CHAPTER 41
Moving around Suva during the coup was difficult. The depth of the disagreements between indigenous Fijians and a large Indian population was substantial. The coup had accentuated prejudice, the roots of which came from Fijian traditions. Indian people directed most of the economy, and it wasn’t sitting well with the Bulah crowd. The newspaper had been shuttered, movie houses and restaurants closed, even sporting events cancelled. People couldn’t go out at night. Aside from inconvenience, we were not seriously affected, and never once pulled aside for inspection, though frightened friends were.
Larry and his buddy Mike Mulholland arrived without mishap, stepping aboard one day after Tom’s departure. We paid Fiji Joe his one hundred dollars and sailed on to less inhabited islands. We kept a low profile, and were prepared to duck if we heard gunfire, feeling it best to be neither involved nor vocal.
Mike Mulholland was a character and born-again fisherman, with a mouth attached to a bragging line I’m confident reached God. Denise and I agreed to silence it by out fishing him, though Mike had a suitcase full of gear and a spiffy new telescoping pole he swore not to share with any person, any time, anywhere. His line was in the water, whether we were moving or still. We powered occasionally in waters where islands were close, often needing to throttle down to enable Mike to clear precious lures he repeatedly snagged in shallow water. We feigned sympathy.
Denise wrote home:
It’s hysterical Dad . . . Three grown men trying to catch the first fish—any fish. They have “secret lures,” special weapons and killer’s lures—but no fish! Wouldn’t it be funny if the little beginner’s pole you gave me were first to hook up? I hope so.
We anchored one night at Malolo Lai Lai, a wisp of an island. We were not more than one hundred feet from the Musket Cove Yacht Club. Correction—it’s really a bar. There were neither yachts nor club, but the people—humongous, towering Fijian men of stone and their equally massive wives made sure we had a whopping good time. Denise, assisted by a lovely native lady, six foot two, tenaciously struggled to free a monster fifteen-pound clam from the shallow bottom. Once beached, Denise’s new friend showed Denise how to cut the poison sack free. It was ugly. Stunk too. For the first time, using spices from America, Denise made savory clam chowder. We roared our approval. Mike, always up for a party, couldn’t find the boat that night and slept on the beach.
Colonel Rabuka, now presumptive dictator, proclaimed October 11th Independence Day. Humph! We heard the announcement while anchored in a bug-infested bay near Lautoka, Fiji’s western port of entry where twin-engine mosquitos hung out in heavy air. After securing Endymion we piled into the Avon to seek relief in town.
We lingered, even had ice cream cones we had to slam into our faces before they became puddles at our feet. Mike, dodging armed combat flies, bought a good size water buffalo steak in the open-air market. Larry, more parsimonious in nature, thrust forward enough coins for steak about the size of a watchband.
Back in the inflatable approaching Endymion I asked, “Which of you knuckle-heads left the swim ladder down? Denise—I thought you secured the ladder.”
“I did,” she said. “I always do—it’s my job.”
“Hey, look—the hatch is open.” Larry pointed to the large foredeck hatch. “Looks like we’ve been robbed.”
We slowed the Avon, coming up on the yacht from astern for the best view in case there were boarders—or someone trying to escape. Quietly Mike grabbed the swim step.
“Me first,” I said, climbing aboard, oar in hand. Mike followed.
“Got your six,” he said and Larry followed Mike. Denise manned the inflatable.
Everything on deck was secure except the hatch, a supposedly theft-proof French “Goiot” model, selected for its opening size to hurriedly stuff sails below, and for strength against dropped equipment or nasty weather.
“Larry—Mike,” I whispered, pointing the boat hook I held. “Be sure someone doesn’t try to get out the companionway or aft hatch. I’ll go below first. I’m faster and I’ve done this many times.”
Facing aft, I stealthily crouched over the hatch putting myself in my two-foot zone, and then suddenly thrust myself through it yelling “Oorah” as fiercely as possible.
My cry all but echoed. I was alone below decks. The threat was gone, but we had been robbed—just small things. Taking personal inventory, $300 cash from the chart table drawer had disappeared, yet Larry still had his wallet with cash in his forward berth. My stopwatch and coveted hand-bearing compass were gone, as was Denise’s small bag of antihistamine pills but not her cosmetics. Mike was not victimized.
We took to the radio, asking others in the anchorage, “Have you seen anyone aboard Endymion?”
No one had, but one yacht reported, “There was a small kid on an inner tube a while ago. He paddled around, knocking on hulls and greeting people. Probably asking for candy—something like that. We thought it was cute, but he didn’t come this way.”
“Can you describe him, and how long ago?” I asked
“Oh, half hour ago, maybe a little more. Indian kid. Looked to be about ten.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Bathing suit, blue as I recall. He had what looked like a small cooler tied to the tube.”
We’d heard enough. Denise remained aboard while Larry, Mike, and I went ashore to file a police report. Speaking with the police, we weren’t thinking coup, or that every cop was island-born Fijian and may have been prejudiced because of the coup. We know they never found the culprit and it’s likely good they didn’t. Mike put it this way, “The one thing you didn’t want to be today was a little Indian kid running down the street in a wet bathing suit, with an inner tube and a small bag that looked like candy.”