For Those In Peril

A Then And Now Story

For Those In Peril On The Sea

By Amel

A FEW years ago, to go from Suva to Savu Savu, 120 miles away, on the island of Vanua Levu, meant a somewhat arduous sea trip of anything from 12 to 24 hours.

Fortifying oneself with all known preventatives of seasickness, one stepped jauntily aboard the puddle jumper in Suva, and waved a fond farewell to all one’s friends on the wharf. Later—much later—having miraculously escaped the perils of the deep, one crawled miserably off the ship at Savu Savu, feeling like a sick cockroach, looking like Death warmed up, and firmly convinced that the best way to return to Suva was to swim.

Or to fly.

Today, the sea journey is'still available for those who love the sea in all its moods, but for those who don’t there is the Fiji Airways plane several times a week.

Belonging in the latter category, we looked up flying schedules, and we booked our seats on the next plane.

On the tick of 1.30 p.m., an Air ways bus took us on a bone-shaking ride to Nausori airport. Time: 30 minutes.

At the neat airport building, bright outside with tropical shrubs, and flowers, and decorated inside with enticing travel posters, maps and photographs, we had a hearten ing cup of tea.

Then up came the Drover aircraft, shining silver with red trimmings, red upholstery with curtains to match; Fijian fans tucked beside each seat; and “Lifebelts Under The Seats”.

We boarded the plane, heavy weights in front. I sat near the tail, with old Fred for company.

It was his first flight.

The plane taxied onto the run way, and the pilot tested the engines, preparatory to takeoff . . . the first, the second and then the third.

Old Fred, who had taken a wee drop of something to keep out the cold, learned over and tapped me on the shoulder. “Doesn’t sound as if she’s goin’ to start,” he muttered, hoarsely.

“We’ll be 0.K.” I reassured him.

“The takeoff is so smooth, you won’t realise we’ve left the ground.”

“Realise it all right,” said Fred, moodily, five minutes later, cocking a nervous eye out the window.

“Ground’s way down there.”

The plane roared off into the cloudless blue sky, over the miles of shining sea, and the string of islands which marked the route to Savu Savu. Some of them were

very small, darkly green, incredibly beautiful, surrounded by golden sand, glowing lagoon and a lacy collar of cruel coral reefs.

Among the large islands was Ovalau, seamed and craggy, with Levuka, the old capital of Fiji, nestling toylike at the base of the mountains. Old Fred had lived in Levuka for many years.

“Look!” I said to him, pointing down, “There’s Levuka.”

Fred stretched his neck, gave a quick look, and shook his head.

“No,” he said, decidedly, “ ’tisn’t Levuka.”

Ann, sitting in front of him, twisted round, jabbed a finger at the window, and yelled, “Hey, Fred!

There’s Levuka!”

Fred had a longer look, grinned at me apologetically, and said sheepishly, “So ’tis. Looks different from here.”

Halfway to Savu Savu, clouds obscured the sun, and a dark bank of rain pressed down on Vanua Levu’s high mountains, forming a backdrop to the magnificent panorama of Savu Savu Bay.

Feasting our eyes on it, we almost missed glimpsing Nawi Island, and the scattered township of Nakama, as the plane flipped up and over the hills, and landed gently on the airstrip. Time: One hour.

“Best ride I ever had,” declared

Fred, happily. “Better’n a boat time. In a boat,” he mused, “ just be staggering past NaselsJ “Yes,” I added feelingly, we’d be turning our faces from j and drink, and the company o:( fellow-sufferers.”

Miss V. Bradley and Mr. K. Connolly were married in Port Moresby at [?] Church, on January 24. (Photo: Papuan [?]