Chapter 5: The Kingdom Of Tonga

 

Passage to the Tonga Islands

Winds of the offing were light and shifty, so a disconcerting swell rolled the brig heavily. However, we progressed favorably, and once beyond the zone of confused seas leeward of Rarotonga we found moderate conditions. Bringing to mind the trying nature of the passage from Bora Bora, we certainly relished this easier traveling.

A few days out, during a rain squall a whale appeared on the port beam. It was a magnificent creature, again a minke. Soon, though, its coming close and leaping out of the sea gave us concern. But after the whale departed we forgot our worries and remarked what a captivating show the whale had staged.

Bypassing Winslow and Beveridge Reefs

Again we were thankful to have the sat-nav, mainly while passing by the submerged Winslow and Beveridge Reefs. The previous year a yacht had strayed off course and had struck Beveridge Reef. The crew took to their life raft and drifted for two weeks, until rescued. A few weeks after Jenny and I had passed Beveridge Reef, Don McClead and Mary Frank aboard Carioca, and Jack, Rithva and Benjamin on Kulkuri used their sat-navs and radars to find Beveridge Reef. They entered a west-facing pass, and anchored within the lagoon. There they remained a few days, seeing no land. But a single above-water object stood visible: a masthead. Setting out in dinghies loaded with scuba diving gear, they surveyed what proved to be the aforementioned wrecked sailboat. Little remained intact, but Jack salvaged two anchors and a length of chain. Years earlier, in a remarkable act of seamanship the venerable and now deceased Eric Hiscock and his wife Susan had called in at Beverage Reef, without using modern navigational aids. No doubt many others have done so also.

Bypassing Niue Island

On our seventh day we passed close by Niue Island. Officials there had recently imposed a $30.00 entrance fee, and for this reason alone we did not call in. Larry and Mollie later stopped there, though, and they reported that the entrance fee was money well spent.

Reaching the Northern Tongas

Zoom out to see where we are.

Two days after rounding Niue, Suka reached the northern Tongas, where she then stood off-shore in a strengthening south-easterly, hove to for three hours awaiting dawn. Then in the light of dawn, against strong head winds she tacked towards Port Refuge. Jenny wielded the staysail sheets on the primary winches, and I the jib sheets on the coaming winches. The deep reefed mainsail, sheeted hard in, tended itself. A ketch is not known for its windward abilities, and ours was certainly not about to dispel the stigma. In two hours we must have come-about 50 times. Back and forth we tacked, sailing fast but making slow progress while passing a few remarkably steep-to rocky islets. Laggardly windward progress aside, the seas were flat - being protected by myriad low lying, densely vegetated islands that reminded one of short stacks of Paul Bunyan size pancakes - and we thoroughly enjoyed the lively sailing.

Eventually we rounded Vava'u: the principal isle of the northerly Tongas. While closing the Neiafu wharf we saw Bruce and Leslie from A'Strayin. They had arrived a few days previously, and noticing us coming in, they had climbed aboard a small freighter. After directing us to tie alongside this vessel they greeted us with drinking coconuts, and shared what local tidbits they had learned about the place.

The Customs officers boarded Suka, asked a few routine questions, helped us fill out the requisite paperwork, and then disembarked.

Problems with an Inebriated Police Officer

Next, a young police officer wearing the hat of immigration boarded and began courteously filling in his forms, while engaging us in pleasant conversation. About to leave, Lave asked to inspect Suka's liquor locker. "Hmmm," he mumbled approvingly, withdrawing an expensive bottle of liqueur. "Would you sell this?" he asked, producing three grimy paper bills called pa'anga. These were worth nowhere near the price of the booze; and besides, I was not vending our stores. So I simply offered him a sociable drink. This proved a gross error, not only in having shown him to the liquor cabinet in the first place, but in not accepting his moldering money and giving him the bottle--for this would have rid us of him. Three and a half hours, one crumpled cigarette package, and many incredulous stories later, the cop found the bottom of our bottle where he arrived utterly awash.

I explained to lightheaded Lave that, as darkness was nearly upon us we now needed to remove Suka to the anchorage. Lave refused us permission to leave. Nonetheless, I started the engine and cast off, and while steering out into the bay I could only listen to our belligerent guest belowdecks demanding that I shut off the engine because it was making too much noise. Then he came out and insisted on taking the helm.

We proceeded to the nearby charter yacht company's moorage, where considering the exigencies of the situation I judged it prudent that we collect a vacant buoy. In a gallant attempt to pick up the mooring bridle, our inebriated stowaway nearly toppled overboard, but by grabbing a flailing leg I managed to save him. Once the ketch lay secured, we inflated the dinghy, lowered it into the water, and I prevailed upon the police officer to climb aboard.

Ashore, Lave assured us in slurred speech that should we ever needed anything, just let him know. And in fact, the next time we were to see him, in town a few days later, he acted thinly as though he did not recognize us. The lesson had been a valuable one. I had learned never again to permit an officer to inspect Suka's moonshine. After this incident we would hide it.

An Invitation to a Feast

Early the following morning there came a clunk at the hull. Emerging groggily I found a Tongan gentleman clinging to the rail, while standing in a dilapidated scow. One bum boater, as the nautical term has it, by the name of Alofi. Did we wish to buy fruit? No, thank you. Could his wife do our laundry? No thanks. Could he guide us to the cave? No, thank you. He displayed sea shells for sale. No thanks. Tiki carvings. No. Baskets and handicrafts. No, thanks anyway. Tongan feast? "... Feast?" I asked. Now that sounded interesting. We paid the first fiver, and agreed to pay the second after the meal. Presenting us with a bundle of mandarin oranges tied to a twig neatly in a row, he paddled away.

Adventures in the Vava'u Group

Moving the ketch to the yacht anchorage fronting the International Hotel, we found that space was a scarce commodity. A coral infested, 3-fathom shelf stood along one side of the otherwise deep bay, and this provided scant solace to some two dozen sailboats. Selecting a niche among them, we lowered the CQR onto the bottom.

With Suka secured, we rowed ashore and walked the mile into town. Most villagers wore the usual western garb, but many chose traditional Tongan attire: blouses and ankle-length skirts for the women, shirts with knee-length skirts for the men. And over western or Tongan apparel, many older folks wore the ta'ovala: a tattered woven mat wrapped round the waist. But to our cast-in-concrete occidental mentality, the most conspicuous garb was the school boys' uniforms: white collared shirts and blue skirts.

The Tongas are known as the Friendly Islands. And in the main, the citizens prided themselves accordingly. The Tongan men's brawniness often belied their usually amicable personalities. One individual was particularly mean and roguish in appearance. In California he would have readily passed for a motorcycle gang member. Except for his T-shirt, which proclaimed boldly: "FRIENDLINESS IS OUR WAY OF LIFE."

A Lavish Meal with Alofi and Family

At the appointed hour we met Alofi, who then led us across the far reaches of the village, through a gateway, past several more small houses, and finally to his little box-shaped wooden structure standing on stilts and featuring a large doorway in each wall. The furnishings were rudimentary. Actually, there were none. But nevertheless the place was spanking clean.

Alofi introduced us to his wife, behind whom cowered three bashful children, then he ushered us inside. The floor was covered with a hand-woven pandanus mat. The walls were painted, and decorated with a few pages from various magazines. Onto the center of the floor Alofi laid a tablecloth, and invited us to seat ourselves before it. Then his wife spread a lavish meal of broiled chicken (previously a member of the household brood, and known as Moa we were told), savory fish fried in a batter of coconut milk and seasonings, baked tapioca (the root of the cassava, or manioc plant), papaya, and watermelon.

Alofi said that, according to Tongan custom, Palangi eat first. It was also Tongan custom, we surmised by the lack of utensils, that Palangi eat like the Tongans: with the fingers. We felt more than a little embarrassed eating before them, but the smiles all around soon put us more at ease. Alofi's wife spoke not a word of English, but sat beaming at our obvious appreciation of her savory cooking. The three children giggled sheepishly close at hand, and watched wide-eyed our every move.

After the delicious meal the floor was cleared and the captive audience was shown hand-carved tikis, small mats and baskets, and an impressive tapa that measured some seven by fourteen feet. Tapa cloth dates back to ancient Polynesia, and is fashioned by pounding strips of bark peeled from the mulberry tree. Doubled pieces are glued together using arrowroot resin, and the coarse fabric is patterned with a natural brown dye.

Alofi wanted 35 dollars for this cloth his wife had produced. We said we would think about it. As a token gesture we bought a few small mats, then paid Alofi the well deserved second five dollars for the dinner. Then the family presented us with a parting gift: a sack of cola fruit, picked from their tree. The cola, similar to a lime but much stronger in flavor, is squeezed into a glass of water as flavoring for a refreshing drink.

Market Day

Saturday, market day, Suka's crew rose early and motored the dinghy to the town wharf. The market place was alive in a throng of activity, as islanders from all reaches of Vava'u had come to sell or buy fruit and garden produce. Jenny selected a basket full of fifteen large papayas, which sold for one dollar, basket included. Also she purchased a stalk of bananas, two pineapples, a small pile of oranges and lemons, a bunch of scallions, a dozen tomatoes, a small woven basket containing nuts of some sort - called Tongan peanuts - two servings of a sweet tapioca dessert wrapped in green banana leaves and piping hot, and two freshly baked scones filled with papaya jam. All this cost a mere additional three and a half dollars.

We met Alofi and offered to buy his wife's tapa if he would bring it to the wharf. His lack of hesitation left me feeling we should have bargained for a lower price. We later learned we had paid two and half times the going rate for such an item. Also, we learned that Alofi was well known for competing inequitably with his fellow Tongans. His ploy was to spring upon new arrivals in an attempt to misrepresent the accepted rates of local commodities. As such, Alofi suffered a somewhat nefarious reputation, But even so, I had to credit him for his efforts. Like most of the local residents, he and his family were living in penury, and he was trying only to provide for his family. He did not appear to be given to liquor, and his wife certainly knew how to cook!

Fresh Air

After the shopping spree we stood aside to absorb some of the scene. Locals came and went, and a few yachtees wandered about, looking as engaged by the activity as were we. By and by, a rather distinguished native gentleman approached, introduced himself as "Fresh Air, King of the Sea Shells," and invited Jenny and me to his house, in order that we might inspect his shell collection. We agreed to meet him in town later that afternoon.

With no little effort we lugged our booty to the wharf and loaded it into the dinghy. Then before lifting the fruit aboard Suka we gave each piece a thorough dunking in the sea, to help purge it of any bugs. From there, Jenny hung the bananas from a shroud in the traditional maritime fashion.

At the appointed hour we returned ashore and met Fresh Air, who had obviously been waiting for us. His geniality put us at ease, and as we walked to his house he expounded on various aspects of the township. Jenny was keen on learning a few basic Tongan words, such as hello, thank you, and good-bye; and Fresh Air instructed us on these. At one point we passed by a group of young people working on a giant spread of tapa. Fresh Air explained that this masterpiece had been years under construction, and was to be a gift for King Taufa'ahau Tupou IV. In fact, the ruling monarch was slated to visit Neiafu the following month in order to preside over the annual Agricultural Festival. The atmosphere was already buzzing with the coronal discharge. The tapa makers seemed delighted that we were interested in their project, and when we asked permission to photograph them, they scrambled into posing positions with shrieks of delight.

Arriving at Fresh Air's cabin, we passed through a gateway leading into a well-groomed yard festooned with fruit trees and decorative foliage. In one corner stood a small portico shading a picnic table loaded with sea shells. These were neatly arranged in little boxes and sorted as to kind. Additionally, to one side stood many boxes of shells. None of the shells were spectacular or rare, but many were interesting.

"Now Tongan custom," Fresh Air informed us: "you choose what you like, then I tell you price."

I could not conduct business in such a manner, so I asked for a few sample prices. "How much for this shell?"

After receiving a few reiterations of policy, I finally persuaded him to give us a few sample prices:

"This one: 25 cents, this: 50 cents," and so on. After admiring his collection and deliberating the choices, we selected a medium sized pile. "OK, six dollars," he said.

We handed over the bills and placed the shells into our rucksack.

"Now I give you present for coming to my house." Fresh Air began selecting more shells and placing them into a pile that soon exceeded the size of our purchase. "And would you like a bundle of bananas?" he asked.

We Discover Cockroaches in the Sea Shells

Back aboard, that night we were relaxing belowdecks when with sudden aversion I noticed a three-inch cockroach scurrying across the cabin sole. After a frenzied pursuit we dispatched the unwanted guest. Fresh Air's sea shells were immediately suspect; we placed one into a bucket of seawater, and several large, writhing roaches floated helplessly to the surface. How many had escaped before we had discovered the first one?

Cockroaches are commonplace in the yachtsman's world, and consequently many vessels are plagued with them. They were never much of a problem aboard Suka, though, because whenever we found one aboard, and this occurred perhaps half a dozen times during the voyage, we scoured the ship stem to stern. Every cupboard, locker, drawer, and cabinet we would empty. Each we cleaned, then powdered the inner and outer edges and corners with boric acid. In theory, after the insect walks in this toxic powder, it cleans its feet of it by licking them. The technique seemed effective, and by the same token we considered the threat of bug infestation a favorable incentive to maintain the brig in ship-shape condition belowdecks.

Sunday in the Kingdom of Tonga

Sunday in the Kingdom of Tonga is a day of rest. Not only is work forbidden, but so is swimming and even playing games. Lave, the alcoholic cop, had related that Tongan law forbids private airplanes to arrive on Sundays. In effect he said that for committing such an offense, the pilot and any hapless passengers were granted a day's accommodation in the local jail. The law did permit, however, certain yachtees to seclude themselves belowdecks to mount a massive anti-cockroach campaign. And apparently it turned a blind eye on any foreigners venturing ashore to spend the evening at the nearby hotel watching a movie, as long as we sat quietly and showed no expression of amusement.

Louisette Blows a Warning Horn

One afternoon a wind slashed across the bay with such fervor that it constrained the crews aboard their respective sailboats, standing anchor watch. For hours Suka's bower grumbled vexatiously, but the noise eventually fell silent. Perhaps ten minutes later, hearing an urgent horn blast Jenny peered out the hatch to investigate. "Hey! Looks like we're moving," she reported. "Sybaris isn't our neighbor anymore." I sprung on deck and found that Suka lay broadside to the wind. In the absence of current this is a reasonable indication of a dragging anchor. And indeed, the fleet and the shore had receded into the distance. Apparently our anchor had plowed its way through the brittle coral until it had fallen off the shelf. We found it dangling vertically at the end of a hundred feet of chain. After laboriously hauling aboard the ground tackle, we motored the distance back to the anchorage and selected a slightly different place to heave the hook. And once reestablished, we waved our gratitude to the French folks, Louisette and Yves Guillou aboard their ketch Dy Chior, who had noticed us dragging and had blown a warning horn.

Mala Islet

A few days later, in settled weather we sailed away, bent on an extended inter-island excursion. Wishing for a fresh fish dinner, I tossed a lure by the board, and paid out a few hundred feet of line.

Nearing the islet Mala we dropped sail and motored warily over rocks and coral, and reached a patch of sand in three fathoms. While Jenny lowered the anchor and slowly paid out chain, I backed down a ways - before remembering the fishing line. Suka's spinning propeller creates a strong wash that tends to draw any nearby, movable object through it. The fishing line's adamant refusal to be reeled in suggested it was now fouled in the prop. So after pulling the engine's kill cord I donned mask and fins; and clutching a knife I jumped overboard and began cutting away the line, which indeed had gnarled itself copiously around the prop shaft. Shredded fishing line in hand, I surfaced for air and found a rough-hewn dug-out canoe full of naked, brown children gaping at me wide-eyed. A young man had paddled them out to pay us a short visit.

Kapa Island

The next morning we sailed around the corner of Kapa Island, and anchored above a patch of sand near its isthmus. Leaving Suka swaying gently to her well-secured bower, we motored the dinghy a mile to Swallow's Cave. Shutting off the outboard so as not to fumigate any denizens of the dark, (bats or what have you) we only paddled into the cavern. Once our eyes adjusted, we saw that the cathedral-like ceiling was indeed festooned, between hanging stalactites, with inverted and presumably sleeping bats. The cavern walls plunged vertically into hauntingly deep water that heaved and incandesced in fantastic hues of iridescent purple-blue. These colors were created as the refracted sunlight welled up from the deep.

That evening we motored the dinghy to a nearby steep-to, jungle covered chunk of rock known as Luakapa Islet. Fruit eating bats, called flying foxes, and much larger than the bats in the cave, hung in the trees. Their three-foot wing spans enable them to fly with the ease of hawks, which is what we had mistaken them for. But their high-pitched screeching, horror-movie sound effects were our first clue that these were not hawks. The flying foxes have a curious and seemingly clumsy way of landing. They would fly directly into their chosen tree branch, only to crash feet first. Then clutching mightily they would swing forcibly for a few moments, like a weighty pendulum gone wild. This commotion set the many upside-down reposing neighbors swinging uncontrollably, but oddly they seemed to pay little notice.

Tongan Feast

Next morning we rounded the southern reaches of Kapa Island, and sailed north into an expansive and tranquil bight called Lisa Bay. There, in a tiny beach-side shack lived Isaiah, his wife, and three children. This Tongan fellow hosted a bi-weekly feast, scheduled for this particular evening, and a few yachts were already arriving for the occasion. Then at the appointed hour we paddled ashore canoe-style, sitting side-by-side athwartships on the sides of the dingy, and each swinging an oar.

The villagers had prepared the food well in advance, using the Tongan's traditional underground oven called the umu (Oou'-moo). This was done by scooping embers and hot coals into a pit, which they then lined with several layers of green banana leaves. Onto the leaves went the food, each entremets being wrapped in its own banana leaf. These items included lobster, octopus, fish, taro roots, tapioca, papayas cut in half and filled with spiced coconut milk, and a few other comestibles that we did not recognize. The fellows had then covered the food with more banana leaves, and buried the lot with earth, leaving the food to bake for several hours.

The womenfolk had arranged their handicrafts along the beach and displayed them for sale. These included hand-woven baskets, wood carvings, and sea shells. The baskets were attractively woven, and they sold for but a few dollars each. We enjoyed selecting a few and chatting with their amiable weavers.

Before the feast came the entertainment: Three guitar strummers, two ukulele players, and one banjo picker struck up a medley of lively Polynesian tunes, while singing exuberantly in the Tongan tongue. To this, a trio of women asserted their utmost vocals in rich harmony.

The little dancers, though, easily stole the show. In turn, the costumed lasses danced, with mom's encouragement and sometimes with her actual presence. The movements were demure and subdued. And so contrary was the gentle flow to the vigorous instrumental drumming that one was compelled to listen mentally to the intricate gesturing. The ten year old girls shuffled their feet lightly with the beat, while moving arms and hands in deliberate, graceful motions.

Our hosts unearthed the umu, then spread the feast lavishly and piping hot onto a long row of banana leaves, placed upon the ground. Then they bid us guests, numbering 25 or so, to sit cross-legged on mats before the meal. The aromas were out of this world.

Eating with our fingers, Tongan style, we found the food wonderfully flavored. An attractive Tongan host, Naomi, sat quietly next to Jenny serving us various dishes, and when necessary replenishing our banana leaf plates. Timidly, she answered our questions about the nature and preparations of the various foods. Then after the guests had eaten their capacious fill, the Tongan children were seated to a smaller version of the same feast.

Neiafu's weekly market

Neiafu's weekly market traditionally occurred on Saturdays. At half past five in the morning Jenny and I paddled ashore and met Isaiah. Climbing the steep staircase, we surmounted the embankment behind his hovel, and in the revealing light of dawn we walked a mile into the village of Panga (pang-guy'). There, a few villagers were gathering for their weekly trip to the market.

A small pick-up truck pulled to a stop. At Isaiah's bidding we climbed into the back, and sat on a wooden bench. Eight other villagers occupied the remaining seats, then between us all, and even onto our laps, went a load of fruits and vegetables. As the truck jostled along the dusty road, Jenny and I sat enjoying the company of the jovial Tongans, who chatted to one another amiably in their native tongue.

The morning's activities were already well underway when we arrived, so after paying the taxi fare we began ambling about the grounds. Two hours later we found Isaiah, and were surprised to see that he had bought an even greater quantity of produce than we had. Into the back of another truck went our booty for the jostling ride back to within a half mile of Lisa Bay. Along with his provisions Isaiah was lugging a five gallon plastic water jug, as, remarkably, his dwelling lacked a water supply.

Church Service

When we asked about a church service, Isaiah invited us to attend the one in Panga. So Sunday morning at the appointed hour we pulled ashore and found that the man of the house had crawled into the woodwork, so to speak. He did not go to church, we surmised, but his wife Rosaline did, and she had been appointed to accompany us. As we walked the road, Rosaline, who spoke no English, pointed out various plants and trees along the way. The most exquisite was the mohokoi, (Mo-ho-koy') a spindly, orchid-like flower emitting a powerful fragrance. Rosaline explained that the islanders use the mohokoi to perfume their coconut-oil body lotion.

Entering the white-painted wooden church, we sat at one of the pews. Before long the room had filled nearly to capacity, and the service began with the congregation singing a-capella, not softly but with gusto. We enjoyed listening to the rich, intriguing harmonies so characteristic of the South Seas islanders, despite any damage to our eardrums inflicted by the intense volume of perhaps 60 people belting out at their fullest. The sermon, however, we did not enjoy so much. The preacher yelled and screamed at the top of his powerful lungs for half an hour. We understood not a word of it, but the vehemence eroded our nerves.

Lunch with Isaiah

Back at Lisa Bay, Isaiah professed to having taken (conveniently) sick that morning. But now he was feeling much better, and he invited us to stay for lunch. Only one other yacht lay anchored in the bay, the French yacht Dy Chior. Her crew, Yves (pronounced Eve) and Louisette were also invited to lunch. Unearthing the umu, Isaiah served a scrumptious meal of grated taro leaves mixed with tinned corned beef, all wrapped in more taro leaves. In addition, he had prepared sweet potatoes, and papayas baked in half- coconut shells and seasoned with coconut cream. For drink there was a blend of pineapple and coconut juice.

The occasion was memorable in an amusing sort of way. We three couples sat at Isaiah's picnic table for hours, exchanging one story after another. What distinguished the conversation was that, excepting Isaiah who spoke a little English, none of us understood the other's language. Jenny and I had come to know Louisette and Yves fairly well since the day Yves had warned us with a toot of his horn about our dragging anchor. So the language barrier between us was not a great obstacle, especially in light of our many common experiences. A little gesturing usually conveyed the point aptly.

Imagine Yves telling this story in French, gesticulating descriptively:

"We saw a whale near the Galapagos Islands. It was huge. It came close to the boat and started nudging it with its shoulder. We were terrified! This went on for half an hour. The worst part was its revolting breath. Blah!" (Shaking of the fingers as though they were burnt.)

A Hike Around Tapana Island

After those few days of pleasant tranquility, we sailed to nearby Tapana Island and anchored under its lee. Now late in the afternoon we went ashore to stretch the legs. The farther we strolled along the beach, the more intriguing the jaunt became. At the island's far side, for example, we passed by the sole inhabitant's rudimentary thatched roofed house, Robinson Crusoe style. This was encompassed by a tidy yard, and featured a little boat.

On we walked, the sun ever lowering. Because we had traveled well over half way, it seemed expedient to continue around the island. But what we did not realize was that a long line of cliffs, plunging into the sea, blocked the way a mere quarter of a mile this side of our landing.

Reaching the wall, we began traversing it. Impenetrable jungle above precluded bypassing the cliffs, but the tide was low, and in some places a narrow, sloping shelf at the water line afforded passage, albeit at times precariously. As darkness began to fall we reached an impasse. The day was too spent to backtrack, and we found ourselves in somewhat of a predicament.

Leaving Jenny clinging tenuously to handholds, in the fading light I jumped into the sea. Swimming 50 yards along the cliff, while unable to see an inch into the water before me, I feared striking jagged coral or a bed of spiny urchins, or encountering jellyfish, poisonous sea snakes, or sharks. But the passage went without mishap, and after circumventing the long line of cliffs I hauled myself, safely but breathing heavily, onto the beach. Collecting Jenny by dinghy was then a simple matter, and we returned aboard not until well past nightfall, glad to be home.

Lisa Bay, Walking Four Miles into Neiafu

The day following, a freshening wind prompted us to return across the choppy, white-capped sound, to the protection of Lisa Bay. Then for exercise we walked the four miles into Neiafu and called in at the "Posti Offici" to mail a few letters. Here Jenny called attention to our arrival with an ear piercing scream. It seems that as she was passing through the doorway a wasp stung her arm.

After visiting a few shops, and now encumbered with supplies, we decided to hail a ride back to Lisa Beach, or at least as far as the village Panga. We approached the second in a line of four taxis, the driver of which seemed glad for the business. He spoke English, and as we drove through the countryside we enjoyed pleasant conversations. Charles, as he introduced himself, was curious as to why we had bypassed the taxi driver in line ahead of him. "He was asleep," I replied, to which Charles burst out laughing. Like so many Tongans we had met, he proved most personable: the kind of individual worth sailing 4,700 miles to meet.

Isaiah and Family Aboard for Dinner

That evening we invited Isaiah and Rosaline, their boys Tony and Willie, and their small girl Fou'a for dinner aboard Suka. At the appointed hour they presented themselves on the beach, dressed smartly and awaiting my rowing ashore to collect them.

Jenny and I were curious as to how these Tongans would handle the tableware, and we watched askant but with amused interest as Isaiah and Rosaline politely grappled with the forks. After a short while, though, they abandoned the useless utensils, but with a discretion that suggested they hoped we wouldn't notice. Rosaline served the children's meal on a single plate, and the kids sat quietly eating with their fingers. As unlikely as it may seem, the Tongans eat with their fingers in a decorous manner.

In the cabin's corner, placed there long ago as a joke, squatted a large rubber spider. This had never failed to arouse incredulous comments from any visitors - when they finally happened to notice it. And Isaiah and his family proved no exception. In fact, they could hardly keep their eyes off the horrid bug, but they were politely saying nothing. The Tongans, we were to learn that evening, are extremely superstitious of spiders.

In an uninformed and admittedly inconsiderate act, I took the spider to hand and chased after poor Willie. He was terrified of it, and so were the others. Then for ten minutes I did everything but tear the toy apart in an attempt to prove that it was not real. But their minds were locked out of all reasoning, and they were having none of my game. Finally I persuaded Rosaline to hold the rubber spider; with utmost reluctance she extended her open palm, as though submitting it to the guillotine, and as I set the toy, legs a'quiver, into her hand, she became nearly panic stricken. Jenny and I were practically beside ourselves with laughter, and soon Rosaline was giggling with us, distrustfully, and only after I had relieved her of the hideous knickknack. The others were not so bold, and would not so much as touch it.

"Do you have spiders like this on Tonga?" I asked facetiously.

With scientific demeanor Isaiah leaned forward, shined his flashlight at the rubber toy, and examined it closely. "Yes," he admitted, "but not that big!"

Excursion to Maninita

A few days later Isaiah offered to guide us to Maninita, an island lying at the southern extremity of the group. There, he asserted, the snorkeling, spear fishing, and lobster hunting were unparalleled in all of Tonga. We could even camp overnight there on the beach, he offered. This seemed an excellent opportunity and we agreed to go, as soon as the cracking trade winds subsided. He scoffed at our insisting to await more favorable weather, and in passing asked if he could bring a couple of his friends who would night dive for lobster?

"...Well...sure, why not," I allowed.

On the appointed morning Suka lay to her bower directly before Isaiah's little hovel. Motoring the dinghy ashore, I found a cluster of native men milling about a pile of provisions and luggage. Malingering Isaiah informed me that he was once again ill, and that therefore he would not be able to accompany us; however, his friends, here, were ready.

Then I realized that his plan had been a stratagem designed to induce us to transport the native fishermen on an excursion. For some reason they had no boats of their own.

In three trips I ferried seven robust Tongan men and their supplies out to Suka. Only one spoke a little English: Isaiah's nephew, Siale (rhymes with Charlie).

At my signal, our eager and muscular crew hauled in the ground tackle with such alacrity that Suka fairly catapulted forward. Jenny made sail, I hardened in the sheets, and Suka heeled to the fresh easterlies. We were away.

Oddly, the Tongans were loathe to expose themselves to direct sunshine; they crawled into any available shade. Somehow, three men had squeezed beneath the upturned dinghy, a remarkable act considering that Suka's skylight, dorade vents, and propane box occupied most of that space. One man simply covered himself with a tarp, and commenced singing to himself. The merry group continually laughed about everything, particularly the singing tarp. But farther on the seas roughened, and some of these tawny Tongan passengers grew pallid.

These waters south of the main group were largely uncharted, and were reputedly dangerous to the mariner. Hidden coral reefs were said to abound, and we had been warned not to travel there without local knowledge. I felt confident, then, carrying seven local guides.

"OK, gang," I announced, "let's have a look at the chart." Onto the cabin top I spread the paper; the group huddled round and studied it assiduously. Moments elapsed in silence. Eventually I looked up at attentive eyes and found them, one and all, blank of understanding. None of the Tongans had the faintest notion of what they were examining. Then it dawned on me: of course, they simply could not read a chart.

"OK, what island is that?" I asked, pointing to one nearby.

"You-ah-kaff'-ah," they replied in unison.

"OK, now we're getting somewhere. Which one is Maninita?"

"Man-e-nee'-tah," they responded, each swinging an arm to the tiny blob furthest on the southern horizon.

"Great!" I asserted. "Now, what's the best route?"

Blank stares to the man.

For some ten minutes I grappled, trying to glean the proper course to sail. By their way of reckoning, though, one simply steered for the island. But the chart, lacking in detail as it reputedly was, indicated many submerged reefs en route. I came to the sinking conclusion that, remarkably, these seven guides were merely the same number of unenlightened passengers. So reverting to navigating by chart and compass, I steered generally south.

As we left the offlying, protecting reef far behind and approached our destination, the seas roughened. By now I was determined to show deference only to my own judgment, and with the strong easterlies and threat of submerged reefs at every hand, my anxieties and reservations were steadily escalating. Sailing these waters in such conditions seemed unjustifiably dangerous.

Nearing our objective we dropped sail and motored cautiously toward the lagoon's entrance. The fishermen stood excitedly at the bow urging me ever onward, but the pass was narrow, and I could see that after entering, a sharp right turn would be required. This turn would have put Suka beam-on to the forceful wind, and because the maneuvering space inside was limited, the vessel might have lost her steerage-way before we managed to set her anchor, only to collect the inside of the reef.

Sensing my trepidation, the Tongans began frantically coaxing me ahead. But my judgment suggested otherwise. So I throttled back, pulled the reduction drive out of gear, and let Suka blow back from the fringing reef. I explained that I considered it most perilous to take the ketch in there, and that I was not prepared to accept the risk. This was a difficult and reluctant decision, considering the rarity of such an opportunity to visit a remote and exquisite island. Jenny and I earnestly wanted to explore Maninita. As we motored slowly away, the group eventually, if begrudgingly, accepted my decision. After they had deliberated, Siale stepped forward. "OK, we go to PAH-ooh," he said, "but not good like Maninita."

These dangerous waters were no place to be caught out at night, so we backtracked the eight miles to Pau under full press of canvas in order to reach an anchorage in what precious daylight remained. And while crossing a region the chart showed as clear of shoals, swishing along at hull speed we suddenly passed over a submerged reef covered with a mere fifteen feet of water. The Tongans found this brush with near disaster amusing.

Anchorage between Pau and Ngau

A quarter mile off-shore and directly between the islands of Pau and Ngau (Nah'-ooh), we set the anchor, then I ferried the first group of three men through the chop and drenching spray to reach the beach. By the time I had delivered the second group, the first had established camp, struck a fire, and gathered a selection of coconuts and green fronds. By the time I had returned from the third excursion the others had caught fish and placed them with the tapiocas and sweet potatoes in the underground oven. Also, using fresh-cut fronds they had woven large baskets to contain their hopeful catch. In a mere half-hour the resourceful fellows had constructed a comfortable camp using only the rudiments of materials and equipment--fish hooks, machetes and a match.

The wind and chop funneling between the two islands was buffeting Suka, so after I had returned aboard, Jenny and I weighed and moved to a more suitable location a mile north. Then we returned by dinghy to join the group for a few hours at their beach-side encampment.

Three men stood fishing from shore. Their technique was to walk along the beach paying out line, in order to prevent its tangling. A weight attached near the string's end was then swung around like a lasso a few times, then hurled seaward. Without delay the rig was reeled in, by winding its line around a chunk of driftwood. And as often as not, the hook would bring with it a fish. If the catch happened to be too small, the islander would put it into his mouth, tail first, and bite it's head off, aft of the gills, and while munching the body contentedly would toss the head, secured to the hook and now serving as the new bait, back out into the sea.

These fellows used the coconut palm to best advantage. Overhead, the green fronds provided the requisite shade. In hand, they were woven into fish baskets, placed as lining material inside the earthen oven, or spread on the sand as seats and bedding mats. As utensils, the half shells acted as cups from which to drink the coconut juice. As a comestible, the immature coconut flesh was scooped from the shell and eaten raw. As seasoning, the juice was sprinkled on the fish as it baked. As fuel, the coconut's outer husks burned long and hot at the campfire. And impaled, whole coconuts would serve as catch floats during their nocturnal spear fishing forays.

A Tongan Encampment

With the onset of darkness, one of the group unearthed the umu, and on frond mats we sat around the campfire eating supper. In addition to the fish and coconuts, we ate roasted tapioca and sweet potatoes brought from their gardens.

After a long and dark dinghy ride back to the boat, Jenny and I returned aboard and spent the night in vigilance. This impromptu anchorage was flanked tightly on three sides by vertical walls of coral, barely awash. Swinging room was lacking, and any wind shift in the night would have compelled us to weigh and re-anchor elsewhere.

Then at first light we moved Suka back to the pick-up spot, and in two trips ashore I collected our entourage aboard. The men had spent much of the night spear-fishing, and had collected half a dozen baskets of fish. Also, they had gathered a sack full of small clams. As they sat in the cockpit, Jenny handed each fellow a cup, bowl, or glass of hot coffee. One man complained of feeling ill, so Jenny gave him two aspirin, then of course the others rallied to receive the same medication.

Before we set off, one chap dove 40 feet to the bottom and somehow with his bare hands he ripped from the coral seabed a giant clam. How he then managed to swim to the surface with the massive load defied imagination. Nevertheless, with the help of a few others he wrestled the clam aboard. Then brandishing a sharp machete he sliced away the animal inside, and presented it to Jenny and me. We later sliced and sauteed the rashers of giant clam, and found them delicious.

Return to Lisa Bay

After a lively windward bash we arrived in the tranquil waters fronting Lisa Bay. Villagers were crowding the beach awaiting our return, and as we reached shore with the first dinghy load someone seized a basket and began passing its fish around. The islanders voraciously consumed the raw fish in a manner reminiscent of ardent baseball fans devouring hot dogs. Once I had delivered all ashore, Siale invited me to select whatever fish I desired.

How we lamented the boisterous weather, which had prevented us from anchoring in Maninita's lagoon. Nevertheless, the excursion had been most rewarding, although our safe transit of those reef-strewn waters seemed more providential.

Tongan Extravaganza

Throughout the South Pacific, whenever the islanders entertain the tourists, most of whom do not comprehend the local dialect, inevitably the natives will sing at least one song that they, and they alone, find unusually amusing. Loosely translated, the words might be something like this: "Oh... These stupid foreigners. They don't know how to sing and they don't know how to dance..." The buffoonery is all in fun, though. And so it was that a group of islanders were staging a zesty musical, strumming guitars, banjos and ukuleles. A half-dozen gaily costumed young women, suggesting their allure, danced in the demure style. Meanwhile, the attendants served coconut-shell cups of kava: a muddy liquefaction concocted from the roots of a pepper plant. Admittedly, to our western palates the brew was invidious.

The afternoon's ensuing feast proved the usual Tongan extravaganza, and when I recognized some of the victuals as products of our recent fishing excursion, I had to give the Tongans a lot of credit. They had wanted to night dive on Maninita, despite the threat of sharks, primarily to provide the foreign visitors at this feast with lobster.

Siale and Naomi

Siale accompanied Jenny and I back to Lisa Bay via his plantation. Stashed in the branches of a tree was a basket of fresh drinking coconuts, several papayas, colas, and a few sweet potatoes, and this he carried to the dinghy and presented to us. We invited him aboard for a visit, and he returned home not until well after dark.

Our Tongan days passed quickly, each being filled to the brim with interesting events. One morning, while we were anchored in Matoto's bay a knocking came at the hull. "Siale," said a local boy standing in an outrigger canoe, and pointing ashore.

We had accepted Siale's invitation to come to his house for Sunday umu, and he was here to remind us. The night's heavy rain had transformed the dirt road into one of soft clay. This material adhered to our bare feet like glue. With every step it grew thicker in persistent layers that formed comfortable, if somewhat ungainly and unsightly walking attire.

Siale's home was a well-built, wooden framed structure replete with a tin roof and a few magazine pages for wallpaper. At the doorway Siale offered us a large bowl of water to wash hands and feet, then Naomi, Siale's sister, dried our feet with a towel. This was the humble way they treated their guests.

The small, two roomed interior featured floors covered with attractive pandanus mats, woven of course by the girls. Naomi spread a sumptuous meal on a tablecloth, Tongan style on the floor, then sat with us nibbling while Jenny and I sampled the several entremets wrapped in banana leaves. Surprisingly, Naomi supplied us with forks, but in deference to their customs we set the tonsil-pokers aside. One dish was fish; another: octopus in coconut milk; and another: clams, onions and taro leaves. The side dish was an umu-baked blend of cabbage, onions, taro, tapioca, and a vegetable Naomi called capé. The drink was fresh-squeezed orange juice, and dessert was the traditional baked papaya, well seasoned and ensconced in a coconut half-shell.

Siale and Naomi were brother and sister, and were raising a flock of children. The children were in fact their own brothers and sisters, younger than them by 10 years or so. The mother and father had passed away, leaving Siale and Naomi to raise the youngsters.

After dinner they pressed us with little gifts: leis cleverly woven from brine-bleached tree bark, a woven coin purse, and a geography cone shell that Naomi had found on the reef. "Malo aupito, ma'-lo!" (Thank you very much, thank you!) we expressed. Then after the meal, bashfully some of the younger family members began appearing.

Rain was pouring down, and Siale explained that after the long dry season his crops needed the moisture. He wished to accompany us on the long walk back to the anchorage, and as we had only one umbrella, Naomi loaned us hers. Siale covered himself with a piece of coated nylon tarp. We presented the family with a few gifts, then Naomi sent us away with samples of the leftovers: banana-frond wrapped fish and octopus with taro root on the side.

Once back at the beach, Siale withdrew from his pocket two large white-cowrie shells, and presented them to us. Was the generosity of these people unbounded?

The wind was blowing a miniature gale obliquely on-shore, and we found ourselves unable to paddle the dinghy back to the yacht -mainly because Siale had insisted on manning Jenny's oar, and frankly his agrarian arms were neither as strong nor resolute as Jenny's. Back ashore after our first attempt, we walked along the water's edge to windward, then managed to power out to the ship on the second attempt, but only just. With Siale's help we weighed, then motored back around to the calm and protected waters of Lisa Bay.

While anchored there, typically we could not return aboard without finding some small gift in the dinghy. First it was a little basket Rosaline had woven, then it was assorted fruits or sweet potatoes.

That evening Isaiah came rowing out in a borrowed dinghy for a long chat over a warm beer. As we sat talking he asked me to set his watch, given to him by a previous visiting sailor. It was more a conversation piece, being scarcely readable, but when I pressed the proper combination of buttons and actually produced the date, Isaiah's eyes lit up.

Warmhearted and cordial, he was good company, despite his sometimes scheming manners. Understandably, he was always asking for some little thing or another, and tonight it was matches. "What's wrong with the lighter I gave you last night?" I asked. He held it up and flicked the striker a few times to demonstrate that it no longer made fire. I examined it, then asked, "Empty? Already?" He must have used it as a lantern. Several times he implored me to pour kerosene into it, and my explanation that the lighter did not use kerosene, and that it could not be refilled was met with obvious disbelief.

Port Maurelle

Come daylight the next morning, Jenny and I sailed to Port Maurelle, where in 1781 Francisco Maurelle had anchored his Spanish galleon, occasioning the first European "discovery" of the Vava'u group. Here we found not actually a port, but a large bay featuring quiet, crystal clear water. The conditions were superb for snorkeling among the coral heads. I managed to spear a trumpet fish. Fried, it afforded a tantalizing breakfast.

Cruise Ship Day

Cruise ships come to Vava'u mainly from Australia and New Zealand. They tour the Fijis, the Tongas, and perhaps a few other island groups. The following day one was due to arrive, so we sailed to Neiafu for the occasion. Cruise ship day is something of a phenomenon in the Vava'us; once a month on the average, one and a half thousand tourists lay siege to the otherwise tranquil island, and for the occasion the villagers come from far and wide to congregate in a large open-air market and vend their wares. We enjoyed meandering between parallel rows of booths, where Tongans were selling their handicrafts in a bewildering variety. These included attractively fashioned baskets, wood carvings, woven mats, tapa cloths, sea shells, and a host of assorted trinkets. No welfare for these industrious folks. Waiting until the final 15 minutes before ship departure, we bought about all the souvenirs we could carry home.

Siale had been there with his horse, proffering rides to tourists; and as usual he had a gift for us: a precious little white cowrie, rare hereabouts.

Lape and Matamaka

After provisioning at the mid-August, Saturday Neiafu market, we set off for the nearby islands of Lape and Matamaka. With chart close at hand we worked our way between reefs and islands, and found a quiet and secluded setting to spend a few hours. But no sooner had we anchored when visitors came knocking on the hull.

Standing in a canoe, two characters, apparently not yet having applied the finishing touches to their manners and senses of propriety, at once called for coffee and other items. Their nefarious attitudes put me ill at ease, and I sent them away. Five minutes later the same canoe returned, occupied this time by two boys who presented us with a few shells and a coconut. The more outspoken of the two said, "those men no good" referring to our first visitors.

I invited the youngsters aboard. The older lad asked for a piece of paper, onto which he then wrote their names. Both boys were proud of the English words they were learning in school, and were anxious to impress us with them. I tape-record their pronunciations of some of the island's names. With the chart spread before us I pointed to the printed names, and the boys would chime the pronunciations in unison. We gave each of the boys a bag of peanuts, a pen, a pencil, and a plastic fishing lure.

Sisia Island

Jenny and I moved to nearby Sisia Island, uninhabited and blessed with a charm all its own. And at sundown we pulled ashore and built a small campfire. Indulging in the splendor and the solitude, we agreed that this was, indeed, the cruising life at its best.

A few days later we relocated to Euakafa (you-ah-cough'-ah) Island, subsequently deemed as our favorite Tongan anchorage. Not that the holding was exemplary, nor was the protection from the fresh breeze anything special; but this uninhabited island is a jewel among South Pacific islands. Neighboring inhabitants worked modest but lush plantations here, and we followed their trails leading through the farmlands and deeper into the vegetated hinterland. Also, we found the skin-diving on the nearby reefs magnificent.

Return to Neiafu

We returned to Neiafu the next day to indulge in a hotel restaurant meal, and to join with friends in the mezzanine to watch a movie. We all agreed the movie, "African Queen" was appropriate.

An empty and derelict dinghy found floating in the sea is a consternating discovery, and when a native fishing boat motored into the yacht basin bringing just such a find, we sailors became distraught, as were the fishermen. They had discovered the half-deflated boat drifting east of the Tongas, empty and surrounded by sharks. Had this dinghy been used as a life raft, we wondered in horror?

Imagine our surprise when the crew of a newly arriving yacht recognized the old tattered dinghy as theirs. It seemed that the painter had come untied, and the boat had blown away from their anchorage at Bora Bora. The free-floating dinghy had actually arrived at this landfall a day ahead of them!

With the moon waxing gibbous we began preparing to embark for Fiji. So after one more Saturday market shopping spree to buy fruit and vegetables, and after mailing gifts of woven baskets galore to our parents, we set off.

Mariner's Cave

Before we could leave the Tonga Islands altogether, though, we wanted to visit Mariner's Cave, an attraction much touted by those who have been inside. Of itself the cave is not much to rave about, but entering the cave is a unique experience reserved only for adept swimmers. The entrance is fully submerged.

In the cave's vicinity the shoreline is steep-to, and the bottom plunges away into the depths. So while Jenny stood at Suka's helm motoring around in slow circles, I swam along the cliffs in search of the cave's entrance.

First, I inspected a blow hole that with each ocean swell hissed like a steam locomotive while spewing a great rush of water. This phenomenon was caused by an internal air chamber being pressurized with each oncoming comber. But the hole proved only that; it was not Mariner's Cave.

Continuing on, I found and inspected a larger underwater cavern, perhaps 5 feet in diameter. Taking a deep breath, like an inverted spider I crawled upside-down along the ceiling. Farther inside I could see an air pocket. Back outside I replenished my lungs, then with a final deep breath I dove and swam in quickly toward the air pocket. It was a calculated risk, and one that relied on reaching the air inside.

Attaining the air pocket, I surfaced, and found to my dismay that the cave's ceiling was only six inches above the water. Nevertheless, the air was breathable. I waited a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. With each surge the water's surface rose, compressing my air supply distressingly. This was obviously not Mariner's Cave. Taking a deep breath, I returned outside.

While Jenny kept pace, motoring Suka alongside, I swam along the cliffs and reef wall. Then at last I came to a capacious underwater hole: obviously the cave I had been looking for.

After diving downward four feet, I swam halfway along the tunnel entrance. Again I could see that farther inside was an air pocket, but that this one was far larger than the one in the previous cave. I swam back out to collect my wits and to rest a few moments, then with lungs full I dove the four feet downward and swam quickly the twelve feet in. Rising to the surface I suddenly found myself swimming inside a large room, dimly lit only by what light effused through the underwater entrance. The chamber, about 20 feet in diameter, appeared sealed from the outside, as I could sense the pressure changes with each surge of ground swell. While spending a few minutes viewing these inspiring surroundings I felt cut off from the world.

Taking a deep breath, I descended into the depths, and returned outside. After swimming to the ketch I returned aboard and encouraged Jenny to swim into the cave. With no little trepidation she jumped into the sea, and swam to the entrance. At some of our anchorages Jenny had practiced for this dive into Mariner's Cave by swimming underneath Suka. But she was not yet a proficient skin diver, and the prospect of diving alone into this cave frightened her.

Calculating Suka's set and drift, then motoring up-current a short distance, I abandoned ship, and swam quickly to join Jenny. In so doing, though, I arrived too winded to carry through with the dive. The brig was drifting away rapidly, and seemed in dire need of a helmsman. So I swam hard for her, and Jenny took this as an abandonment of any further plans, and reached Suka ahead of me. "I don't want anything to do with that cave," she demurred. "Besides, if we go in there together we'll lose Suka for sure. I'm more afraid of that than of going into the cave."

"No," I consoled, "that was just a practice run. The boat will be fine out here. You can do it, I know you can. There's air inside; we'll go in together, and I'll be right there with you." Soon I had her re-infused with the courage for another attempt. Having better knowledge of the currents, I placed Suka more strategically, then we jumped overboard and swam, slowly this time, to the cave.

"OK, ready?" I asked.

More assured this time, Jenny nodded affirmatively.

"OK, we'll take three deep breaths, then go... Swim as fast as you can. One, two... Three!" ...Down we went.

I had planned to assist her if necessary, but again she outpaced me and broke the water's surface inside the cave ahead of me. Because we had left Suka drifting dead in the water, unattended, we dared not linger. So after a minute's assessing the cavern's interior we coordinated three deep breaths, submerged, and swam back outside.

Suka lay close at hand, and we easily reached her. Climbing aboard, Jenny was ecstatic. "That was incredible!" she exclaimed. And I was very proud of her.

Anchorage of Port Maurelle

The conditions off-shore were too boisterous for comfortable travel, so we ducked back into the quiet and protected anchorage of Port Maurelle. And a report of an approaching trough kept us weather-bound one more day.