A Trip To Suva

By “Amel”

WHEN you live in the backblocks of sunny Fiji, and you suddenly de cide that you want to go to Suva, there is no time for humming and hawing and twiddling of thumbs. You grab the first boat that offers, and pray that the gods will be kind.

We grabbed the “Adi Maca”, which, as Fiji's first “casualty” of the present war, now lies at the bottom of the sea.

She was loading bananas 15 miles along the coast, and was scheduled to leave for Suva the following afternoon.

In frenzied haste, we packed our bags, and walked. A howling “southerly buster” blew us across the beach, through rivers and past villages, until we reached our destination—to find the “Adi Maca” sit ting placidly on top of a reef!

“She dragged her anchor in the wind last night”, explained the skipper, a wiry little Canadian with a humorous nose and vivid blue eyes. “But she’ll be O.K.

She’ll come off at high tide.”

And, sure enough, she did!

“The ‘Adi Maca’ often does that”, re marked a local planter cheerfully. “If there’s a reef to be hit, she hits it.”

“She does, does she?” said I, hollowly.

“How very thrilling. I suppose you know we’re going to Suva on her?”

“Yes—and I pity you!” was the stimu lating reply.

Regaled with harrowing tales of the “Adi Maca’s” previous misdeeds, we set sail for Suva the following evening. There were bananas in the hold, and on the deck, and the banana inspector sat on a pile of cases and gazed moodily at the rising waves.

Just before sunset, we downed a mug of tea, and a few biscuits, and I felt very superior to the banana inspector, who was looking pretty green about the gills!

Ten minutes later, we passed into the open sea, and the full force of the wind was upon us. Blue, white-capped hills foamed around us. and things began to happen.

The foresail was whisked away, never to be seen again. Cases of bananas started to slide. The “Adi Maca” hesi tated, as if taking a breath, then plunged. She stood on her nose, sat on her tail, twisted, rolled and tossed. The skipper came into the cabin to tap the barometer.

“I’d like to get these bananas to Suva, but it’s going to be a dirty night”, he /observed. “Would you like to be put ashore?”

“Not at all”, we averred, stoutly.

“Whither thou goest . .

So we went on, driving through the blackness of the screaming gale. There was not a star in the sky. Far away, low on the horizon, a tiny flash showed in termittently.

“Koro Light ’, said the skipper, briefly, and went to stir his crew to greater efforts.

A conglomeration of sounds filled the night. Sea-water gurgled around the cabin floor. The engine thudded feebly, and sometimes stopped, leaving us feel ing incredibly lonely. The banana inspec tor and I (!) provided a really melodious duet, and didn’t care if the boat sank with all hands.

The bleak dawn revealed scudding clouds and an angry sea. But, later, the sun shone, and even the unhappy land lubbers felt better.

All that day, the boat staggered on, drawing steadily nearer to Suva. At 6 p.m., we were in the calm waters of

Suva Harbour, and the skipper was tak ing time off to congratulate himself, when a sudden jolt, and a harsh, grating sound, made him swear forcibly. The good ship ft Adi Maca” had found an other reef!

After surveying the situation, the skipper returned.

“She’ll be O.K.’, he said, philosophic ally. “She’ll come off at high tide.”

And, sure enough . . . she did.

Mr. Archibald Quintal died recently at the home of his sister, Mrs. Nash Christian, on Norfolk Island.

Mr. James Johnson, of Moamoa, West ern Samoa, arrived in New Zealand re cently with his wife and family to make their permanent home in the Dominion.

He had been in Samoa for 25 years, hav ing originally gone to Apia with the New Zealand Relief Force in 1915.