Trade Wind
p. 46 · Read in the full issue
How the Life-Giving South-Easter Is Born
By F. S. Whitcombe, Of Levuka
I WONDER how many South Sea Islanders have seen, and noted, the real birth of the Trade Wind? I have, and it was so wonderful and grand, that I will never forget it.
When you are coming from New Zealand, you usually run into the Trades to the northward of Sunday Island, at the end of April, or in May.
Here in Levuka, the Trade Wind usually starts with squalls from the south or south-east, gradually steadying down to an eight-day moderate gale, until the full, or change, of the moon. Then it blows lightly from east or east by north, then south-east again; and so on, until November, when the hurricane season starts with northerlies and westerlies, and rain.
In 1943, we in Levuka had been having beastly, muggy, squally weather from the north and north-east, from the end of March until late April. A Liberty ship was at the wharf, loading copra, and I was on duty that night as Boarding Offi cer, from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m—a twelve hours’ shift. At mid-day, the weather suddenly changed—no wind, not a cloud in the sky, and cooler. At 7 p.m., when I went on duty, the sea and sky resembled dark, stainless steel, and the stars were like diamonds—not a blink in them—every thing was at peace. The oily smoke from the steamer’s funnel went straight up. A real Paddy’s hurricane.
At 7.30 the variegated crew of the ship came ashore on the sailor’s usual search for diversion.
Then, until 11.30, with the exception
of a few “Fijian canaries” (2 in. cock roaches) flying around, and fish plopping in the still water, all was quiet.
At about 3 a.m., the two armed police on duty with me noticed that all the stars had started blinking violently, and were yellower—planets and all; and at 3.30 I noticed a huge band of broken clouds slowly rising in the south-east. By 4.30 a.m. the clouds had risen half-way to the zenith.
At about 5.30, the Morning Star rose in all its glory. Then, a little while later, dawn started to stream into the eastern sky. With the coming of dawn, every thing changed. The clouds now extended from east to west —clouds of all shapes— all slowly sailing towards the north-west.
Just before the sun showed up, the colouring was wonderful. From a blood to light salmon pink, on top, pearl-grey to smoky black—changing every minute, while the sun climbed up above the hori zon. Then every cloud changed from gold to fleecy white; rolling along like a huge river of ice towards the north-west.
Where we were, on the wharf, every thing was still, calm and quiet. Not a breath of wind, till 6.30 a.m., when we saw a dark line on the sea to the south east, slowly approaching us. It came nearer and nearer, till we could hear the ripple and murmuring on the water. Then all the minahs and pigeons feeding on the wharf flew up into the air, the minahs chattering and playing around as if to welcome the coming breeze and, when the lovely, cool wind reached us, settling down again to continue feeding.
Two cutters were anchored on the lee side of the wharf. Their mainsails had been up since daylight. Directly the breeze hit them, their sails began slatting.
The skipper called up the crew, who started heaving their anchors up; and, within 15 minutes, they were off, dancing over the ripples—one cutter for Lau, one
for Vanua Levu —away on the wings of the just-born South-East Trade Wind.
When the Collector of Customs arrived to relieve me, I said, “This is the real start of the Trades.” He laughed, but I was right. With the exception of variable winds for a few days at the full and new moon, that blessed wind lasted till the following November.