The stings and arrows

Life On The Big Pond

The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune

One of a series, by Bill Dame

The trans-Pacific luxury liner was nearing Tahiti. The evening meal was over and several crewmen were on the fantail enjoying the tropical sunset and engaging in that time-honored ritual, the Bull Session. A group of new men, all university students at sea for the summer, was clustered around a middle aged, tattooed salt, listening to his stories of Tahiti as it used to be before the tourist invasion.

“The girls were relatively un sophisticated and their wants were simple in the old days,” he sighed. “Whenever a ship tied up at the dock, the waterfront girls were always there, impatiently waiting for their men to swarm ashore and give them presents from overseas. And all it took to please them was a new dress, a comb and mirror set or a pack of candy. And they really knew how to express their appreciation, too.”

“How do you approach a Tahitian girl?” someone asked.

The method

“Each man has his own method,” the old salt shrugged.

“And it’s perfectly permissible in their culture for a girl to make all the overtures when she sees a guy she wants.”

“How do they go about it?” another asked.

“In different ways. Let’s see.

Oh! I’ll tell you how one little cutie did it. It’s an incredible story, and you may not believe it, but it really happened.”

The group leaned forward, and the old salt began his tale. “It was about 12 years ago. A hand some young fellow, engaged to a pretty girl back home and proud of his virginity, was aboard this very ship and latched onto me in Tahiti to show him around. We rented a car, picked up my vahine from one of the waterfront bars and started around the island just after lunch.

“We stopped at my vahine’s place on the outskirts of town

and my young friend drank pop in a Chinese store while he waited for us. While he was there, a beautiful and very exotic young girl of around 16 came to the store and made some small purchase, “She stared at him as only an interested Tahitian girl can stare at a man she wants when my vahine and I arrived and honked the horn for him to hop in the car. As he got into the back seat, the young girl, who was a friend of my vahine’s, came over and exchanged a few words with us. I agreed with her that my friend needed a date and she hopped in the back seat by him and off we went.

“He remained aloof and con centrated on the scenery, but she was a dedicated Tahitian and concentrated on him.

“Half way around the island the fanbelt broke and I had to walk back a mile to a store that had a telephone where I rang town and ordered a new fanbelt.

I arranged for it to be delivered to a bus driver who would bring it to me.

Excited

“I bought some cheese, bread, corned beef and wine and re turned to the car not exactly dreading the four-hour wait. The late afternoon was beautiful and we had parked very near a

secluded little cove that promised good swimming. We swam until past sunset, then built a little fire for a signal to the bus driver and had our picnic.”

Another crewman had wandered out on to the fantail and stood against the rail close to the old salt’s group. He listened at tentively to the excited unfolding of the yarn.

The old salt went on: “The wine really excited the young girl, but my astonished buddy wouldn’t co operate. He explained that he was being true to his girl, and that made the Tahitian really angry.

She stood in front of him and hurled a threat at him which my thoroughly amused vahine trans lated. ‘She say if you no do it, she gone follow you around town tell all you friends you not real man, so more bettah you get busy.

Ha!’ ”

Triumphant

The old salt paused for a few seconds. Then in almost funereal tones he told of how the an guished boy and the triumphant girl walked away into the dark ness to a small patch of grass nearby; of how, a few moments later, the night’s calm was rent with sudden cries of pain; and of how the would-be lovers quickly leaped back into the firelight and furiously began to flick from their naked bodies the biggest, blackest ants he had ever seen. After that, said the old salt, the two went to the beach and buried their stinging bodies in the cool, wet sand until the fanbelt was replaced.

Some of the listeners believed the tale; some didn’t, and a good natured argument over “true” or “false” erupted among them as the old salt smiled and slowly walked away, followed by the un smiling late arriver.

When they were away from the group, the late arriver hissed, “You old reprobate! If you ever tell anyone who . .

“Relax, buddy,” the old salt ordered nonchalantly. “I’ve never used your name when I tell the story,”