Fiji Portrait

The Man Behind the Eye

By Leigh Shaw

WE were bound for the Yasawa group, that serried band of giant stepping stones that sweep northward in a graceful curve, from west of Viti Levu to Fiji’s Great Barrier Reef. A fresh south-easterly breeze was working up to help us on our way and the sunlit water was good to gaze upon.

My pleasant reflections about going down to the sea in ships were broken by the skipper, who said, apropos of noth ing, “Talking of Nelson’s Blood, isn’t the sun over the yardarm?”

I glanced aloft in mock concern, mut tered a few appropriate words, and dived below for the rum bottle and glasses.

The skipper was at the wheel of his trading yawl, “Vonu,” bare feet well planted on the deck, his short, stocky, powerful figure revealed to advantage in

shorts and singlet. Under a bushy eye brow his one seeing eye sparkled with the promise of the appetiser to come, and a slight smile in harmony creased the jovial, rotund face that always conveyed, in format and stance, what I can only describe as an air of belligerent toler ance.

A close crop of strong grey hair crowned this interesting physiognomy and only the ruddy complexion and a dancing light in that one bright orb bore witness to the red-headed fire-eater of once-upon-a-time.

Self-made product of a hard school, this seasoned salt had acquired with the years a wisdom, judgment and under standing that was a pleasure to share.

With it all, he retained a fresh and inde pendent outlook and vigour that made the man a great companion.

Skipper, I say to myself, you’re a good stand-in for the man on the Bovril bottle; and that cheery, receptive, bull dog air of yours is a great antidote to that sinking feeling. I raise my glass to the all-seeing eye. “Here’s looking your way, skipper.”