Wooing The "Maidens Of The Deep"

A Tongan Missionary Goes Shark Fishing

VI JHEN Rev. Father Boussit, curate at the Catholic Mission, Haapai, Tonga , went on a shark fishing expedition rec ently in the Mission yacht “ Fetuu Moana”, he met with such success that he elatedly wrote of his adventures to his former class-mates at La Seyne-sur mer, in France. His charming little story, adapted from the French tty Rev.

Father E. Tremblay, is printed below.

OINCE my arrival in Tonga I had heard so many fantastic tales about shark fishing that I was longing to have a chance to sample the sport myself. The opportunity came sooner than I had hoped for.

There was hard work being done on our Mission compound, but owing to hard times there was a scarcity of tinned beef.

The work lagged, and sometimes the men did not even show up. Then the pastor got a brain-wave: why not let the Fetuu Moana (Star of the Deep) go out to catch some shark meat?

Came Sunday afternoon, and with a number of shark “experts”—for shark fishing is a “fine art” handed down from father to son—l boarded our home-built

schooner. What paraphernalia greeted us! Empty kerosene tins, sticks and clubs (drums and drum-sticks), and.sets of fago fago (half-coconut shells strung on a green stick the ends of which are bent back in the shape of a horseshoe and tied together). The latter is a sort of rattle for underwater use and is sup posed to call the sharks. Then, of course, there were conch shells of various sizes, with a small hole drilled in the narrow end. When they are blown by strong natives these miniature fog horns pro duce an unearthly base note that can be heard for several miles.

We recited our three Hail Marys, sang a few* verses of the Ave Maris Stella . . .* and then we were off. If this shark fishing business has anything to do with devils —and there are many Tongans who think so — surely these prayers scared them off!

What a beautiful sea! What sweet, pure air! How good it felt to enjoy the cool of the eventide after the terrific heat of day. After the Angelus, the chief shark “expert” informed me that I alone might take some refreshment; for woe betide the expedition should anyone else dare to eat “on the sly”—no shark would come near the ship.

Soon we were far out en the deep. The shining frills of the white-fringed reefs had long since been left behind. Most of the natives were asleep, save the two “experts.” They simply could not keep quiet.

Suddenly one of them began to yell at the top of his voice, “broadcasting” as it were to the sharks. “Beautiful girls of the briny deep,” he cried, “come from your nice villages; come over with some of your friends. Come over and see our new boat, a boat with an engine in it.

Come over and let us see your beautiful

The Mission yacht “Fetuu Moana”, which took Rev. Boussit and a party of Tongans on the shark-fishing expedition described in the accompanying article.

eyes; come on board and we will give you a great feast. Come and let us put this sweet-scented necklace (a lasso) round your neck . .

But in spite of all these tender and alluring words not a single shark ap peared. None came near even after the pandemonium of tin-cans, fago fago rattles, conch shell blasts, screams, and war-whoops let loose on the stroke of midnight.

Then from sheer weariness everyone dropped to rest. Silence reigned. It was dead calm on the dark deep—l could hear only the gentle lapping of the wavelets on the prow of the ship. Some of the Tongans were gazing intently into the water, but all they could see was like a sprinkling of phosphorescent stars bobbing up and down like liquid fire-flies.

This is a common sight in the South Seas at night.

How fine it felt to lie in the cool on one’s back and “star-dream.” Orion was sinking slowly westward. Away out to wards the east, the Scorpion began to creep across the heavens. Southwards, very high up, face to face with the Hun ter, shone the Southern Cross. What a splendid night!

I tried to sleep, but rest was soon dis turbed by a second frantic “broadcast” of clanging noises making a thundering racket. And yet still not a single shark was wooed.

A faint tinge of dawn heralded the coming of a new day. Night, the best time to catch sharks, would soon be over.

My Tongan friends seemed pathetically down-hearted as they began to think that our first shark expedition with the Fetuu Moana would prove a “washout”.

At dawn I said Mass down below —a Mass offered up for all our Marist Mis sionaries who have been lost at sea. It was deeply impressive, this first Mass ever to have been said on board the little schooner on the vast ocean. I added a wee prayer for those fishermen who had caught nothing . . .

Then, during breakfast, a joyful shout brought me scampering on deck. “ Malie!

MalieT (Fine! Fine!), I heard them cry

ing. At last a shark had stirred and was swimming slowly around the ship, A lon le the en(l of which wa3 baited with a chunk o£ pork, was held

Another photograph of the “Fetuu Moana”, taken in 1933 just after she had been built at the Catholic Mission Station, Haapai, by natives under the supervision of Rev. Father E. Tremblay.

out over the water. All the beautiful Tongan love-language was soulfully re cited over and over again. But no; the monster was in no hurry. Tired of wait ing, I went below to resume breakfast.

Up on deck again, I saw this time that the shark was much nearer. Sud denly it spied the tempting meat, and its wicked little eyes sparkled with drunken hunger. It seemed hypnotised. Then,

forgetful of all danger, it wheeled quickly, darted forward, and turned over, opening a trap-like mouth with gleaming rows of sharp, terrible teeth. As the pole was drawn closer and closer to the ship, so higher and higher out of the water rose the shark, until it was right along side the ship, half out of the sea in a grasping effort to tear off the bait.

The psychological moment had come.

Gently the lasso was slipped around its head behind the gills. A swift strong jerk and the monster was pinned along the gunwale. A pair of muscular arms swung high a club to dash its brain out, and soon it had ceased to struggle and squirm.

Wildly delighted, the natives hauled the huge fish on board, all the while insulting it with all the bad names they could think of. Then, in its honour, a little “tune” of conch shells, tin-can music, drums, and water-rattles was played. Everyone was happy now—the Mass had not brought bad luck, as some had secretly though it would, but per haps sharks after all are only mere fish and not devils.

We sailed a little further on. Soon three more 7ft. sharks were caught in the same manner, and honoured with the same “tunes.” We sailed still further and another was lured aboard. The sixth one to appear was a veteran mon ster. In vain the Tongans tried all the tricks of the game; but the shark was too wise. It declined to come too near, although it succeeded in making off with a large junk of pork. So we gave it up and decided to sail home.

We were but a few miles from the shore when again the natives began a deafening “broadcast” of conch music.

Our expedition had been a success, so tell the world! Excited, they agreed to give the Governor and a big chief a shark each, in accordance with Tongan custom. Then, with smiles on every face, we arrived at the Mission compound, as the conch shell blasts grew stronger and stronger and wilder and wilder.

As we sampled a huge bowl of cooling kava, the whole story of the trip was related with much laughter and gesture.

Next day the entire Catholic popula tion —and other denominations as well- — came to work at the Mission. It was a terrifically hot morning, but they worked tirelessly and unceasingly. What a dif ference to the previous week! There was strength in every pair of arms, and joy ful peals of song and laughter from every throat, as the work of levelling the com pound proceeded.

Why did they work with such gusto?

Why were they singing and happv?

Why? Because, over there, across the way, beneath a smouldering mound, the Tongan “fireless cooker” was baking brown and crisp hundreds of pounds of shark and native vegetables. The very thought of the sumptuous feast to follow was enough to make anybody work with a will!