Yachting In Fiji

By Amel

rE “Valeda”, eighteen feet of crim son and white, tugged impatiently at her anchor. She was a vivid splotch of colour against the grey background of a wet, south-easterly gale.

It was hardly the sort of day for pleasant sailing; but Vic, the owner skipper, and five others of the gang, were urging us to hurry. They wanted to feel the wind in the sails.

Shorty, a tough little Australian with a philosophical outlook on life, admin istered the coup-de-grace—we were play ing billiards —and, grabbing a tin of chocolate fudge and a hefty fishing line, we ran across the beach to where the “Valeda” rode the foam-capped breakers.

“Bit rough, isn’t it?” remarked Shorty, waist-deep in the briny.

The skipper noticed the doubtful glance that I threw at the 30 ft, mast.

“Fear not,” he said, “It seems dreadfully tall,” I com mented, scrambling into the cockpit. He informed me that, although “Valeda” had capsized twice in Suva Harbour (cheering thought!) she had never mis behaved under his magic touch!

“Let’s go!” he bellowed. Swinging the tiller over, he headed for Dogo Dogo Island, while we hung out from the gunwale, revelling in the thrilling burst of speed, the hissing wave at the bow and the creamy water astern.

In the cramped cabin space, Shorty divided his time between tying un nautical knots in the centre-board ropes and chasing the tin of fudge, which displayed a persistent fondness for the scuppers.

“Reef ahead!” came the cry. “Valeda” answered her helm, and came about as neatly as a pirouetting dancer.

“We’ll take a leg out to the sand bank,” decreed Vic, “And then home.”

“Leg?” I pondered. “Whose?”

John slithered across the cabin roof to see what had happened to Shorty, “What the goodness gracious are you doing, Commodore?” he asked.

“Go away, will you,” said Shorty, with suppressed violence. “I’m untang ling this ruddy fishing line.”

The sand-bank was only three hun dred yards away, and the wind had increased to a steady roar. Mindful of the low tide and lurking reefs, Vic decided to tack again.

“Valeda” came about once more, but not so neatly this time. She trembled on the tip of a big wave. A fierce gust of wind caught the mainsail, and, in two shakes of a dog’s tail, “Valeda” had capsized!

There was no outcry. Only a big splash . . . and a swirl. Five seconds later, seven bewildered white faces dotted the rough sea. Seven? Where was the eighth, Shorty, who couldn’t swim a yard? Frantically, we sought him.

A threshing form broke the surface beside me. We seized him. It was our missing ship-mate.

“Ouch!” puffed Shorty, coughing up a pint of Pacific Ocean. “What happened?

Where am I?”

“You’re in the sea,” said the Dane, gloomily. “The boat has sunk, and we’re two miles from shore. So what?”

We dared not attempt to swim to the sand-bank, for fear of hungry sharks.

We trod water, and shuddered, and waited, hoping that the “Valeda” would rise again. I could see a white speck among the coconut palms on shore.

Anyway, I consoled myself, I shan’t mind dying within sight of home. But

it looked very dear, nevertheless, and the sea looked blue and very deep.

“My boat can’t sink!” Vic exclaimed, in desperation. “She must come up!”

As if in answer to his call, the “Vale da’s” crimson hull rose eerily from the sea! A cheer went up, and we swam across to the upturned boat. After hoisting Shorty onto the keel, where he enjoyed comparative comfort, the rest of us found hand-holds.

Then began the coldest ninety min utes I have ever experienced. Who said that tropic waters were warm?

Meanwhile, there was activity on shore. By a stroke of luck, the mishap had been witnessed. A willing neigh bour took four of his Fijian “boys” away from their morning church ser vice, and ran two miles to the beach, where he found the tide out and his punt high and dry!

On the upturned “Valeda”, the wind and waves lashed us. We kicked to keep

warm. Shorty, more exposed to the elements, was numb from the waist down. Once he toppled over and slip ped beneath the waves. We hauled him back again.

“Take my false teeth,” he chattered, “or I’ll lose ’em.”

We seemed to have been drifting for hours, when suddenly Peter yelled, “Somebody’s coming!”

It was the planter from next door.

His muscular Fijians rowed strenuously, and as they approached we greeted them with a barrage of rather sheepish grins.

One by one, they dragged us —purpleskinned, shivering bits of humanity—into the boat, and headed for land. There were thirteen passengers. But we were too happy to feel superstitious!

Mr. R. Bentley, of the U.S.S. Co., re turned to Suva late in July after leave spent abroad.