CHAPTER 36
Rarotonga provided unique challenges, moments of both anguish and delight, but an ending with profound personal sorrow.
As difficult as accurate weather forecasts were to receive, every yacht in mid-Pacific was well informed of conditions in general, and what to expect ahead. Ham radio nets provided most of the data and a few (very few) of the mega yachts had a new contraption called a weather fax, which beamed in the same semi-reliable pictures seen on TV weather reports. Even having one, the operator needed to be “spot on” to obtain a readable printout, by perfectly catching a specific satellite signal as it ripped across the sky, so we mostly just listened in to hams.
It was August 25th. We had logged 6423.7 nm since departing Newport Beach on January 10th. My superb mathematical skills equated that to sailing a blazing 28.44 nautical miles per day, so we were truly “drifting and blending.”
What was important was being on the back end of the Pacific typhoon season, and we were. Rarotonga had been hit recently by winds topping 125 miles per hour, and the harbor was seriously damaged. We would be among the first to enter since the typhoon. Portions of Fiji (well to the west) had also experienced a bad typhoon season.
For now, all was sunny, bright, and slightly breezy as we left Bora Bora in our wake.
Somewhere, about six hundred nautical miles ahead, lay Rarotonga. It felt good to be at sea. Tony’s first log entry expressed it well: “getting the hang of the helm again.” Tom Peek was proving an affable mate. By early afternoon we gave him his first trick at the wheel. The wind promptly died to nothing, making steering truly impossible for a novice, so Tom switched on the engine to use our autopilot for better control.
The night was one more never-ending orchestra of stars. Being below the Equator, most constellations were unfamiliar to us. Even Hemingway would have difficulty describing how that particular night, with only four of us so far at sea, so deeply engraved itself in our memories and our souls. We shared improbable moments of serenity, all of us in the cockpit, comforted by the lingering warmth of the day, in a motionless boat on a windless sea—the sky ablaze with celestial wonder. Experiences such as that one develop friendships that survive the ages. I could sense this with young Tom . . . although we would eventually clash.
When morning broke, still with paltry wind, we had logged a sluggish one hundred thirty-six nautical miles, a little under six knots an hour. At mid-morning the breeze freshened and we zipped along at trolling speed, so out came the poles, lines, and bragging rights. Bingo—first crack and Denise had a fifteen-pound barracuda.
Tony went to work on the fish while Denise and I set the spinnaker. Tom became more accustomed to the wheel, even casually one handing it for short durations. How Tony made a meal, a tasty one at that, from a scavenger fish was beyond me. It was good. Tony had no problem rewarding himself with multiple pats on the back before retiring for an afternoon nap.
The clock struck seven bells marking 1530 hours (3:30 pm). Denise had been on the wheel for about a half hour. Tom had shared space in the cockpit. They both enjoyed talking, but Tom gave new meaning to the word ‘chatterbox.’ I went below to a chart exercise and could hear them both competing for the last word.
There dwells, in this part of the world, a small powerful phenomena called a “line squall.” These are tiny independent storms that breed in warm water. The clouds they quickly form are densely black and the rain is piercing, as is the accompanying wind that often slams across the water at forty knots or so.
Coming topsides for a moment I scanned the horizon.
Not three minutes away and bearing down on us like a runaway freight train was the mother of all line squalls. I calmly looked to Denise, our momentary captain by virtue of the fact she was at the helm, and said, with my hand pointing abeam, “Pardon the interruption you two. Denise, what do you plan to do about that?”
“Here Tom,” she said without missing a beat, “take the wheel. I have to get my rain hat.”
Thus, the least experienced took the helm while Denise protected her precious hair from approaching elements, now 30 seconds away, and I yelled, “All hands, all hands.”
Tony helped me douse the spinnaker, which was almost down when the first rain and wind swept over us. Struck broadside, Endymion tipped dangerously before gaining her senses. Tony, clutching an armful of spinnaker, lost his balance and slid into the lifelines, cursing loudly. I was able to grab him by the bathing suit and with my other hand opened the forward hatch to stuff the spinnaker below. Denise had set a world record for getting into wet weather gear and replacing herself at the helm.
Denise did not see the approaching line squall.
This had been another of those unexpected close encounters. Denise was correct taking the helm instead of coming forward to wrestle the mammoth sail in a big wind. At just over one hundred pounds she was no match for a wind-filled spinnaker. Besides—we all cared about Denise and the whiff of perfume announcing her presence for her next watch. And I wasn’t certain how I would explain a missing body from my crew list at the next port had she gone overboard. Better she stayed in the cockpit.
Tom, who claimed to be a budding young writer, developed an idea for a story. “A yacht such as Endymion is sailing peacefully on a starry night when a crusty, barnacle-laden hand comes slowly from the ocean and grips the vessel’s rail with tenacious strength.”
“Shut up . . . shut up,” Denise exclaimed, “That’s horrible, Tom.”
At end of day three, Rarotonga was in sight but we couldn’t make harbor before nightfall. Clouds protesting a rising moon would make the night a dark one and we didn’t want to hit anything entering the storm-ravaged harbor. Tony and I developed a plan. We knew the harbor entrance navigation lights were gone—swept away by the typhoon. The guest docks along the quay were gone, and a sunken powerboat was reported to lay just off mid-channel. Range lights were also out except for one. The good news was having ample deep water. We studied the chart and picked our entry route into Avarua Harbor (cum marina). Next we took a break and slow sailed, feasting on fresh queen fish for dinner, compliments of Minnesota farm boy Tom. Our chatter focused on how much beer we could/would consume once we were tied up, and how quickly we could get to it.
Approaching from the south we switched on the radar, sighting the island on the twenty-mile ring. It just fit. The radar placed the harbor just dead center of the island. Working together, Tony and I took range and bearings every few minutes, occasionally calling for Denise, at the wheel, to slightly correct course to compensate for drift and current.
By 2100 daylight had slipped away and we stood two nautical miles off what we reasonably believed to be the narrow entrance to the harbor. We moved with only engine energy. I had the helm, Tom was lookout, and Denise was beside me feeding me constant speed and compass information. Tony was at the radar. It was he, with skill and concentration, who really guided Endymion.
The ocean that night had a fair chop to it, so we moved slowly. We needed to enter the damaged harbor as if we were in dense fog, able to stop in half the distance we could see.
“Radar says one half mile,” Tony called out.
Straining, Tom said he thought he saw something—so we all strained. Tony, his voice edgy, reported the radar indicated rocks close at hand. “Twenty feet to starboard.” shouted Tom, positioned in the bow pulpit, signaling to turn five degrees to port. Down to less than two knots forward speed, we ghosted past a pile of rocks partially leveled by nature’s enormous forces. Cemented to one rock, a metal post, bent sideways, had once held a harbor entrance light, testimony to the power of the sea.
“That was close!” Denise said quietly.
“How we doing on the sunken boat,” I yelled to Tony.
“Stupid question, Dad,” he shot back. “Under water—off screen. Can’t tell you nuttin’. Come port another ten degrees,” Tony added.
“Aye aye, dickhead.”
Denise, now looking to port, said, “That looks strangely like a seawall to me.”
It was, or was part of what had been one before the storm. “Watch it!” Tom shouted, jerking his hand, signaling to turn quickly to starboard. I took Endymion starboard five degrees, barely avoiding a cluster of newly sunken rocks.
“What are you doing, Pops?” Tony had noticed the move on radar.
“Fine tuning,” I said. “Tom spotted rocks underwater that you couldn’t see on radar.”
We moved even more slowly in the direction where Denise thought she saw a seawall.
Then, from dead ahead, there bellowed a hearty masculine voice, “Welcome to Rarotonga and Avarau. You are the first boat to arrive since the storm. Congratulations! Let me help with your lines.”
A rugged, handsome, dark-skinned native man stood atop a seawall directing us with a torch (flashlight). We were nearly at a standstill.
“You’ll like it best,” he said, “if you turn your stern to the wall I’m on, throw out a bow anchor, and back down to me. It’s good holding, all mud and a few new rocks. Docks have been washed away.”
We did as requested, tossing him lines he skillfully crossed and made fast.
“Come aboard?” I asked, looking up to him.
“No can do. You have to fly a Q f lag. Health Officials will fumigate your vessel for ants and mice,” he said and promptly turned, disappearing into the dark.
“That’s a bummer!” Tony muttered. I knew he could just taste a beer. “What’s a Q flag?” Tom inquired.
Tony explained clearing customs, immigration, police, and other authorities in every port before leaving the vessel. “Until we do we are ‘in quarantine,’ so to speak, and must fly the orange ‘Q’ signal flag—but I never heard anything about fumigating for critters. It’s a new to me. You too, Dad?”
“Beats me,” I said. “Guess it won’t hurt.”
We could hear a rock band. It wasn’t far away. There would be beer—probably cold beer. We were salivating. Even Denise was up for a taste, though she agreed to remain aboard while the rest of us hoisted each other up the seawall to find the music, beer, and our eternal fantasy . . . native dancing girls. I took one glace back at Endymion, the only yacht, in a harbor littered with destruction. I saw Denise touching her fingers to her lips, then the wheel, and I heard her softly say, “Thank you God—Thank you Endymion.”
Walking toward the laughter and beer we were halted by the same man who had helped us tie up. He was big.
“Sorry sir, you’re quarantined. No one may leave the vessel until you clear in the morning.”
“Oh come on, only a couple of beers. Have a heart. What are you—the police?”
“Double sorry sir. I am the immigration officer. I don’t want to but I must request you return to your vessel.”
We were upset, angry, and about to cry, but we reversed direction boarding Endymion and cracking a couple of warm diet cokes.
“Shitty substitute,” Tony murmured. We could hear the music so clearly.
“Hey . . . I need a hand here,” came a familiar voice from the quay.
Atop the wall, like a mud god idol, stood our immigration officer with a case of beer—under each arm. We whooped and hollered like school kids passing a math test.
He would accept no payment. The beer was lip-smacking icy cold and our new friend came aboard this time.
There wasn’t enough aspirin on the island to fend off the next morning. Before the sun was fully awake we heard a thump on deck. I was sleeping (recovering) in the cockpit and heard a new voice:
“Welcome to Rarotonga. I’m the Postmaster and have a letter from the Bicentennial Committee of Australia. You must be important.”
“Toss it down. Let’s see,” I invited.
Inside was official acceptance of our application to compete in the first ever Tall Ships Race in the Southern Hemisphere. The race packet, including visas for Denise, Tony, and me would await us in Suva, Fiji at the office of Frank Johnston, First Secretary of the Australian High Commission.
“How about dem apples!” Tony exclaimed, watching Denise and me in a long hug. All we had to do, per race instructions, was arrive in Australia by mid-December.
Tony, Denise, and I headed for the village of Avarua, fighting off herds of scrawny chickens, to clear our papers. Tom stayed aboard. Denise wandered off to convert money to Cook Island dollars, enabling her to exercise her favorite sport—shopping. I wouldn’t stop her. This was the place to do it and she soon had an armful of unique wooden carvings and colorful batiks. We stopped at the Hibiscus Restaurant, a charming spot with outside patio seating where locals regaled us about things to do and places to go. Rarotongans related to New Zealand as Tahitians related to France, except these folks were truly friendly, and spoke English.
We discovered church was a ‘must do,’ and there were plenty of bars and discos where Tom could play piano. “This—I gotta see,” chuckled Tony.
Back aboard Endymion, Tom bubbled over with excitement. “There was a reporter here,” he said, “who wanted to interview Skip, for being first in the harbor after the storm. She wanted your opinions and all.”
My juices flowed. Every skipper fashioned himself, in some way an adventurer, explorer, and risk taker and relished the thought of momentary fame through a print interview.
“Hot damn! Great news Tom. You told her we were checking in? When will she be back? I’m up for this!”
“I don’t think she’ll be back, Skip—at least not until the paper comes out on Friday,” Tom glumly reported.
“Why not? We’re making news here. I can give a superb interview.” “Well, it’s too late,” replied Tom. “I gave her the interview because you were gone.”
“You WHAT ?” I went ballistic! “You gotta be kidding me, Tom. This is my yacht, I’m the captain, you’re crew, and rookie crew at that. What gave you the right to speak for me, besides that little business card claiming you’re a writer and all that other bullshit?”
I was fuming. I’d lost it. Tom knew it, as did anyone within one hundred yards. Tom had actually been proud to give the interview, but became ever so humble in the shadows of his monster skipper who was furious.
“Damn you Tom.” I couldn’t stop. “How the hell can you speak for me? You have no idea what I would have said. Not a clue! The skipper is always the spokesman for the yacht –not some three-day wonder crew. What the hell did you tell her anyway?”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I was pacing (if that is possible) in the cockpit. Tony and Denise kept their distance stowing supplies or doing some other crap work that kept them in hearing distance. Tom just stood there, taking it all in and looking sheepish.
He tried to apologize. “But Skip, I know you’re the captain. I told her that. She wanted the interview right then so it could make the paper, so I tried to say what I thought you would say.”
“Oh yeah? Well Mr. Navigator, pretend I’m the reporter now, tell me what skills and tools you used to navigate to the island in the dark, big boy!”
“She didn’t ask that kind of question, Skip. I can’t answer that.”
“Damn right you can’t!”
I was cooling, beginning to feel guilty. I’d shouted enough—a lifelong fault. So I added, “When that paper comes out I want a copy, and you’d be wise to be on the other side of this island, or off it completely, if you misquoted me!”
Tom was genuinely hurt. He had done his best. He liked us. Truth is, we all liked him—a lot, but it would take a while for me to calm down. Angry as I was, I respected Tom’s honesty explaining how it happened and how he stood firm under my anger and insults.
Denise had an idea. “Here, captain,” she said with excessive special emphasis on the word captain. “Have a cold beer and a fresh green salad. I made it just for you, everything picked fresh from the island this morning.”
She had me. She asked Tom to join us. She had us both. This had been the best four-person crew ever. The skipper shouldn’t screw it up.
That night we found a small restaurant and bar with a rare treat for us—fresh meat! The manager invited Tom to play piano. We didn’t expect much as we watched Tom adjust the bench for his six-foot plus frame, but when his talon fingers touched the keys, my God—that man could play! It was soft, soothing, whispering music. Tom’s hands, shaking under my reproach just hours ago, gently caressed the ivories. In my heart I folded back any doubts about Tom. This was as good as Streisand at anchor in Nuku Hiva or the wood flutes at Las Hadas.
After dinner we went to Porky’s, the hottest of the island’s many nightclubs. Among the night people was one outrageously popular entertainer who was everything except cute, lovely, or sexy. Kia Orna (meaning welcome) owned the stage when she picked up the mike in one hand, and a coconut in the other.
“Put the damn clock on me,” she commanded—and plowed her face into the coconut, husking it with her teeth, by the clock, in fifty-seven seconds. She possessed the crowd who roared with approval and applause.
“Cripes, I never seen nuttin’ like that,” said Tony.
When the cheering subsided she requested a volunteer from the audience. Many fingers and eyes pointed to me. Why, I will never know, but maybe being a big white guy in the front row had something to do with it. Kia Orna tugged me by the beard and dragged me to the dance floor. In my ear, she whispered instructions on coconut husking, and then announced I would try to break her speed of fifty-seven seconds. This was insane! The music went up, the crowd roared, the bets were on, a bell rang—and God will confirm I chomped down as hard as I could.
No good. I could not tear even a fiber from that husk, though I tried and tried. With my time up Kia announced it was ‘slow dance time’ and she would be dancing with me. She was a large woman, shaped like the coconut, and I knew her teeth were sharp. So we danced. She moved like a butterfly.
Sunday we all attended a 150-year-old Christian church and were escorted to visitor pews in the balcony. The church, a massive structure, was covered in vines and surrounded by graves of past parishioners including two celebrities. The former premier was buried near the front door. His eyeglasses adorned a sculpture of his head, along with beaded necklaces signifying his previous prominence. A more interesting marker was a wooden carving of a girl sitting against a tree, reading her bible. It was the tombstone of the first person known to have died from a bonk to the skull by a falling coconut. She passed at age twelve.
The church was stiflingly hot. Islanders in their best whites sat below, their kids sequestered to balcony pews with us visitors. The faithful praised the Lord in song and a tall preacher, elegantly dressed in black, welcomed us warmly in perfect English. His podium resembled a helmsman’s station from an old clipper ship. In time I thought I recognized the old podium from photos I’d once seen of Irving Johnson’s well-known schooner, Yankee. It had gone to permanent rest, aground somewhere in the South Pacific. I knew then, what island had beached her.
The service was long. Children grew restless. Out came peashooters and spitballs. Worshippers in the cavernous interior below us were under attack until the kids spotted a hornet’s nest in the rafters. Take twenty children, with plenty of practice and ample ammo, and it’s time to leave. The targeted angry hornets caused near panic. The wise preacher ended the service.
While on Rarotonga Denise wrote home:
My first real test of “crossings.” We were four days and almost four nights because we were slow. And although Skip says I can handle the boat well, and I do, after two and a half hours on “watch,” keeping the boat on a specific course you tend to tire and the waves and wind can throw you every which way. But, as Skip says, he’s “real proud of me so far.” Cool, isn’t it?
The newspaper with Tom’s interview arrived Friday. Page one featured a quarter page picture of Tom, broadly beaming aboard Endymion, as if he owned it. The article wasn’t all that bad and Tom had correctly quoted me as saying we “are fond of Rarotonga and its people,” although we’d been on the island possibly four daylight hours when the interview was conducted, so it was a quick but accurate observation.
At the start of this chapter I referred to profound sorrow—deep personal sorrow. Allow me please to add the words heart breaking. The following Monday Tony and I played a round of golf. Tony played poorly. Something bothered him and he resented my asking. I felt he was uncomfortable about a discussion we had the previous night regarding responsibilities. I decided to let it be.
When we returned to Endymion after too long in the nineteenth hole, a brooding Tony went below with hardly a ‘hello’ to Tom or Denise. At that moment an unexpected squall hit us. Fighting to hold our awning in place I called, “Hey Tony. Some help here . . . OK?”
“Screw you!” Tony yelled back from blow. “I’m not helping and I don’t give a shit. I’m leaving.”
“Come on, get yourself up here. We gotta get this thing tied down!” I hollered to Tony over the rain pelting the yacht.
“Hey!” Tony shouted back. “Get this clear, Dad—I’m leaving. Tonight!”
Shockwave!
Somewhere in the preceding days Tony had made a private decision. With a few beers warming his innards he announced his intentions, which he’d solidified by purchasing an airline ticket two days ago. He was flying to New Zealand, where he would seek a work visa and employment. His announcement was as unexpected as the attack on Pearl Harbor. I was stunned, but there was no changing his mind.
Denise comforted Tony as he packed his belongings. I sat alone in the cockpit. Tom made himself scarce. I was in despair. I dearly loved this kid. My kid. What had happened? Why didn’t I sense it? Why didn’t he say something? Why could we not even speak to each other? “He’s really going,” Denise said coming up the companionway, tears in her eyes. “He’s pretty broken up, Skip—be kind with him, let him know you love him.” Denise cried openly. I did too.
“Tony’s in a hard place,” Denise continued. “He’s missing friends and afraid he won’t fit in again at home. He’s homesick, Skip, and frightened about your disapproval. You need to let him go, Skip, and now of all times, Tony needs your blessings.”
I made every effort to comfort my son as we shared our last meal aboard—one of my life’s most difficult moments. We walked together to the taxi that would take him to his flight, my arm around Tony’s shoulder. “I love you, Son. I always will.”
As if punishment, Endymion was anchored where we could see the lights of departing planes. I stood on the bow, my eyes flooded, watching Tony dissolve into the night.