Gentle Joseph and the Shark

By William S. Bond

ILIKE Joseph; he is one of the finest Polynesians I have met. A giant in stature, handsome of features, truly the “bronze god in a scarlet loin-cloth” type not that one often gets a chance to see Joseph in a scarlet loin-cloth, for he is usually dressed in spotless whites.

A native of Aitutaki, Joseph spent the earlier part of his life roaming the Pacific as a sailor. And he still loves the sea and ships and is never happier than when handling a sailing-canoe or trailing a fish-line.

He does not get much time for sailing or fishing these days, however. He is a very busy man in his capacity of chief native pastor of his church; but he does get an opportunity to go to sea now and then, for he is also travelling superin tendent of the missions of his church on the out-lying atolls.

It was my good fortune to sail two thousand miles among the atolls on the trading schooner “Tiare Taporo,” with Joseph as a travelling companion. He makes a perfect companion for such a trip, wise as he is in the ways of the sea and islands and with his willingness to help and to teach.

SEA-TIME aboard the schooner passes pleasantly enough chatting, read ing, dozing, day-dreaming and there is always Captain Andy Thomson with his endless fund of reminiscences.

Like a cheerful, gold-toothed buddha with an American accent, Captain Andy sits cross-legged on the settee in the saloon or upon the old ice-chest under the stern rail, patting and rubbing his massive, hairy chest with one thick hand in an affectionate manner, while mischief twinkles through his eyes.

A favourite game of our captain is to start an argument on any topic under the sun. adding fuel to the fire until it assumes the proportion of a conflagration.

Then he quietly slips away to his bunk with a book, leaving the gang to argue their heads off.

One night the argument turned inevit

ably to religion. A pitch was reached where everyone was yelling at once, and nobody was listening. Through it all Pastor Joseph lay on a settee quietly reading a theological volume, never once speaking or even turning his head.

When I went on deck early next morn ing and joined Joseph at the rail, watch ing the glory of the sun-rise, he turned to me with his quiet smile and said, “My word! Wasn’t that a terrific argument last night? And not one of them knew what he was talking about!”

AREAL pleasure was to watch Joseph’s mighty arms as he overhauled a fishline against the struggles of a great fighting fish. Whenever we neared a reef, in making our landfalls or depar tures, Joseph would be the first at the rail to trail a flickering spoon in the schooner’s wake.

Highlight of the cruise was trolling down the western reefs of Suwarrow Atoll at sunset. What fishing!

The first strike was made by our cabin boy another keen fisherman. It was evident that he had hooked something big, and he looked to be in a precarious position, standing on the ice-chest flush with the stern rail. I grabbed the back of his shorts and braced my feet against the chest, praying that the safety pins would hold. We staggered back as the strain suddenly eased and, overhauling the line we discovered that we had only the headl of what had been a large tuna.

So that was it! We had been trying to pull in a big tuna and a shark big enoueh to swallow the tuna! Sure enough, when we looked, there were two black, triangular fins cutting the water a hundred yards astern.

Captain Andy yelled for his son Tony to bring his rifle. Tony had only just joined us at the rail when Joseph made a strike and started to haul in his line as fast as he could.

But it was not fast enough. The line suddenly slackened and. again, there was only a head dancing along on the sur

face. He let the head trail until it was close in to the stem, when we could see two big sharks following it closely.

We cheered as Tony let fly two quick shots and both sharks stopped dead in their tracks, rolled over and fell away astern.

There followed a most exciting hour’s fishing as we fought the sharks for the prizes. There was no time for fancy playing; it was a matter of sheer strength and fast hauling, while Tony fought off the sharks with his rifle. Some fish broke away, and the sharks had many victories. We actually landed the whole, or parts, of thirteen big fish. Only half a-dozen were complete.

Later, as we walked for miles over Suw arrow reef at low tide, and) everywhere came unon the rusting remnants of shins’ ironwork, we shuddered to think of the fate of any hapless mariner who found himself in the water outside those reefs.

SUWARROW is a fisherman’s paradise, a dream come true. We made the fullest possible use of our few davs’ stav here, and fished manv wavs bv day and by night. Even so, we could have made no imnression upon the hordes of fish of all kinds and sizes which teem in the lagoon over the reefs and in the adiacent ocean.

The first night we had to go “rama rama.” or torch-fishing. The whole crowd, ship’s crew and passengers, set out just after dark with torches made from dry coconut fronds, and with any wea nons that came to hand an axe old hammers, bush-knives, stakes and clubs.

At any time torch-fishing is an exciting snort, but on Suwarrow’s reef shallows it is an unforgettable adventure.

Illumined by the ruddy glare of the torches, fish were darting and leaping in all directions as we snlashed around yelling like fiends and swiping to left and to right. There were sharper yelns as scattering sparks from the flares singed hair or eyebrows or settled on bare skin, and occasional outbursts of sailorly re buke when some unfortunate individual stopned a wild swipe on his shin. Falling down holes was all in the fun.

Silver mullet dodged about near the surface, frequently colliding with our legs.

Nearer the bottom were swarms of the red “ku” and zebra-striped “manini,” but we ignored the smaller fellows in our eager pursuit of the mullet and big, green parrot-fish which were in every hole and runnel. The ever-present blue-and-silver, dart-like “miro” were leaping and pat tering all around. Now and then we came upon crayfish, betrayed by the ruby gleam of their eyes. They were imprisoned by a foot and picked up by hand.

The racket we were making disturbed the “wide-awake” terns which, together with man-o’-war hawks and bo’sun birds breed in their thousands on Suwarrow.

They wheeled, and screamed over us, adding to the general excitement.

The sack containing the catch rapidly grew heavier I know, for I was the one assigned the task of carrying it and in the swirl of the rising tide it was hard going trying to keep up with the stam peding gang, whilst trying to avoid the potholes in the rugged surface of the reef.

When the torches had burned low and the bag was nearly full we made our way back to the boat and rowed out to the ship. Most of the gang had had enough for one day andl promptly turned in.

Captain Andy was already asleep in his cabin.

BUT who could go to bed and sleep on their first night in Suwarrow lagoon?

Here at the anchorage the calm waters made a perfect mirror for the stars.

Somewhere in those mysterious depths were pearl-oysters, some of them un doubtedly enfolding treasured gems, but

Wideawake Terns over Anchorage Islet, Suwarrow.

they were well-guarded by the countless marauding sharks.

Just over there was the gloomy sil houette of Anchorage Islet. It was just a sand-bank, covered with scrub and coconut trees and looked innocent enough by daylight as I had contemplated it while sheltering from the heat of noon day in the remains of “Ropati” Frisbie’s little tree house, perched in the broken branches of the stunted “tamanu” trees.

These had saved the lives of Ropati and his family of “Cowboys” and his com panions during the great hurricane of 1942. But at night it was strangely remi niscent of the many tales of pirates, buried treasure, violent death, skeletons and ghosts with which it is surrounded.

The next two hours provided a fitting climax to the evening. I made a four some with three other tireless fishermen, Pastor Joseph, Kaina the cabin-boy, and Timi the engineer. We fished from the stern of the schooner for the fine big, red schnapper which the natives call “mu.” We soon had a good collection— but for every fish we caught we hooked several sharks.

IT was sometime after midnight when our fun was rudely interrupted by a shocking blast emanating from the dark companionway just behind our backs.

Aboard the “Tiare Taporo” a shocking blast heralds the approach of Captain Andy Thomson and indicates that he is annoyed about something. I am not able to quote our captain verbatim, but it was, in effect, a strongly worded request that would we (unprintable) gentlemen kindly desist from this (sanguinary) fishing— for were we not making his noble ship look like an (unmentionably) stinking trawler—and who was going to eat all that much fish anyway? And, what was more, how could a good, honest, hard working sea-captain sleep with (stricty censored) sharks smashing about just over his bunk!?

N<pt being able to think of appropriate replies at the moment, we could only gulp and nod. We stood as men thunder struck until Captain Andy once more merged with the gloom.

He had hardly disappeared before we were brought back to our senses by a startled whisper from Joseph.

“Oh!” he gasped, “There’s something on my line it’s a shark! A big one!” As he spoke he cast horrified glances in the Direction of the companionway.

“Well,” we said, “Guess we’ll have to bring it m but quietly does it.”

Joseph’s powerful hands overhauled the line, and a final heave swung a heftv shark over the rail. It was the biggest catch of the night.

Lowering it gently to the deck, Joseph placed one foot on its tail to prevent it flapping, and reached for the club.

We leapt forward and stayed his hand- Ssshh! Not that way!”

Joseph grasped the shark’s throat with one hand and started to twist the hook Irom its jaw. We were all glancing ner vously over our shoulders.

When the hook was clear Joseph straightened up. lifting the struggling shark by its tail with both hands. Looking round, his gaze settled on a large iron Srv!l«i?V^ He u St^ ted a mi S ht y swing to whack the shark’s head. .. Again we sprang forward with anxious shushes and stayed his hand: “No! No' —Not that way!”

Joseph started another swing for the teak rail.

“No! Nq! Not there!”

Tiring of this clowning, the shark be gan struggling and snapping furiously.

Joseph changed one hand to the scruff of its neck and raised it to arm’s length overhead, pivoting wildly.

It was more than gentle Pastor Joseph

could stand: “Well what the hell shall I do with the bloody thing?” he exploded Then, with the strength of desperation he hurled it far out into the starry night’