CHAPTER 39
As the Tonga shoreline disappeared in the misty morning light, my sense of safety grew, as did the warmth I felt for both Denise and Tom.
Denise popped up the companionway. “Hey guys. Looks like life’s not so bad after all. Pot of coffee here—any takers?”
Light wind, smooth seas, and a steady ride. It was glorious, gratifying sailing for the next 380 nautical miles, when on a densely dark night we entered the reef-infested waters of Fiji’s Lau Group. We hove to until daylight.
I’d worried about navigating in Fiji because the available charts were last surveyed nearly one hundred years ago. Numerous new reefs had developed, either by oceanic action or natural reef growth. We had seen several wrecks. I didn’t want to add Endymion to the list.
Well away from Fiji we checked by radio, as a coup was reported to be preeminent. Hearing the islands were quiet though tense, we decided to push on to Suva, another day’s sail distant. By mid-afternoon clouds veiled the sun, wind was rising and seas building. It was another punishing night for our short-handed crew, who I believe rose to the occasion, though Denise confided, “Sometimes I’m so tired I could cry.”
It was my habit at first light to walk the decks checking equipment and rigging. In turbulent conditions I sometimes crawled, but I believed in the ritual and performed it diligently. That morning I was astonished. Our stainless steel bow pulpit, through bolted to the deck, had been ripped from the deck by some powerful force, and bent nearly fifty degrees. Endymion’s solid teak toe rail was in splinters. “What the hell!”
The night before had been rough, lifting and plunging us into the next rolling wave as we fought our way to windward, the wind howling like a banshee. But not to have felt or heard anything was odd. We may never know what twisted the bow pulpit, but this is what we collectively decided must have occurred:
Amongst the ocean’s dangers, or treasures depending on one’s viewpoint, there are many partially submerged floating containers, dislodged from cargo ships by storm or carelessness. Most eventually sink. We suspect a container, with a corner slowly rising on a wave, connected like the pointed end of an arrow, with Endymion’s bow, as we came off a wave. The impact had been quick and powerful—but—had it been a millisecond later it could have put a hole in us, and sunk us. Had God given us a warning, or had he been our co-pilot too?
We had to lay over in Suva, political unrest or not. We entered the principal harbor of the 320-plus islands of Fiji about 1500, Friday, September 25th. Before Tom could fetch the dreaded Q flag, a fast-approaching small naval vessel with a man behind a fifty-caliber cannon, hailed us to come alongside. We co-operated.
Smartly uniformed, polite seamen came aboard wanting our papers. These men were handsome giants with broad shoulders, square jaws, and expansive smiles, but they asked serious questions about our intentions in Fiji, and they had a bundle of forms for me to complete. Denise reminded me, “We are in their country . . . show respect,” adding in a whisper, “I don’t like their boots on my teak decks!”
One of them overheard Denise and lifted his rifle high across his chest. His smile faded and he used menacing sign language with piercing direct eye contact as he advanced—backing Denise to the companionway where she stood fast. I watched protectively, secretly smiling. I admired her expression ‘my teak decks.’ It demonstrated pride. Once satisfied, the naval skipper ordered his charges to ‘stand down’ and explained all waterways were under military control. We were to anchor at The Royal Suva Yacht Club. We were not allowed anywhere else.
“Sounds good to me,” said a bright-eyed Tom. “Tell me Sir,” I asked, “why such restrictions?”
The official glanced at his watch and said with pride, “A transition of the government is happening as we speak. Colonel Rabuka (then third in command of Fijian forces) has peacefully assumed power to return our government to ethnic Fijians—but you needn’t worry, the Colonel assures safety to all foreign visitors. Bulah, Bulah (Fijian expression of greeting or leaving).” He saluted, boarded his ominous patrol boat and quickly sped off.
“In other words,” Tom exclaimed, “a bloodless coup.”
We were drop dead exhausted when finally, late in the day, our pick settled on the muddy floor of the crowded Royal Suva Yacht Club anchorage.
“I’m whipped,” commented Denise, “and looking at your tired eyes, Skip, I would say you are too.”
We all were. The mental strain of the gunboat encounter and tap dancing with Tonga’s thieving authorities had gravely frayed some nerves.
Tom, who would be leaving us to pursue his writing, said, “I have an idea—let’s party!”
“Tom, excellent idea. Let’s do it—but let’s be cautious about going ashore permanently, right now. It seems a tense place, and you’re sincerely welcome to stay aboard.”
Typically optimistic, Tom semi-seriously said, “What could be better than partying over twenty-five-cent beers during a developing coup? I won’t find better subject material!”
So we fired up the Avon. Destination: stress-releasing bargain-priced booze at the Royal Suva Yacht Club, a melting pot for Pacific voyagers. The club bar was packed, but with little “bulah“ in the conversations’ hushed tones, centered on politics and impending doom. We listened. There was trouble afoot in Fiji.
Our customs clearance was by appointment the following afternoon. First I had to find people capable of working with stainless steel to repair the bow pulpit. Joe, a short, wiry Fijian with a sharp eye, skilled hands, and an arsenal of tools was the first and only person we needed to connect with. By himself, in two days, he removed, straightened, and refitted the bow pulpit—and replaced the toe rail with such perfection an inspector general could not find flaw. We called him “Fiji Joe.” He charged a whopping one hundred dollars . . . and earned this chapter in his honor.