Those Sunny South Sea

Isles

AWAKENED to the sound of summer rain.

By the time the “breakfast’s ready” call came, the summer storm had developed into an all-seasons storm, with lightning and thunder added, to flavour the mix ture.

Not a wonderful outlook for a day in which we had planned to explore a bay of about one hundred islands, adjacent to our isle. However, the proverbial silver lining appeared while the morning was yet young.

Started out with “Pal,” and a native, in the Rolls (Ford-made) for the wharf.

Boarding a small launch, we ran down a canal, through the entrance lagoon and across a mile of bay; and transhipped to a larger launch. Then the “day out” really started.

The engine did not like the weather, and, despite a fluent flow of language (mostly in Papuan, which, fortunately, I do not understand) from “Pal,” refused to start.

This gave the weather-cock time to take another turn. A black squall swept over us and spilled sufficient water to fill another bay. It either had lost its way or liked the scenery, and it stayed with us for hours.

During a lull we decided to make a dash for home. We arrived early in the afternoon, with “Pal” in an improvised raincoat of copra sacks —about their only use at present!—and my cape a little more elegant—the waterproof skylight cover, off the launch.

The bungalow is not such a bad place to spend a spare Saturday after all. —Estelle Hughes.