Tongan Sharks

Was it Flattery—Or Pork?

How To "Sweet-Talk" Those Tongan Sharks

You may not believe it. Neither did Father Paul Boussit when he heard the natives in Tonga say that they “sweet-talked” the sharks, and put nooses around their gills, and then yanked them aboard ship. Father Paul was incredulous; but he went out with the crew and made them prove it.

INHERE had been a shortage of food . in Haapai and Father Boussit went out on the home-made mission yacht Fetu Moana, with a dozen sharking experts aboard, in the hope of catching fish. They had assured him they would lasso sharks.

Sharking is a fine art, handed down from father to son, in this part of the world.

The first day was a dismal failure.

Ihe experts spent part of that day and half the night trying to wheedle the sharks into the inviting trap.

Due can still hear the soft-vowelled natives with their coaxing sing song chant: “Beautiful girls of the briny deep!

Zome on over from your cozy haunts .

Bring some friends along. Come over 'o see our new boat—a boat with in engine, no less. Come aboard!

Let us look into your lovely eyes md let us put this sweet-scented tecklace around your beautiful r ,.ecks.”

Thus went the chant, alluring, appealing, enticing, all through the light, but in vain.

The next day brought a different story (says Father Boussit). No looner had I finished Mass—the first wer aboard that new boat —than I neard the glad shout: Malie! MaLie! iWonderful! Wonderful!) I rushed up on deck. Sure enough, about ten yards from the port side, ivas a huge fin, terrible to behold — and yet a thrilling sight for sore lyes at the moment.

Came Zero Hour A long pole, its end baited with a smelly piece of pork, was held over the water.

Meanwhile the flow of Tongan love-language kept up, over and wer again.

For a while it did not work. Friend shark was in no hurry; a sort of hard-to-get somebody.

When I was just about to give up and go below to finish my breakfast, the shark seemed to decide that he wanted that chunk of pork. His wicked, yellow-green eyes glistened with drunken hunger, hypnotised and unmindful of danger.

He made one lunge for the bait;

rolled over on his back, opened wide his cavernous jaws, baring the rows of needle-like teeth.

The pole was expertly drawn in closer to the ship’s side, and held a bit above the water. Closer, closer, closer edged the voracious shark, lifting its head higher and higher above the water.

This was the zero hour. Breaths were held!

At the right moment, the lasso was deftly slipped over the shark’s head and eased gently down behind the gills. Then one swift, strong ierk secured it.

One of the heavyweight natives, armed with a stout cudgel, promptly brained the brute, after which it was duly hauled aboard and properly in sulted and ridiculed in colourful language that would not look nice in print.

This is from a new book "Grins and Chuckles in Upside-Down Land", by Father E. A. Tremblay, S.M.

Father Tremblay was a missionary for many years in Tonga, and he has written a number of bright books about life in the South Seas. They have sold well in America, and the proceeds have gone to the church.

Father Tremblay now lives in Hawaii.

The funeral rites consisted of a dirge-like tune played on conch shells to the accompaniment of tin can drums, pots, pans, anything that would contribute to the pande monium.

Before dinner-time, three more sharks were caught in the same manner and honoured with the same ritual.

A Wild Tattoo Then we came across a giant 15footer —a veteran who was too clever for us. He refused to come near enough to be lassoed. Worse than that—with a display of lightning like speed he made off with our bait.

After taking two more seven footers, we decided to call it a day and go home.

As soon as we came in sight of the shore, the ear-splitting din of the conch-shell broadcasting began.

We just had to tell the world that cur sharking expedition had been a huge success.