as if he walked in a dream, and strange but familiar thoughts and memories floated through his consciousness. He knew he had but a few minutes before he must either lie or fall down. Finally, he was at the fale. He ignored a call, grabbed a pillow, and quickly lay on the mats as the seizure swept over him. Perhaps ten minutes later, he felt the disoriented unreality of the experience begin to ebb.
Pesemalie had seen him walking back to the fale, and when she called to him, and he did not answer, she understood what was happening. She had a cool cup of water waiting for Ulavale when he awoke. It was all she knew to do. When Ulavale sat up to drink his water, she was relieved to see he had not wet himself, as it always left him so sad.
“Iopa, It was a quick one,” she said to him, using his Christian name, as he drank his water.
“I got home before it was bad,” he said in response, and taking a long drink of water. “I go out with Pulemanu on his boat tonight. I will need a meal to take along.”
“We have no tinned fish. I will ask Manulele for a can from the store.”
“No need. I will eat before I go. There is taro, no?”
“Only the banana. Moipune has taken all the taro into his house.”
“I will eat a hardy meal of green banana, then,” he laughed. He will give me three tala for the work, added Ulavale, avoiding the fact he would have to fish twice. “We will take Alofa’ia to town tomorrow, to the hospital. She does not get better. Perhaps a European doctor can help. We will stay at my cousin’s house.”
“I have tried so hard,” said Pesemalie sadly.
“I know,” said Ulavale, soothingly. “You are a good mother. Even so, the child sickens, and you are not well either. Now we must go to town. It will be all right,” he said reaching out and touching her hand lightly. “Now, I will sleep for a few hours. It will be a long night in that old barge of Pulemanu’s,” he said with a smile, and a sad shake of his head. He lay back down to sleep, feeling the secondary effects of the seizure coming back down on him…………………
By Hook and Line
Sauaso looks out over the silvery predawn waters of the Pacific, awakening, coming out of its sleep. The swell had thundered against the reef through the night, and now had settled to a growl, no longer sending long barrels of white-water rumbling along the outer reef. He stares out into the sky, toward the horizon, searching for unrest in the grayness and flashes of first-light pinkness. The heavy squalls of the night have marched to the west, followed by tamer cloud heads, calmer offerings of rain. He smells the air, letting the sea tell him its story, then turns and looks inland toward the high hills of the island’s interior. All appears well, the omens positive, nothing vibrates with danger, or demands too much caution. It suddenly irks him they are still on the beach, not underway at the first light. He flushes irritably along the backs of his arms and legs, the heat agitating his thoughts. He looks around, spying Salanoa, who is carrying an armful of gear, aims a hard whisper at him, making it clear he holds the man accountable for the delay.
“Hurry, hurry! I do not want to spend all morning on the beach! You keep dragging, and we won’t be back before dark!” he chides Salanoa. Sauaso shakes his head, and marches off down the beach to find a secluded spot where he can take care of some morning’s business.
Salanoa, unphased, does not change his pace, his expression, or bother to reply. He knows Sauaso, always impatient, always hot to be on his way, always growls in the early morning. Salanoa knows the comments only reflect Sauaso’s need to be gone from the village, to be fishing.
Salanoa drops gear in the boat, realizes the heavier equipment has yet to be loaded, and heads back toward the storage shed behind Sauaso’s main family fale. “Come help me with the ten horse,” he whispers to Kole who passes him as he makes his way up the beach. At the shed he folds a heavy canvas cloth into a thick pad, and drapes it over his shoulder. Kole silently enters the shed, lifts the reserve outboard off the storage rack, and places it ‘just so’ on Salanoa’s shoulder. He picks up a gas can in one hand, a bollard of line in the other, and follows Salanoa back down the beach. At the boat he puts the can in the stern, the bollard amidships and wades toward the bow where Salanoa stands patiently, the motor balanced on his shoulder. They reverse the routine, Kole taking hold of the engine, while Salanoa places the canvass pad forward, just behind the cowling. The two men carefully lift the awkwardly weighted engine into the boat, and place it softly down on the canvas cushion.
Salanoa nods to Kole, climbs into the boat, starts to stow gear and adjust the trim. Kole turns and heads back toward the shed for another load. The gear they haul to the boat is well worn, and old, but shows signs of good care. Rough edges are worked smooth, and breaks glued, lashed, or welded, and rust and corrosion fought off with thick layers of marine grease. The motors are old, but reliable.
The boat, freshly painted, inside and out, a few strakes showing signs of repair, is an old, and nearly ancient by marine standards. Generations of family have sat on its thwarts, but care keeps the boat seaworthy. It is a whaleboat design, and wide at the beam, clinker-built, a raised bow lets it cut through heavy chop and swell. Aft it resembles a gig, with narrow flat stern, and stern sheets. The engine mounts where a tiller once worked, the engine providing the drive, and the steerage. Four thwarts are spread its length, and floor- boards cover most of the bilge, but gaps open at the stern, amidships and near the bow allowing for easy bailing of the bilges. The boat is less than thirty feet, having a beam just over seven feet, amidships, and tapering toward the stern and bow. Her draught roughly two feet of water along the keel, amidships to stern, with freeboard of six to eight inches when fully loaded with gear and crew. It drops to below three when returning with a catch. Built for the open sea, taking the seas well, and forgiving of off center trim the boat is often kind to them. Two sets of ores lie across the thwarts, fastened against the risers, as is a harpoon, and a long wicked looking gaff. Killing clubs, knives, an ax, a harpoon head, are stored against the risers beneath the thwarts. Aft of the row thwart, lays the reserve engine, the anchor and anchor line, extra gear, additional fuel, food and water, and fishing gear. Catch boxes are situated aft of the third thwart. She is set up to move and to hunt.
Kole brings the final loads, hands them to Salanoa, who stows them away, ties down the smaller items, covers the gear with tarps, ties down the tarps. When it is done, they glance at each other, nod, saying not a word, and walk up the beach, the white sand aglow, toward the fale where Sauaso’s wife waits with a hot meal and large cups of strong tea.
Unlike most other village fishermen, Sauaso proudly regards fishing as his life’s work. He rarely ventures into the plantations, finds little pleasure in the mud and humidity, sees nothing special in growing plants. He is ambivalent toward village society, wary of politics, participates when necessary, but is bored by the ritual and protocol. Salanoa and Kole are older, have been drawn into the cycles of the land, see their futures in the village as talking chiefs, but follow the sea for as long as they can. When not out on the water, or selling the catch they work on the boat, or repair and maintain equipment, for they have all seen too much go wrong too quickly, and now trust little to fate. If the weather allows, the men fish four times a week, going out on Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. Tuesday they recover and work on the gear, as with Thursday, except near holidays, when they fish hard for the week because of the promise of quick money. They go to church on Sunday, sleep through the day, thank God for the respite, and respect the church rules. When the weather is bad, they work on their equipment, or maintain the boat; the needs never end.
They are opportune fishermen, as likely to bottom fish at night as they are to chase the seasonal schools of pelagic fish that skirt the island shallows. Almost all their trips are beyond the reef, deep-sea ventures requiring great skill. They fish b by hook and line, avoiding net and spearfishing. The money is in the pelagic fish, but the bottom fishing is more consistent, with higher pounds landed. Chasing the pelagic schools uses fuel, beats down the men and the boat, and is more dangerous, while the bottom fishing is at night, often wet and unpleasant. Fishing rarely means comfort or ease for these men, and they follow the fish and the money.
The men are all family; Salanoa an uncle of Sauaso, brother to his mother, Kole the husband of an older great-aunt of Sauaso, the daughter of a paternal great-grandmother. The relationships center around Sauaso’s father, Palailoa, who is the village high chief, a leader in the district, and influential in the national assembly. He is greatly respected by all. When the Old Chief, as he is affectionately called, retires, the title, and the rights and responsibilities it entails, will fall to Sauaso. However, such change is ten, or even twenty, years into the future. The son is the heir apparent. It gives him right to authority among the older men; and his hard work, fairness, and caution, have earned it.
When the two men return to the small cooking fale, they sit down, and Tofa serves them a meal. Kole says a quiet grace before they eat. Sauaso comes in a few minutes later, and sits cross-legged facing the other two men. His wife places a food tray in front of him, and the three men eat quietly and with some haste. When they finish, they smoke, passing the green gray’s tin, the papers, the matches, across the mat. They drink large cups of hot tea, relax for a moment, and prepare mentally for the trip.
“We’ll head north of the islands,” says Sauaso in a low murmur, “Tomaso says he saw large schools working just north,” he adds, mentioning the other village fisherman who fishes the schools. The men nod, saying nothing. Sauaso decides their schedule, tells them at breakfast. They rarely question, it is enough to be fishing. There is some talk about gear, a few quiet comments, a laugh about a village happening, but the men are too familiar with their work to discuss it.
The boat is ready when they return to the beach. Salanoa and Kole have stowed the gear, and Sauaso has tested the engine. Kole casts off the mooring line, guides the boat out of the shallows, and hoists himself in as the water climbs above his knees. Salanoa grabs an ore, poling the boat into the channel. Sauaso waits patiently as the men work the boat free of the shallows, into deeper water, where he can lock down the engine. Salanoa looks back at Sauaso's gray form, nods an ‘OK’ as he stows the ore in its rack. Sauaso takes over, he squeezes the tank bulb slightly, pulls the starter cord, the engine firing immediately. The boat slips away from the land, becoming a dark form on the inky night sea, sliding into the darkness, and out toward the reef.
The men are busy with well-known tasks, carry them out smoothly, and with deliberate care. Sauaso stands in the stern sheets, the extra long tiller bar lays in his hand as he gazes forward over the bow, picking out the familiar shadows of the isolated coral heads studding the uneven channel. The surf is crashing along the reef; faces of six to eight feet build high before tubing. Sauaso slows the boat as he watches the waves break white across the reef opening. Then, deciding on the cycle of the sets, he guns the engine and the boat pushes and bounces through the white foamy breakers, spray flying high from the bows, water rushing in over the gunnels and filling the bilges. Kole bails madly as they buck through the breakers. In a minute they are out, and beyond the break, into the still boiling waters beyond the reef, the sudden violence of the passage lays muted behind them, the roar of the surf now a hard thumping.
Kole drops a line overboard, returns to bailing. Sauaso looks around slowly, taking in the pleasures of the unborn day, letting out a loud yell full of relief. The two other men smile, their eyes echoing Sauaso’s relief. It is good to be free of the land, back on the water, and ready to fish.
A fish hits the lure, while the scent of foam from the reef passage is still in their nostrils, the water still misty from the break. Sauaso slows the boat as Kole hauls in, hand-over-hand, long looping coils of monofilament lay on the decking, a silver arrowhead tracing the dark sparkling waters, darting back and forth along the diminishing arc of the line, a small Malauli, a jack, fighting hard as it catches sight of the boat.
“Kole, your dinner,” smiles Sauaso—The first fish always ‘Kole’s dinner’, and good luck when caught early.
“Ahh,” says Kole, as he pulls the jack aboard. “It will fry up nicely.” He grabs the killing stick, whacks the still fighting jack against its skull, laying it stunned in the bilges, foot cautiously firm over its body, removing the lure from the slack jaw filled with a razor sharp band of teeth, then dropping the pearl shell deceiver back over the gunnels, and into the dark emerald waters.
They head west, along the reef, edging deeper, running just along the ridge breaks where the deepwater jacks lurk in ambush. They head away from their destination, moving along an arm of the reef that cocks back toward the northwest. To the east, several miles out in deeper water, lay the islets Sauaso seeks. The islands ride hard up on the eastern ridge, dark beads along the long arc of shallower water. The western arm curving back, aiming toward the northeast, pitching them into deeper water like a slow slider, just high of the northern edge of the last island in the emerald chain. They’ll skip by, over into the deep water, where long running ocean currents run up against the shallow ledge of the islands, and bring in the schools.
Their goal is the skipjack and yellow fin, tuna species, large schools of manageable sized fish, easy to fish, prized by the villagers. But they are ready for anything, hunters of opportunity, men who will take a basking green turtle, a playful porpoise, or even a noisy shark. They will avoid it only if it is poisonous or poor eating.
They drop three lines, three cruising lures, cutting through the green sea, skipping over the surface as the chop works them out, tosses them high, catches them, and takes them deep again. Then a hard twang on a line, the sight of the silvery fish running high in the water behind the boat, a broken crescent of light as it regains depth and fights to escape. This is a larger deeper water jack, demanding greater strength, and Kole labors as he creates a looping pile of line. The power of the fish charges down the line like electricity, filling the boat and setting the men on edge. Salanoa is ready with the gaff as the shimmery beast comes alongside, whips away at sight of the boat’s watery reflection, is pulled ever closer, then, the tarnished metal hook of the gaff smoothly slips into soft flesh, the large fish is hoisted into the boat, fighting in the bilges. Twenty pounds of muscle, fin spines, and razor sharp teeth, fighting and far from dead, the jack ricocheting about the bilges until the men manage to club it into passivity, a final battle explodes bloody gore about the boat, painting the men in the colors of death. A marvelous catch, and gutted and gilled before it is dead, wide eyes, staring in glassy shock, the flesh still aquiver as it is slipped into a wet burlap bag, cooled into the evening in hopes of a good price when sold in town, at a restaurant or to an expatriate wife.
Off on the distant horizon, almost lost in haze, the sun breaks over the edge of the world, casting its glare across the water, and bringing paleness to the predawn colors. Brightness spreads, and Sauaso dons sunglasses, and sticks a pandanus hat on his head. The long sleeves, the neck kerchiefs, the hats, quickly becoming protection from the burning sun, their warmth against the chill air of the cool morning fading from memory; just as the deep green seas lose themselves in the depths of a bottomless inky blue sky.
The boat, tiny against the open seas, heads slowly toward the northern tip of the farthest islet, slides over the rills of easy chop and across the long slow valleys of the swell. Sauaso remains standing, the long arm of the tiller bar cocked, fitted into his down stretched hand, his eyes scanning the horizon and the high ridges of the far swells as they surge rhythmically past. He has learned there is no place to get to before one hunts, outside the reef it is always the time. Memories of missed opportunities in the predawn ride out key him to always be ready, to always expect something to happen. With two fish already landed, he feels a good day coming, a chance to load the boat, and does not intend to miss the bounty.
The swell rises with the sun, the morning heat charging the seas. The breezes are offshore and wispy, the day trades blow intermittent, tame and relaxed, unable to decide how they will treat the day. In the east, scattered across the horizon, backlit by the climbing sun, orange, pink, gray and purple cloud heads drift slowly down on them, the parallelograms of rain they spawn appearing infrequent and uncertain. He gazes along the northern horizon looking for signs of working birds, those flocks of frenzied wings that will guide them toward the schools. Salanoa, on his feet in the bow, grasps the anchor line, and bounces lightly in the stutter of the stem as it cuts into the chop. He gazes along the shifting horizon, as it pitches near, then far, in the undulating movement over the ocean swells. Sitting on the second thwart Kole is busy cleaning the remains of the gutted fish, dumping it overboard, rinsing the blood from his legs, washing the gore from the sides, resetting the hand line, and taking care of the never-ending need to bail the water from the bottom of the boat. The men prepare, uncertain of the moment, but knowing their rendezvous.
They move on in an empty blue ocean, a vast liquid desert, with no sign of fish or bird; they are alone, the blue gray outlines of the islands offering faint assurances. There is the sea, the deep blue water, becoming darker and bluer as the sky brightens, and the smell of salt, fish blood, plankton, gear, and engine exhaust. The islands settle into a bluish haze that robs the shoreline of detail, and appear suddenly far away. The men move along the empty rolling plain, and the sea uncertain what it will offer them as it plays a game of chance with their lives. Their prospects look good, luck looks kindly on them, but she is precocious, and one misstep, or bad turn, and they will suddenly be isolated, with no helping hand, or much chance of survival, just a battle against an almost certain end. They know the sea willingly gives up her bounty, and the trick is to avoid being a part of the gift.
It is always unsettling, this uncertain fate that accompanies them on each trip they make. They speak reluctantly, and only rarely, of this constant companion, sitting on the thwarts among them, walking into their fales on dark nights, while they lie with their wives close at their sides. It slips roughly into hard dreams of trips to the edge, places of their own special dread, and brings sweat, heavy to the brow, an ache of a muscle too close to the bone, a heart racing out of control, the clawing desperation of drowning deep in their own nightmares. Yet it sings a siren song they cannot resist, spins visions of a world they love, yet fear and respect. It wakes them too early in the dark of night, their minds scrambling to prepare to leave. They stumble to their feet, preparing for the journey, sometimes only to fall out of their ragged dreams, to realize it is a day not meant for fishing. But, the chill rides down the spine. It hurries them out of sleep, even when soaked with fatigue, chases them out of their beds, as their wives murmur soft complaint, the salty taste of yesterday’s trip still lingering at the back of the throat. It calls them to their gear, drives the fixing and repairing, and obsessive care. And in the end they live alone, speaking a language only they know, their subtle gestures and words, marking them, setting them apart, as fishermen.
Their world has not much changed over the generations, life on the island, in the villages, becoming more peaceful, ordered and determined. But these men, who would have been warriors first and fishermen second, are no freer now to seek their destinies than their forbearers were hundreds of years before them. They are still of the warrior class, the battle hardened. They are the men who regularly fight for their lives, and understand the cost of the battle. Yet, they serve the whims of their leaders, are captives of their family’s welfare, yet remain, from generation to generation, holders of the knowledge of life’s terrifying uncertainty. True, they face no knives, or war canoes of belligerent chiefs, but the village is a hard land, and the sea has its weapons, and the sea has never tired of the mayhem, nor declared a truce, nor grown fat and content over time. No, for these men the battle continues, the sharp awareness of the risk, edgy and cutting with each sunrise. And if they were to come face-to-face with their warrior ancestors, they would stand among brothers, men little different, hardened individuals, with the same feverish look in their eyes, and they’d find killing men little different from the slaughter of the seas……….
About the Author
M.N. Muench served three years as a Peace Corps volunteer in the Pacific during the 1970’s; he remained in country as an expatriate contract employee for another three years. Upon completing his expatriate contract, he returned to Hawaii, where he obtained a PhD in Agricultural and Resource Economics. He later founded and managed a successful software development firm. He eventually sold the firm and returned to Hawaii. He now spends his time writing, ultra-running, and working and volunteering at a local hospice.
Blood in the Water is the second of M.N. Muench’s collections of Tales of the Islands. The first is titled Cycles in Heat.
The Author may be contacted at mmuench01@gmail.com
[1] A double hulled canoe fitted with an outboard
[2] Filoa: A fish caught at moderate depth, known for the quality of its flesh.
[3] Aku: small tuna species that runs in schools that frequent shallow off island waters.
[4] Faifeau: A pastor or priest.
[5] Tala: Currency
[6] Solē: a term translating as untitled male family member, or simply an untitled man. It can be used with affection but is often a cutting derogatory term used to accentuate social differences between two individuals.
[7] Ulavale Pisupo: Crazy headed corned beef.
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