Rotuma

A Fish Drive In

By “Amel'’

THE sun beat down from a clear blue sky. It sought out the beautiful colours of the deeper water among the coral patches and covered them with a million sparkles. It shone on the light-green, swaying coconut palms and on the snowy whiteness of the beaches beneath them.

It shone on us, sitting in the dinghy, where we sizzled and stewed, and baked and boiled.

Although it was three hours from noon, the sun had a fierceness that hurt.

A gentle breeze skimmed across the water, and we breathed it gratefully. We envied the scores of Rotuman men and women, standing waist-deep in the sea, holding their nets. They, on the other hand, envied us, for most of them had been there since dawn, and were cramped and chilled.

Far in the distance, a long line of black blobs, stretching from the outside reef almost to the edge of the beach, came steadily closer. They had started on the falling tide to drive the fish into the trap so neatly prepared for them.

Two walls of coral, built like a triangle without a base, were manned by another crowd of Rotumans armed with nets, spears, sticks and knives. The apex of the triangle was extended into a race very thoroughly lined with more nets and manned by more natives, and this was where the fish would meet their doom.

The chief, Alepat Kaitu’u, sporting an elegant eye-shade of plaited coconut leaf, sat in our dinghy and anxiously watched proceedings. This was a trial drive, and he wanted it to be a success.

A boy sat in the bows, holding aloft a white flag on the end of a long pole This was a signal to the distant fisher folk to keep advancing, and when it was lowered, they were to stop until the fish entering the nets were emptied out.

After a while, they looked more like human beings, and we could hear them laughing, talking and slapping the water Half a dozen canoes darted in and out among them, like destroyers with a convoy.

At last, the beaters closed in to form the base of the triangle, and fish began to pour into the race. Alepat, whose expression said that he could bear the suspense no longer, plunged overboard and floundered to the mouth of the race to direct operations.

The excitement rose to fever heat.

Everyone talked, and nobody listened.

The flag boy, gazing entranced at the swarming fish, was indifferent to all else until someone poked him in the ribs.

Then the flag collapsed with a thud, and the beaters stopped, while hundreds of fish of various sizes and rainbow hues were tipped into the two dinghies, a punt and a canoe.

Escapees were deftly speared and added to the pile. Those hiding under rocks were gouged out.

Everywhere we looked, there were fish “going for their lives”. But, towards the close of the drive, everyone grew slightly blase about them, and could even watch one escaping without batting an eyelid.

Alepat Kaitu’u, minus his eye-shade, but beaming with pleasure, waded along the race, as the last sprat was shaken from the net. He clambered aboard the dinghy, which headed for the shore, thus ending an interesting morning—to which the Commissioner, aided by a pair of

sandshoes, supplied the finishing touch by giving us an inimitable exhibition of how to make a forced landing on a pile of slippery fish!