Fiji

A Picnic in "Sunny"

By Mrs. Doris Bish, Suva

IT was a glorious morning—just the kind of morning to start out for that picnic we had promised our selves. the children and I.

Big Son, not quite 14, had received a 10-feet punt as a Xmas present; and ever since had issued several invitations to come for a picnic in it.. “She’s a beaut, mum,” he said, with the proud gleam of ownership in his eye.

So this seemed the morning to set out.

“Are you sure it will hold us all?” I asked, surveying the gay little craft.

“Of course it will. But if you are windy, you can walk to the Quarry and I will pick you up there and pull you across.” We decided we were “windy”.

We had planned to picnic at Mosquito Island. (Well-named, until the authori ties realised that by clearing it of scrub they also would clear it of mosquitoes.) So Big Son took the two girls, and the picnic paraphernalia, direct to the island, and the two boys and I walked.

Big Son rowed us to the island, which takes about 10 minutes. The two girls, already deposited there, were thigh-deep in water, yelling, “We can’t stay here.

There’s millions of mossies!”

And how those mossies turned out to welcome us in droves. Smack, smack, smack!

“Quickly, children, come aboard, and we’ll go to that other island. It looks about a quarter of a mile off.”

They piled in. “Hurry, captain—steer a course for Cave Island!” Smack, smack, smack! Ugh, the brutes!

“I’ve killed thousands and thousands, mummy,” says Littlest One.

“Hurry, captain—pull faster!” Smack, smack, smack!

Our captain responds nobly, and at last we are out of the danger-zone. We realised that the scrub had grown up again, and Mosquito Island once more lived up to its name.

Mosquitoes are soon forgotten in new pleasures—bathing, fishing, and exploring Cave Island.

Then it is 4 o’clock, and it is no longer a beautiful day. The wind starts to blow furiously, and dark clouds are scud ding across the sky.

“Quick, children—we must hurry. The storm will be here very soon,”

They are reluctant to leave—but accept the dictum that “Mother knows best”.

AND now begins a very stiff pull. The wind is blowing furiously, trying to drive us back to the island. Then the storm breaks in all its fury.

Big Son is straining hard at the oars, and there is scarcely any free-board, and we are packed like sardines in the 10-feet punt. The sea is very choppy—within a few moments we are all wet to the skin.

Littlest One is frightened. “Hold me tight, mummy.” She hides her head in my lap.

Our captain asks us to sit very still, as it makes it harder for him if we wiggle.

We try not to —as we’ve already tried it, and shipped a bit of water.

I look at their faces and realise they are more than anxious. I feel sorry for Big Son, who is working so hard at the oars, and making so little headway.

“Shall I take the oars?” I inquire.

“No, mum; please don’t try to change places. I’ll get you home.”

I admire his pluck, for every few min utes he has to stop—his hands are numb.

“Come, children, let us sing—it's lovely singing in the rain,” and soon we are singing a little chorus over and over again.

Before we realise it, we are half-way home, and the waves are not so choppy.

Not far away a huge Ogo leaps high out of the water. We yell: “Keep your dis tance, big boy—no room for another pas senger in this boat.”

After passing the harbour entrance, we find the water is quite calm, so we turn the 10-footer’s nose towards the beach and let the breakers do the work. Big Son at last can rest from his labours.

What a thrill as each breaker takes us further in, until we can get out and push her right up in front of a friend’s beach cottage.

Like Brown’s cows, we straggle home

along the highway—a European woman, minus her shoes and stockings, and as wet as a shag, and five children in like manner. I thought some passing motor ists looked surprised.

A hot bath and hot cocoa made all well with the world; and I smiled as I heard: — “A beaut picnic!”

“I’ll say!”

“Were you scared?”

“No! Gosh! I wish we were going for another one to-morrow.”

Oh, dear! I suppose I really ought to try to curb this Austral-American diction.

Lieutenant Cliff Warren, of Taveuni, Fiji, is serving in the Middle East with the New Zealand Forces.