Coralita

Now this is the tale of a well-filled sail On a lofty and slender spar.

And a spray-flecked wind That came behind And carried me ever so far— By Gosh!

It carried me ever so far.

I plotted my course by the coral stars And I steered for the Coral Sea; But the Masalai Ghost Of the Guinea Coast Played a terrible trick on me.

He did!

Played a terrible trick on me.

For he lifted me up with the Talio, And set me down with the Rai, And coaxed me along With a siren’s song, Then left me high and dry— On a reef!

Just left me high and dry.

Then the sea-maidens called from the crested waves; Right soon they had me in tow: As they gracefully sank In the water dank I followed them down below — Yo Ho!

Yes, followed them deep below.

Now, fathoms down in a coral cave, I’m served by those maids of the sea; They bring me my meals Of oysters and eels — They couldn’t do more for me.

Those girls!

No-one could do more for me.

So if you should sail from a Southern port On a tropical tourist trip, Just open an eye And you may spy A merman hailing your ship: That’s me!

I always wave to a ship. (The Talio is the Northwest Wind (Monsoon) and the Rai is the Southeast

Trade wind.)

Peter England.

bludgeoned its way down the ravines.

Behind battened windows men and women gazed on the wild scene —felt the exhilaration of this moment which snapped the tension of the long wait; felt the numbing dismay as they calculated the re sultant damage and destruction.

Rain burst in a shattering torrent against the glass and the children, noses pressed against the pane, shouted for joy. * * * ALL my life, that’s how it was.

It was all confused with a cramp of excited fear in the stomach, a smell of the sea and the feel of clothes, saturated with perspiration clinging damply to the skin.

Of course, the hurricane did not always come. Some times it dis sipated itself in mid-Pacific; or capriciously veered onto another path venting its spite on some other part of the island. But whether it came or not, November to April each year had a special quality of the unpredictable colouring each day.

Shutters were always stacked ready, lanterns stood on the kitchen shelf, you always glanced at the meterological mast on the way to school, you always listened to the weather report, checked the window latches before bed, trimmed the

trees, looked for the hurricane birdif and bent an ear to the sigh of thei surf.

The element of surprise of noc knowing what was to come, gave ui a heightened awareness of all things around us and established a comi munion between us and the trees and the sea and the hot, wet earth!

It might not come at all; it might not be as bad as the previous yean it might be worse. But if it die: come, the hurricane would be a£ terrifyingly beautiful as ever.

Yet, this November, in a cheerless Melbourne street, rain touched m;i face with fingertips of ice, awakenr ing in me a resentment against itf delicate showering. For one nostalgii moment I ached for the warm unr tamed torrents of hurricane rain. tf Melbourne newspapers in Januan gave prominence to the performance of a 17-years-old Fijian Scouti Patrol Leader Peni Waqairatu, whr had gone hiking with a few hundred other Scouts in Victoria, during thr Christmas-New Year holidays. Pen was one of a team which climber Mt. Riddell, 2,750 feet high, in thr Victorian Highlands. He walked 4£ miles, in sulu and sandals; but as the foot of the mountains he diss carded his sandals and led the war up with bare feet.