A Hurricane In Fiji

By E.M.F.

FOR almost a week a curious blue haze had shrouded the heavily wooded hills at the back of the coconut plantation. Now, an ever-increasing scud flew beneath sullen grey clouds.

Silhouetted against a darkening sky, high up, tails to the wind, were stormy petrels—hurricane birds, we called them —true precursors of inclement weather.

It was the hurricane season in the South Seas, and anything in the way of storms might happen.

Like the sound of an on-coming train, gales of wind roared down the gullies, rustling and swaying the heavy palm leaves in significant abandon. Then sudden deep calms, when all stood sombrely still again.

Daddy Peter predicted rain, lots of it, but surreptitiously tapped the barometer,

all the same. Old-timer Eroni, the native help, added knowingly: “Eh, and wind, too, lots of it”.

Mum, taking her cue from Dad, as always, went about the job in hand cheerfully, but took good care that Davita, the house boy, chopped enough wood to fill the cupboard near the kitchen stove, in case Eroni might be

right. “Jill”, she called to me, “see that all perishables are put away in dry places.”

We wanted rain, anyway. The creeks had long dried up, the water holes for the cattle were just muddy pools, the fresh water tanks were dangerously low.

Davita baulked at carrying water from a spring about a mile away, and yet, native-like, could not be persuaded to be careful of every precious drop near by.

But wind, in the tropics, and at this season, was another matter. The visits to the barometer became a serious busi ness.

We could hear the wind getting stronger and stronger, screaming and whistling its way amongst the rigid young palms at the back, before hurling itself against the more yielding and slender trunks of the older trees on the flat. Already, the outside of our white painted bungalow was being patterned by glossy green strips, torn from the writhing fronds.

One of the squalls caught Dad and Eroni, as they were tightening up the cable chains over the house and the dry ing sheds; and Aunt Bess, as she locked up her prize Australorp chicks in the strongest run near the creek, lest they be blown away.

Battling against the wind, they all ran for shelter.

An avenue of young coconut palms—before and after the hurricane.

The children, hair and skirts flying, raced Marica, the laughing native maid, to the house, excited that something un usual was going to happen. Breathless, they stood on the steps of the verandah, and watched with delight the museovies skim the tidal water as if in anticipation of that to come. Then, for their future enjoyment, the turkeys planed down from the hill-top, over the roof of the house, and made perfect landings on the smooth sand of the beach below, pranc ing round and round in pantomime, the wind catching their out-spread wings.

In the work-shop, old battens were routed out for placing against the doors and heavy shutters of the home, for Daddy had learned from past experience not to be caught napping. But Daddy couldn’t strengthen or protect the young plantation, now in full bearing. That must be left to its fate.

Gloomy old Eroni predicted the worst, as they both went to dismantle the wire less, which had by this time been definite in its warnings.

LATE afternoon, saw the gale gather ing in fury. From the lee of the house we watched as it went shout ing and screaming out to sea, like some evil thing let loose.

It skimmed the surface of the rising tide, carrying clouds of spray to mix with the giant combers of the reef, whitely grand in the surrounding murk.

It thrashed and tore at the swaying palm-tops, smashing the huge green fronds as if they were match sticks. It twisted leaves, fruit and limbs from the lemon and mango trees, flinging them far and wide, and uprooting many laden bread-fruit trees. Coconuts, both green and brown, scattered like bombs every where.

Aunt Bess’ chicken coops came rolling down the slope, together with the large

oil drum that she used for holding water, stove in the garden fence, and there lay, tangled and jammed in the netting that now hung limply over Mum’s precious tomato patch.

The house shuddered on its concrete piles. A piece of guttering flapped noisily somewhere outside the kitchen, sparks and ashes flew out of the fire place, spoiling our dinner, much to Aunt Bess’ annoyance.

THEN came the rain. Dense sheets of it, blotting out the landscape. It . hammered mercilessly on the gal vanised roof. Ordinary speech was im possible. We shouted, but heard nothing, saw only the grimaces of the rest, and the laughing faces of the children.

Large drops of water were tossed in everywhere. Trickles of it ran down the heat-shrunken shutters, and welled in underneath the doors. Hastily, we fetched old towels, anything that would serve to mop up the growing pools, then plugged the crevices with rags. These soon blew out, so we moved back the furniture, and the mats.

Dad placed a hurricane lantern near the barometer, with paper and pencil with which to record the readings. Like a living thing, the needle vibrated on its downward path. The children lay huddled in the mosquito room, together with the cat, dog and parrot. Mum spread a rug over the cage to keep “Cocky” quiet, so that perhaps they might sleep, and was repaid for her trouble by having great holes bitten out of it. Aunt Bess said: “I thought that would happen”.

Very soon, flying debris joined the rain in pelting the roof. Even louder, a rasp ing noise warned us that more of the guttering had screamed away into the darkness, out to sea. What if the iron roof should follow?

MUM pretended to read a book, but was really watching Dad. His face was set in hard lines. Seeing to this and that, he was not still a minute. Reading the barometer; writing; then back to the table, setting out his

patience cards; shuffling them over and over again, until we wanted to scream.

We knew he felt that fate was letting him down badly, a helpless pawn in the game of no chance. He had hoped for so much in connection with the plan tation. Overseas schools for the children.

Holidays for Mum and himself. Then his eyes met hers, smiling so bravely.

That settled it. Holding up the cards, he challenged us to a game of bridge, which we played mostly by signs and a lot of funny business, gesticulating and pointing until we were all laughing heartily—all except Aunt Bess, who shouted that it seemed to her like fiddling while Rome burned.

The night wore on, in thund’ring vigour. Once, close by, came a mighty vibrating thump. We looked at each other. The flagpole! Its proximity be came a matter of conjecture.

The clock showed it to be midnight, but bed was not to be thought of. How could we relax when doors and windows rattled, threatening to burst in at any moment? Besides, weren’t our very be ings battling with the storm, as were those helpless trees which meant so much to us outside.

Mum struck an optimistic note. “Any way, there will be no more stagnant pools, no more dreadful mosquitoes.

There will be fresh, clean water for everything”, she called above the din, snapping her fingers triumphantly.

JUST then, a sudden strange silence fell on the battered world outside. Only the heavy surge of the sea sounded in our listening ears. Daddy leapt to the barometer. It was stationary at last. The centre of the storm was pass ing overheard, he said, but the wind would soon return, in an opposite direction.

Getting the crowbar to work, he wrenched away the battens and opened one of the doors. We peered into the dripping density outside. Not a thing stirred. It was the weirdest calm we had ever known, and it closed in on us like a hot, steamy blanket.

Old Eroni dug himself out of the

kitchen, took the hurricane lantern, and went squelching about to see the worst, he said. Daddy, wise in the ways of hurricanes, called him back, quickly battening up the door again.

We had not long to wait. With re newed energy and unrelenting force, the wind again and again struck battering blows at the now more than ever ex posed house. It had been built to with stand such onslaughts, but would it?

That was in the minds of us all—except perhaps Daddy, who had great con fidence in the strength of his buildings.

Salt spray, now mixing with the rain, flooded the verandah. The glass began to rise, but still the havoc went on.

Terrific crashing noises testified to that.

We all sagged.

DAD, pottering about amongst the miscellaneous things that had been gathered on the verandah for safety, lit the primus and boiled the kettle.

“Conditions will improve from now on wards”, he said. “Come on, Jill, we’ll make some tea, and then we will all take a rest”.

Perched on boxes, we sipped our tea, and ate biscuits. He was a splendid tea maker, Mum told him, as she laid her weary limbs on her bed. Aunt Bess called out that her bed-clothes were damp, and what should she do about it?

At daybreak it was still raining, but the wind had decreased considerably.

As the light strengthened, disaster after disaster met our gaze. Boats smashed and almost buried in the wrack that the sea had brought in, confirmed Eroni’s worst fears. The home was the only building left standing. The plantation, only yesterday a forest of glossy waving palms, full of vigour and promise, had over-night been reduced to a mere collection of sad bare poles, feet deep in broken foliage. There were many

gaps in those cherished avenues and the clear-cut pathway of a whirlwind showed pathetically where everything had been carried before it.

The ruinous sight chilled our hearts, almost to a standstill, but after the first brave survey, action was Dad’s motto. • He set the children helping him, and the men to clearing away the debris from the lawn, piling it in heaps to await drying by the sun, which later would turn the whole scene into a steam ing cauldron. Hundreds of the older trees lay over broken fences like in ebriated tousled giants. These had to be sawn through and the fences mended sufficiently to keep the milking cows in.

There would be plenty of work getting the mob back, later. Work of re conditioning for weeks and weeks to come, and then what?

The creek came down a banker, over flowing into the calf paddock and the chicken runs. Aunt Bess sat discon solate over the dead bodies of her drowned chicks, and refused to be com forted.

“You’ve got your wish, Mother,” Dad called to Mum, who was helping to dry the house. “There’s plenty of water, in deed.”

There was. It lay in pools every where —in the destroyed native food gar dens, in the hollows of fallen trees, underneath the acres and acres of debris, too vast to remove; in fact, in every place imaginable.

Then came mosquitoes and flies, clouds of them, much to Mum’s dismay. We swatted, and smoked, and kerosened, but still they came, making our lives a misery, Mum swore that she would con quer them in the end. Aunt Bess com plained bitterly that it was all useless drudgery, they would never go.

The children, careless of the delay in acquiring superior education, continued with their correspondence classes, and play. Swimming in the tide, netting prawns in the creek, drinking from the fallen green nuts, they still found life full of wonders.

Mum and Dad almost convinced them selves that they had meant to wait for that holiday after all, and later found something really to rejoice over in the appearance of thousands of green spikes, which showed them that quite a good proportion of the palms were still alive, and in time would assuredly bear again.

Only Aunt Bess grumbled. She grumbled because she had to start and breed chickens all over again. Then she grumbled that she had no coops to put them in.