Tough Voyaging In

South Seas

By “Borneo”

sailed out of Papeete, Tahiti, on a schooner of 60 tons, manned and owned by South Sea Islands natives. No engine; just sails, and fairly well patched at that.

Passengers, 7 Chinamen traders in the Austral Group, 29 native men and women, 10 of a crew, one white man (myself) 47 all told. No food provided—everyone looks after himself. Cooking out of the question. On top of all else, no accom modation —only four bunks on this schooner, in the cabin, about 14 x 10 in size.

We were well away from the gay city of Papeete when it started to blow, and

very soon we had a bit of a choppy sea.

Night was coming on, and we had nowhere to lie down. There was one small lamp.

The Chinamen were all sick in basins, with which they always provide them-* selves for these trips. They are poor sailors.

I had bought the first mate’s bunk from him “on the side,” besides paying for my passage, but I had no chance to get into it. Three women tucked themselves into it, and there was no hope for me. I tried every known move to turn them out. No good! Seasick women are the very devil incarnate!

The gale came on in earnest. Bare poles; and for three days and nights there was no let up. Most of the natives by now were well flattened out. For myself, I jumped into the captain’s bunk and made things alright with him. Money has power, even on a schooner in a storm.

A Memorable Odour

There were no sanitary arrangements on this packet, and the cabin had no door —only a hatch —and we were in a bad way for air. When it was raining and blowing there was no chance of opening the hatch to get a breath of the breeze.

The stench of the natives and the sick ness of the Chinamen is something I shall never forget—though I am a battler of the first water, 60 years old to-day and been through two wars, the Boer War and the World War. I ought to have a nose exempt from everything. But the memory of that particular stink will stay with me till I go to the Happy Land.

At last, after battling along for 18 days, we sighted an island. Then, just to spite us seemingly, Fate sent a dead calm. The water on board, one small tank, was going down. Natives never look ahead.

Six days we were becalmed, with no chance of making land. There was not a breath of wind, and our water supply was down, to an inch in the bottom.

When we were 17 or 18 miles away ne cessity drove us to action. Out at last went the boat, and nine natives pulled for the shore. Next day we were taken in tow by a handy launch. Most of us were right glad to have a swim, whilst all were ready for a meal.

I would like to see that journalist from New York who, with his wife, wanted to take a passage with us in that schooner.

He would have had something to tell his friends about for all time to come.

I persuaded them not to go—there was no accommodation for ladies. They said they wanted the experience! They can thank their stars they missed —it would likely have been the end of the lady.

The End Of Romance

LOTS of people are for ever hankering to reach the South Seas and sleep under a coconut tree. All moonshine!

There’s no real comfort anywhere in the South Seas. You get sunshine and fresh air, true enough. But, without money, you get little else.

It takes money, and plenty of it, to get comfort and easy voyaging amongst these groups. If you are well-hipped, the natives look after you fine —so long as you “shell out” steady and plentifully.

I know what I am talking about. I have had 24 years’ experience of South Sea Islands life, on and off.

There must be an “off,” or a man goes to pieces. I always manage to make my home town in New Zealand every 18 to 24 months, staying pat till, in about the same length of time, I get the wanderlust again.

I’m just like hundreds of others. When living on an island hereabouts I hunger for the comforts of New Zealand; and.

when I’m in New Zealand, I hunger for the Islands life. Man is never satisfied, always wanting something he hasn’t got.

Life On An Atoll

ONE misses a lot living on a really iso lated island, such as some of the Tua motu Atolls. No meat, no sugar, no flour, no smoking, no light; go to bed at dark, up at daylight: no butter, no milk, no cinema.

To make up, there are plenty of mos quitoes, fleas and flies, with abundance of fish if you have lines, hooks and a boat or canoes. One lives principally on taro and fish.

It’s no good “loading up.” Time and again I have provided myself with every known solid kind of foods. It was useless —too many friends! You have got to go native to live on many islands.

A passing visitor knows nothing of this.

But a resident finds himself soon eaten out of house and home. You must live as the natives do. It is pretty rough fare at times, and you may often go hungry.

Hunger has its blessed side; you enjoy a meal when it comes. Most folk have never gone hungry in their lives, eating to a timetable. There is no timetable with us. Eat when you have the food, and expect abundance only at certain sea sons of the year. A day without a bite, from sunrise to sunset, has been my lot scores of times. Nuts are not everywhere.

Tough voyaging includes land life as well as sea. You can land a carload of foodstuff on an island. That is easy; but to retain it for its appointed period is impossible. You’ve got to share out and share out liberally. As a rule, on small, lone islands, it is community life: their code is share and share alike—the devil nipping the hindmost —who is inevitably the white man.