We were in a sorry state when we made the island — haggard, filthy, blistered by sun and salt water, stinking of the raw fish that had been our diet, the men unshaven. (I had tried to shave, using John’s knife, but had given up after the first painful attempt.)
It was just after sunrise that I sighted the land.
I was in a bad temper — as were we all. The porpoises had not made their customary halt, had not thrown their morning tribute of fish into the boat.
“What are you doing about it?” demanded Sally, unreasonably.
“Yes. What are you mucking well doing about it?” seconded Curley Green.
“What can I do?” I asked.
“Since they’re so mucking intelligent, perhaps they’ll understand when you mucking well talk to them.”
Perhaps they would, I thought. Perhaps. Or perhaps they would understand sign language. I stood up in the sternsheets, shouted wordlessly. It seemed to me that several of the creatures nearest to the boat looked at me. It seemed to me, too, that they were looking at me sardonically.
“Food!” I yelled.
“Fish!” I yelled.
I put my hands to my mouth, made munching movements with my jaws. I realised, then, that the porpoises were no longer watching me.
“Food!” I yelled again.
And then, right ahead, I saw it — the dark, blue-green mass seemingly hanging just clear of the indigo horizon.
“Land!” I yelled.
Sally was on her feet beside me, swaying dangerously. I put my arm around her to support her, pointed with my free hand.
“There!” I cried. “There!”
The others were on their feet now, pointing and clamouring. The boat heeled. “Down!” I ordered. “Down!” Sally and I set the example.
“A hot bath,” she was babbling. “And clean clothes. And make-up. And a proper meal …”
“You’re too muckin’ fussy!” growled Green. “A mug o’ piss an’ a hunk o’ bread an’ muckin’ cheese, an’ I’ll be happy!”
The Samoans, sitting very close together, were murmuring softly.
Motioning to the others to remain seated, I got to my feet again. I could see the beach now, a yellow strip beneath the high cliffs. I could see no signs of habitation — no jetties, no boats drawn up on the sand, no buildings. But the island must be inhabited, I thought. Practically every speck of dirt in the Pacific had a population, even though it was no more than a couple of families. And then, rising from and above the trees beyond the cliff, I saw the column of grey smoke.
So there would be hot food and cold drinks and hot baths, and soon our open boat voyage would be no more than a nightmare that had to be gotten through and could now be forgotten.
But, as we approached the beach, I began to feel uneasy. It was being unable to handle the boat that worried me. Had I been in actual command, with a crew of strong oarsmen, I should have turned the boat and backed in, keeping her head to sea, to the breakers. (There must have been wind somewhere to kick up this swell; we were lucky to have missed it.) I should have put out the grapnel, or the sea anchor, or both, and veered line as I made a cautious, stern first approach. Absurd though it may seem, I was beginning to have my doubts about the porpoises’ seamanship.
I sat down abruptly.
I said, “Get ready to jump, all of you.”
“Why?” asked Green.
“Because I think we’re going to broach to.”
“And what the mucking hell’s that?”
“You’ll find out. Get ready to jump, that’s all.”
“Balls,” he snarled.
And then, sickeningly, the boat was swinging, heeling. A cascade of green water poured over the gunwale, and still she heeled, threatening to trap us as she overturned. Sally screamed as I threw her out and clear, scrambling after her. A great wall of water fell on me, pushing me down and down and down, and frantically I struck out, clawing my desperate way back to the surface.
Abruptly the pressure on my eardrums abated and the green opacity before my eyes thinned. I could see again. I could see the beach — not too distant — and the gleaming bald head and flailing arms of Curley Green, and the dark heads of the two Samoans. Among them sported the dolphins, leaping and plunging, whistling and snorting, butting the swimmers shoreward.
And Sally?
There was something yellow floating on the water, a yellow rag, the dress that Mary had given her. I struck out for it, clutched it just as another breaker came crashing down on me.
It was empty.
Back on the surface, lifted on a crest, I stared around, saw, several yards to my right, a flurry of activity among the porpoises. And I heard Sally scream, saw her arm lifted in entreaty, glimpsed her naked legs and body as she was rolled over and down by the sea beasts.
Exhibiting a speed of which I would never have believed myself capable I made for her. Struggling futilely, she was being pulled away from me, back out into the deeper water. One of the brutes had his jaws closed on her upper thigh, was towing her while the others frolicked and cavorted around.
Incredibly, I gained on them. (But they were hampered by the struggling girl.) I got my hands on one thick tail — and a contemptuous flick threw me clear of the water, breaking my grasp.
There was somebody shouting, and a body brushing mine. I twisted, tried to strike out at it, then realised that it was John, the fisherman. Together we swam in pursuit of the porpoises — but I was tiring fast, and I knew it.
Suddenly we were pushed aside, thrown out and under by the compact press of sea beasts, by the tight phalanx of living torpedoes. I saw John pull the knife from his belt, but he was able to make only one futile slash and then the things were past us, leaving us floundering in their wake.
Maintaining their formation they drove into the mob around Sally. We heard the thud of hard noses striking relatively soft flanks, heard the grunts and the snorts, the noises that were almost screams. Then the mob was broken up, was fleeing seaward, and one huge porpoise had surfaced under Sally so that she was riding astride it, looking like a figure out of Greek mythology.
I started to swim towards them but John caught my arm. “No,” he gasped. “No … Safe now …” He caught a deep breath, then said, “The policemen …”
Sally’s weird mount was driving shorewards now, through the breakers, into the shallows. Deftly it rolled, spilling her off its back, leaving her, as the water receded, stranded on the beach. Mary ran to her, helped her to her feet, dragged her inshore before the next sea came rolling in.
Tiredly I struck out, for the shore, John following me. Again I was caught by a roller and this time went limp, not caring any more. Then there was the impact on something solid and the rough sand against my chest and knees, and somebody’s hands dragging me clear of the water.
We stood and sat there, panting, Sally, Mary, the fisherman and myself. We were safe, and that was all that mattered. And then, with my clearing vision, I saw Curley Green lounging at the foot of the cliff, watching us amusedly. He had taken no part in the proceedings. Anger flared up in me.
I staggered erect, took a step or so towards him.
“Green, you bastard,” I began.
“Now, now, Petey boy,” he chided. “Watch your mucking language in front of the mucking company!”
He turned his head, made a nodding gesture.
And then I saw, making his way down a path on the cliff face, a figure like an Old Testament prophet, sandalled, white robed, white haired, white bearded.
The only thing that spoiled the effect was the heavy automatic pistol that he wore at his belt.