Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
We left Rarotonga early in the afternoon of Sunday, July 17th, 1955. Four or five of the boys from the Hotel Rarotonga Annex stood at the wharf end waving us farewell as we set out through the channel into nearly calm seas. A slight southeasterly breeze came on fresher as we cleared the lee of the island and although we kept tiller watch throughout the night, she sailed herself for the most part, allowing us to lounge drowsily through our watches. The night air was surprisingly cool and we wore heavy sweaters and oilskins to turn the chill. We logged eighty-five miles the first day, a slow pace compensated for by the dry decks and unhurried pace of our chores.
Although very leisurely, our slow progress following our departure from Rarotonga was somewhat frustrating. Except for the occasional period of calm, the southeasterly trade blew with monotonous regularity so we close-hauled the sails and slogged doggedly against it. 'The Wren' sailed herself easily this way and we stood five-hour watches, lying on the main bunk with the compass on the cabin floor. We had little else to do but doze in the quarter-bunk and spend the rest of our days reading or writing.
Miru had come to the boat the day we left Rarotonga with a huge stalk of bananas balanced on his bicycle seat. This made a grand total of three full stalks, each carrying between seventy-five to one hundred green bananas. Unfortunately, when a stalk ripens it does so with a bit of a rush and we were left hopelessly behind as we tried vainly to consume the fruit before it turned bad. We ate bananas and cream, banana sandwiches, banana pudding, fried bananas and just plain bananas. Meanwhile the other two stalks of green bananas lay happily waiting to ripen overnight as soon as we had worked our way through the first batch. Could this have been a form of 'Rarotongan Revenge'?
The auxiliary motor we used to charge our radio went out the day after we left the island and the battery had gradually weakened until by the end of a week we were unable to pick up the daily WWV time signals. In navigation it is not necessary to know the exact time in order to establish the latitude, or north-south position. Only the correct date and the angle of the sun with the horizon at noon as established by means of a nautical sextant are needed; with a few simple calculations the latitude is readily determined. The determinatin of the longitude,or east-west position is more complicated however, and requires a knowledge of the exact Greenwich time to the nearest second; an error of only one second can cause an error of nearly one nautical mile in the calculations.
Since the marvellously accurate naval chronometer is too expensive for most small boat owners, a simpler and far less costly method of keeping correct time is utilized. An ordinary watch with a sweep second hand is corrected daily by means of time signals broadcast at certain hours on the short wave radio. When our radio went out, we had to hope that Joe's wristwatch would remain fairly accurate until we could make our landfall at Tahiti some six or seven days later. This, unfortunately, it failed to do.
About 11:00 a.m. on the morning of our fourteenth day after leaving Rarotonga we finally spotted, dead ahead, a tiny jagged blue silhouette on the horizon.
'That must be Tahiti!' I said to Joe.
'Must be!' he agreed, 'Let's check the charts!' He went below and grabbed the charts, came back up and spread them on the cabin top.
'The silhouette seems to check out all right!' he said.
'Where do your calculations put us?' I asked.
'That's the funny thing! We've logged about six hundred miles and should be south of Tahiti, but not this far south. How far do you figure we are?'
'Looks like forty or fifty miles, maybe more,' I said. 'Those peaks on Tahiti are high, you know!'
'Yeah! I wish I could be sure, though,' he said, going below again.
Around noon the wind died once again and 'The Wren' lay rolling in the heavy, glassy swells, with the tiny blue outline ahead rising and falling tantalizingly above and below the horizon. I spent the afternoon diving and swimming around the boat and soaking on deck in the warm sun. Toward sunset a fresh breeze sprang up from the south, the best, in fact, we had been blessed wih in all of the previous two tiresome weeks. We were able to set our course directly toward the island, with the boat sailing herself handily at between four and five knots.
After dinner I stayed on watch till 9:00 p.m., then Joe took over. He took the compass below again and lay in his bunk reading, glancing at the compass course occasionally. I was dozing in my quarter-bunk when Joe shook me at 10.00 p.m. and asked me to come up. There was a full moon in a cloudless sky and the sailing conditions were perfect.
'Look there, Ron!' he said, pointing to the dim outline of the island ahead. 'How far away do you make it?' The silhouette seemed to have grown quickly in size within the last hour.
'We seem to be coming up on it pretty quickly,' I said. 'You better keep a sharp eye out!' Then I went below and crawled back into my bunk. This time I went into a deep sleep. I guess this was when Joe made his most egregious error. He went below again to lie in his bunk and continue his 'compass watch' as he referred to it. He was not only responsible for the boat on his watch, he also owned it. With hindsight it's not too difficult to argue that he should have been sitting at the tiller 'keeping a sharp eye out' as I had suggested.
Two hours later I was shocked into wakefulness by an ear-splitting, grinding crash that shook the boat in every timber and had me out of my bunk and scrambling for the deck before I was fully awake. Joe was a step ahead of me and I goosed him with my nose all the way up the companion ladder. As we reached the deck a huge breaker towered up then smashed down into the cockpit.
'Oh, my God! We're on the reef, Ron!' Joe screamed. Talk about a masterpiece of articulating the obvious! I looked forward and was stunned to see a palm-covered island looming in the moonlight, less than a mile away, where only a short time before only a seemingly distant island had existed.
Another great wave broke over the stern, lifted the boat and smashed it forward and down onto the reef with a heart-rending crash. Wherever we were and however we had got there seemed less important to me now than our own safety and that of the boat, in that order. Due to some kind of Irishman's luck, we had, we discovered later, driven onto the reef in such a way as to wedge the keel into a fissure in the coral, of which only one or two occurred every three or four hundred yards. Thus, when each wave picked us up and drove us forward we were held by the keel rather than spun around and rolled over and stove in, as would otherwise have been the case. Nevertheless, as the boat crushed sickeningly against the coral each time, it heeled far over, first to one side and then the other and we scrambled and clutched at the cabin top for support like rats on a floating orange box.
My first instinct when I reached the deck was to grab the tiller in an attempt to keep the boat stern-on to the seas. I pulled out the brass pins that secured it in place and crouched in the cockpit holding it with both hands as Joe staggered forward to drop the trysails. Three or four twelve-foot seas broke over the stern while he was busy with this chore and with each I could feel the rudder smash hard against the coral. Just as Joe came back to the cockpit the rudder was torn loose from the stern. A feeling of sad futility seized me as this almost sensate limb of our little vessel changed in an instant from a vital, familiar thing to a floundering, lifeless contraption of oddly-shaped wood and metal. I had for a moment a feeling of fearful disbelief and mystic awe, of desolate grief that floods over one who has helplessly stood by at the death of a beloved friend. But we were not yet out of danger, so I left the tiller and turned to Joe.
'So much for steering her!' I shouted, then ran forward to help him furl the trysails. I put my mouth close to Joe's ear.
'Do you think we'll go right across the reef?' I shouted. The barrier reef carried on past the breakers for about one hundred feet, beyond which was the inner lagoon about a mile in width, between the coral reef and the shore. Since we had no idea of the depth of the lagoon at that point I was anxious for fear we got stove in on the reef, then dropped into the lagoon to sink, with the loss of all our personal gear.
'Let's get the anchor out! Hurry!' Joe shouted. We clambered forward and lifted the anchor through the forward hatch, then I struggled back to the cockpit with it while Joe paid out the chain. By this time we had been thrown far enough up on the reef that the waves were not breaking directly onto the boat. They would collapse with a roar some thirty or forty feet astern and rush past, just washing over the stern as they went by.
'Let's see if we can carry the anchor back and hook it into the coral,' Joe yelled, 'then we can keep her from going into the lagoon!'
'I presume by 'we' you mean 'me'!' I shouted back. 'Well, I'm sure as hell not going out there in my bare feet! That coral can be sharp! I'm going below for my boots!'
'Okay! But hurry!'
Hurry I did and was back on deck in a couple of minutes, wearing my heavy New Zealand hunting boots. For some reason, I had chosen this night to wear my Stanfield pyjamas for only the second time since leaving New Zealand and I must have presented a stirring sight as I stood on the stern ready to drop over the side. I sat down on the gunwale and picked up the fifty pound hook and started to ease over the side. Just then a wave broke abaft and the wall of white foam came rushing past the beam.
'I don't think I'm going to like this!' I shouted, looking at the maelstrom of swirling water. I lacked enthusiasm.
'Go ahead! You can do it!' Joe cried encouragingly. I waited for a lull then dropped over the side. The deck was about level with my shoulders and seemed far away as I started picking my way cautiously back through the knee-deep water. When I had gone about five steps, another comber broke with a thunderous roar and came charging at me like a herd of wild horses. I waited till the last moment, then crouched and dug one end of the anchor into a small crevice in the coral. As the wave surged over and around me I held my breath and clung frantically to the pick but it was torn loose from the coral almost at once and I felt myself being borne upward and back with the rushing water. I did a complete back somersault then started bouncing along face down on the coral with the anchor clutched to my chest. I found later that I had travelled close to forty feet before having the brilliant presence of mind to release my grip on it. I then put my hands forward in a vain attempt to stop myself but was rolled along another twenty or thirty feet before finally dribbling to a halt in shallow water about forty feet ahead of the boat.
I staggered to my feet and decided to walk on to the inside edge of the reef which was only a few steps further. I found to my relief that the lagoon was only five or six feet deep at this point. I walked back and located the anchor then waded over to the bow and handed it up to Joe, then I pulled myself aboard and climbed back to the cockpit.
'You're bleeding!' Joe said. I looked down and noticed for the first time that my hands were covered with blood and that dark stains showed in a number of places on my pyjamas.
'Wanna try it again?' Joe asked.
'Hell no, I resign!' I said, 'besides I'm not sure it matters now. Those seas can't throw us into the lagoon and even if they did it's only five or six feet deep!'
'How do you know that?'
'Because I walked back and checked it out, that's how!'
'I think I'll try it anyway,' Joe said, 'gimme your boots, eh?'
'Okay! Help yourself!' I replied. 'I'll go below and take them off!'
When I reached the cabin I was able to assess the damage both to my hide and to my pyjamas. The latter were pocked with holes in a dozen or more places where the razor-sharp coral had torn the cloth away. Blood oozed from my skin below each of these holes in the fabric. My knuckles were quite badly skinned on both hands and the tip of my right thumb was torn off. Except for the latter wound, most of the cuts were superficial but still generated enough blood to give me a quite gory aspect. Even so, it was some weeks before the festering sores that resulted were completely healed. I removed the boots and handed them up to Joe, smeared merthiolate on the cuts, bandaged my thumb and went back on deck. Joe had the boots on already and was easing himself down to the reef.
The nasty thing about being rolled around in the coral goes beyond the cuts and scrapes received at the time. Coral contains little live animals and if they happen to be lodged under the skin of the victim, they can continue to live for some time, during which the victim is wondering why they just don't heal. Coral has a synergistic relationship with algae, which they require for photosynthesis. If the coral is lodged close to the skin where it can be affected by sunlight, the algae continue to do their job. The food chain, however, depends on the coral animal to feed every night on plankton. Lodged under the skin of a victim, however, they cannot execute their feeding function and eventually the whole happy procedure comes to a close. The victim can then cut the wound open and disgorge the problem causer.
'Better go forward and pay out some more anchor chain!' Joe said as I handed him the anchor.
'Right!' I said, and hustled forward toward the bow. Just as I reached the forward hatch I was struck by one of those rare flashes of objective insight that happen along occasionally. I paused momentarily and looked around at the moonlit scene that surrounded me.
As I took in the crazily-angled deck, the tangled lines, the phosphorescent foaming of the surf that churned all about and the ominous dark island that loomed just beyond the lagoon, I said to myself, "What the hell are you doing here, anyway, Helmer?"
I suppose some would attribute my mood to hysteria, although I felt no panic at the time. At any rate, the situation suddenly seemed incredibly, side-splittingly funny and I began first to chuckle and then to roar with laughter at the thought of our ridiculous plight. I tried to haul the chain from the locker but found it impossible and was forced to grab the lifeline for support as I bent double with laughter, tears pouring down my cheeks. It must have been nearly two minutes before I was able to pull myself together sufficiently to perform my assigned task. When I returned to the cockpit I was serious and straight-faced again, but inwardly I still roared with amusement. I never did mention this little outburst to Joe, since I felt that he wouldn't appreciate it fully. He had no insurance on the boat, you see!
Joe proved to be a much better anchor-setter than I, and managed to weather the breakers and get well astern before hooking the anchor in the reef. When he got back aboard we drew the chain up tight and and took it around a stern bollard.
'There, that ought to hold us for the time being!' Joe said. 'Now let's go below and try to figure out where the hell we are!' We went below and took down the chart and spread it out on the table.
'Well, it's a cinch we're not at Tahiti!' he said. 'This goddam island is only about two miles long!'
'I'll say one thing for your navigation, though, Skipper!' I remarked. 'We hit it dead centre!'
'Very funny!' Joe said grimly. 'Now look! I'm fairly sure our latitude is correct, so it can't be any of the northern Society Islands. Mehetia is is on the same latitude but it's sixty miles east of Tahiti.'
'I know from the patent log reading we haven't sailed far enough to be there!' I said.
'That's right!' Joe agreed. "So it's got to be Tubuai Manu!' He placed his finger below a tiny dot on the chart about fifty miles west of Tahiti.
'I guess we boobed on the longitude!' I said, 'that watch must have lost a good sixty seconds in the last week!'
'I guess so!' Joe said ruefully, reaching for the Pacific Islands Pilot Book. He glanced at the index then turned to page 163 and began reading aloud:
Tubuai Manu. This island (Lat. 17 degrees 38 minutes South, Long. 150 degrees 37 minutes West) which is called Maiao-Iti by the natives was discovered on July 28th, 1767 by Captain Wallis. It is the most westerly of the Windward Group of the Society Islands and lies about 40 miles westward of Moorea. When seen at a distance it resembles a ship under sail; when closer, it is easily identified by two hills, one of which is 820 feet high and dominates a fertile plain. A barrier reef surrounds the island. In its northern part it does not appear to extend for more than one mile offshore, and there is a boat passage through it. In its southern part there is a pass, but it is suitable for small vessels only. Anchorage is available for small vessels on either side of this pass, in depths of from 8 to 16 fathoms about one cable seaward of the reef. The island is uninhabited!
There was a long moment of ominous silence when Joe finished reading. I had a vision of myself as a senile, white-bearded old man tottering along the beach dressed in goatskins, with a parrot on my shoulder and a palm leaf umbrella in hand.
'What do you say we swim ashore and have a look around?' Joe said.
'I'm game!' I said. It was 3:00 a.m. now and sleep seemed out of the question. 'No use wasting a trip, though, let's pack something ashore!'
Joe took a flashlight and I balanced a jerry can full of high-test gasoline on my head and we set off for shore. Visibility was no problem in the bright moonlight and we soon reached the shore side of the barrier reef and plunged into the warm water of the lagoon. We waded along through chest-deep water, picking our way through the huge coral heads that studded the sandy bottom. After about fifteen minutes we reached a long curving crescent of coral sand about ten yards wide, behind which loomed a dense coconut and banyan jungle.
'Look here!' Joe said, shining his flashlight down on the beach; I went over and looked down. A line of footprints led down the beach.
'Well, that's a break!' I said, 'at least we have a chance of getting off the place!'
We returned to the boat and lighted the Coleman lamp again. The boat was still lifting, then thumping down heavily on the coral as each wave passed. Shortly after we returned there was a splintering sound and we heard the the gurgling of water coming into the bilge. Since we were jammed hard in the crevice in the coral now, Joe agreed to ease off the anchor chain. This reduced the rise and fall to a minimum but the boat still shuddered horribly each time it smashed against the reef.
We sat in silence watching the water rise; soon the floorboards were floating, along with half-empty bottles, tins of Nescafe and assorted boxes of scraps and wood. When the water reached the level of the bunks it stopped. Joe went to sleep but I stayed awake long enough to finish the last chapter of a paperback novel I was reading. I'm surprised that I have been unable to remember the title of the book I was reading on such a critical occasion. I presume that if I were reading a similar novel on an aircraft I would have to forewarn the pilot not to crash until I had read the denouement! It was 4:30 a.m. when I turned out the lantern and crawled into my bunk to wait for daylight.
— The End —