“Yeah,” he said. “I see what you mean.”
We were five hundred yards out from the yachts and the few cruisers tied up to the sea-wall along the front of the hotel across the bay. The closest part of the shoreline was perhaps two hundred yards away to the left as we faced the hotel, but that part was mangrove: twisted, matted, water-exposed roots tangling themselves down into the mud.
“Well,” Rick muttered, stretching his five-foot-ten-inch frame. “Are we going to sit around here all day – or do you think we could possibly go and get stuck into a few beers?”
It took us ten minutes to unlash the small aluminium dinghy from the top of the wheelhouse roof and manhandle it down to the back deck. A few scrapings of pale-blue paint drifted down towards the water as we heaved the battered craft over the side. I knew that there would be more than that missing by the time this trip was over, but the Sally May was used to rough treatment. She was a work boat, not one of your pretty Sunday cruisers. There would be rust there in two or three days; but what did a little rust matter? The journey across had left her salt-stained and grimy, with the stern-quarters covered in powdered black exhaust stains; and besides, the older the boat looked over the next month or so the less likely it was that anybody would take much notice of her, or of us. We had to look like three guys bumming our way around the South Pacific, not like a trio of dedicated treasure hunters, with everything spick and span, equipment gleaming and at the ready.
“I reckon I’m going to like this place!” Rick exclaimed.
“Yeah, me too,” I said and passed the small outboard motor down.
I watched as Rick tightened the clamps and tied the safety rope to the rear seat. He fitted the fuel hose into its socket, gave three or four squeezes on the bulb and then pulled the starter. She gave one cough and purred into life. It said a lot for the care Rick lavished on all the mechanical equipment on the trawler. He couldn’t give a damn for topsides, wouldn’t even notice if the deck was clean, the brasswork was polished or if the paintwork was peeling. The hull could be a rusted hulk for all he cared; as long as the engines and other machinery were spotless and in perfect running order. It was usually left to Henry and me to make certain the boat was more or less habitable. I looked after the hull and topsides. Henry took care of the stores, fresh water, and anything to do with below deck.
“You guys going to get cleaned up first?” Henry asked, looking down at the frayed shorts he had been wearing for the last four days.
“No way!” Rick shot back. “Just grab a shirt and let’s get ashore.”
Rick’s thirst had got the better of him. The outboard was running and there was no way he was getting back on board the trawler without first sinking those few beers.
“Henry!” I yelled at his retreating back. “Grab a shirt for me too, will you?”
Rick cut the out-board motor and we drifted up to one of the several floating pontoons secured to the sea-wall, threading our way through six or seven other dinghies tied to the railing, some with names of yachts anchored a hundred yards out from the shore, some nameless, but each one different from the other: aluminium; plywood; plastic; rubber; snub-nosed; most of them scraped and scarred; and one even newly painted. At least someone seemed to care.
The hotel’s restaurant, lounge bar and dance floor reached almost to where we stood at the water’s edge, the ripples lapping against the low concrete retaining wall, its foundation no more than five or six feet below the surface, with maybe another three feet up to floor level.
The hinged pontoon ramp ran parallel to the wall and past the front of the high vaulted public rooms, their huge round wooden beams lashed together Fijian style, and then led to an open area: a patio, swimming pool, and a long expanse of lawn dotted with coconut palms and fringed with brightly coloured gardens. The main accommodation section, two-story, stood back from the lawn, with each room looking out across the gardens and over the yachts moored stern to against the low wall, a concrete buttress that seemingly held the land safe from an encroaching sea.
“Why don’t we get a berth in here for a few days?” Henry asked, indicating several empty spaces along the wall with a wave of his hand. “They all seem to have shore power. It would be much easier than having to run the auxiliary, and better than having to motor in with the dinghy every time we wanted to come ashore.”
“No way!” Rick exclaimed before I had time to open my mouth. “If we come in here, we’ll have people all over the boat; people with nothing better to do than stick their noses into other people’s business. They’d soon find out how much we know about bloody underwater photography. Best to keep ourselves at arm’s length, mate, and act like the rough and tough prawnies we’re supposed to be.”
Rick had sold insurance before he took up prawning. He had worked hard for four or five years, but had got out before he started running out of friends. Even with six years of prawning under his frayed towelling hat, I still couldn’t see him in the mould of some of the more uncouth of our mates back in Cairns.
“I agree with Rick,” I said, throwing in my support for what it was worth.
“Yeah, fair enough,” Henry acknowledged.
“What’s the name of this place, anyway?” I asked, lurching to one side as the pontoon rocked under our feet.
“Dunno,” Rick replied. “We seem to have come in the back way.”
As we approached the edge of the open patio area I glanced down into the water, much clearer than out in the bay, revealing the colours and patterns of tiny fish darting about in schools of fifty or more; and then I saw something else.
“Christ!” I yelled, pointing down into the water. “Look!”
The yellow-banded sea-snake swam lazily away from the bottom of the wall and disappeared into deeper water. Rick and I looked at each other. I shivered again. I hate snakes.
“Tradewinds,” Henry said, and the single word brought me back from visions of us diving in the shallow water around the island of Wakaya, looking for von Luckner’s iron chest while sea-snakes darted at our legs.
“What?” I said.
“Tradewinds,” he repeated. “Tradewinds Hotel. See, there’s a notice over there.”
I forgot about the snake, although the thought of diving amongst them still lingered in the back of my brain.
So this was the famous Tradewinds Hotel, resting place of ocean-going yachts during the hurricane season, and home to the shoe-string travellers seeing the world in their tiny sailboats. They would stay here for a couple of months or more, resting up, and then take off on the next leg of never-ending voyages. In another month, as the hurricane season grew even closer, there would be even more vessels anchored out from the hotel, seeking refuge in the almost enclosed bay.
We strolled around to the small concrete patio by the fresh-water pool, and helped ourselves to one of the umbrella-shaded tables, one with a good view of a couple of bikini-clad tourists frolicking in the water.
The hotel complex seemed to be crammed between the sea-wall and a highway that could take you right around the island to the towns of Nadi and Lautoka on the western side – if you survived the twists and turns and the rough surface. Whoever had built the hotel had accepted a challenge, but his calculations had been just that fraction out. The patio and pool were obviously on reclaimed land, and the weight of water in the pool had tilted it down into the packed earthen fill, with the seaward side now a good six inches lower than the other, and the chlorinated water slopping out every time one of the girls dived in.
I called out a greeting to them both and received a half-hearted wave in reply, but not encouraging enough to warrant more attention; and then I caught the glaring look from a young lad stepping ashore from one of the pretty cruisers. The ladies were spoken for.
“Hey, Andy!”
I turned to the sound of Rick’s voice and found a waiter standing by our table.
“Bula!” was the happy greeting from a set of smiling white teeth set off against a shiny brown face. “
What would you like to drink, turanga?”
I looked across at the other two and asked; “Beers?” and got two nods in reply.
“Yeah,” Rick added. “Three of the coldest you’ve got, eh, mate?”
“Yes, turanga,” our smiling friend replied, and threaded the short stubby pencil back into his thick, wire-matted hair as he walked off towards the bar, his white sarong swirling around solid calves.
Two minutes later he was back with three opened stubbies of Fiji Bitter, and three frosted beer mugs. Dropping paper beer-mats on to the white-painted steel table top, he filled the mugs, leaving each mug on his tray until the froth reached above the brim, each one holding nearly the whole stubbie, and then placed the cool golden ale in front of us, one by one. Rick was into his before mine reached the table.
The rest of the afternoon, what there was left of it, for we had arrived on shore a little before half past four, went by in a pleasant haze. The voyage across from Australia had been free of alcohol. We usually carried an adequate supply of beer when out fishing for prawns, but this trip across the Pacific was something none of us had done before and we didn’t want alcohol lulling us into a false sense of security in unfamiliar waters.
It had taken some hard talking by Henry and me, but Rick had finally agreed to sail without even a bottle of brandy on board. He had cursed us several times during the voyage, but only in a friendly way, for he knew we had done the right thing. He was making up for it now, though. We all were, even Henry, although still slower than Rick and me, with both of us helping ourselves to whatever he left in his bottle after every round – usually at least half the contents.
None of us had much to say after the second hour. We sat staring out through the gap in the bay towards the west, towards the reef fringing the island, and watched the white froth of waves breaking lazily across the coral as it had done for thousands of years. The sun dropped low on the horizon, turning slowly from a blazing white balloon to a golden orb as it sank towards the sea, the glare of the day gone and the heavy heat going out of the air; and then, half a stubbie later, the sun was gone, and the clouds lit up to a redness that seemed to brighten the whole sky, and then the other half of that stubbie later even the colour was gone and night clouded in; no twilight, just the quiet easing of day into night.
“Beautif... beautiful,” Rick slurred across the table, eyes beginning to glaze. Those ten days of enforced abstinence had reduced even his legendary tolerance, although it might have been the higher alcoholic content of the Fiji Bitter, or the fact that he was catching up on wasted time.
But whatever it was, it put paid to any ideas we had of catching a taxi into Suva itself and checking out the night-life. With the sunset now only a memory, and even that memory fast fading, we stumbled back to the dinghy – Rick with six stubbies in a cardboard carton under his arm. The barman wouldn’t sell us unopened bottles, but Rick had taken our waiter aside and slipped him a few more dollars, and the impossible had been achieved.
The outboard started after what seemed to be the hundredth pull; I had forgotten to turn the petrol tap on; and we weaved our way back across the calm darkened water to the Sally May.
Henry began organizing a meal as soon as we had climbed on board.
“Leave it!” I yelled from the foredeck. “It’s still bloody early! Come and have another drink. Don’t be a bloody wowser!”
He stayed where he was, grilling the three large steaks he had taken from the freezer before we had gone ashore. The aroma of medium-rare steaks, eggs and grilled tomatoes soon dragged us both inside. The presentation wasn’t up to Henry’s normal standards, the food piled high in the middle of each plate and streaks of grease running across to the rim; but we didn’t care, wolfing the hot food down; two nearly empty stubbies left on the foredeck to grow warm.
Unwashed dishes in the sink, beer bottles outside on the deck, doors wide open, anchor chain unchecked; we staggered down into the fo’c’sle. I watched with one eye as Henry carefully removed his shorts and sweat-soaked shirt and hung them both over the rail. Rick dropped fully clothed on to his bunk; sneakers and all.
I stretched out on the bunk and pulled up the sheet and smiled to myself. I lay there thinking of Spanish doubloons, Uncle Max’s guttural voice, pieces-of-eight, and Long John Silver; and seeing once more the look of peace on my uncle’s face as he finally went to his rest; but it wasn’t peace that I felt next morning.
******
I opened my eyes.
For a full minute I didn’t know where I was. I rolled over and wished I hadn’t moved so fast. It brought me face to face with Rick on the bunk opposite.
I felt like death and thanked God for Henry’s cooking the night before, for without it the hangover would have been the granddaddy of them all. I don’t know what it was they put into the local brew; maybe it was the preservative the hot climate demanded, or perhaps just the extra percentage of alcohol; but whatever it was – I felt like death.
I dropped my legs over the side of the bunk and sat up, and knew that it was another thing that I shouldn’t have done. My groan brought life to Rick’s eyes, or if not life at least it forced the slits to open a fraction. His head came up off the pillow and then dropped back again with a thud.
“Oh, shit!” he moaned, swallowing hard a few times.
I knew what he was feeling. My mouth tasted like something nasty had died in it a week or so ago.
“Christ!” he moaned again. “My head hasn’t felt this bad for years.”
“Serves you bloody right,” I whispered, and the words burst into my head, pounding against the temples. I shut my mouth in case I should speak again.
“Good morning!”
The friendly voice had come from the rear bunk, the one behind the ladder. I shifted my head to see Henry’s smiling face peering through the rungs.
“What’s so good about it?” I asked in a quiet voice, and all I got was a laugh in return.
He rolled off his bunk, scratched his chest a few times, yawned, drew on his shorts and climbed the few steps up the ladder, the sarcastic smile hardly concealed.
“Bastard!” I tossed towards his backside as it disappeared through the hatchway into the saloon.
A few minutes later the sound of the shower pump broke the stillness and I was certain that I could hear him singing. I thought to myself that maybe his having a low tolerance to alcohol wasn’t so unfortunate after all. He had been nearly as drunk as Rick and me when we got back to the boat, but on less than half the amount we had consumed.
His grinning countenance looked down through the hatchway again, hair slicked back, face scrubbed and gleaming. “Either of you two drunken bums feel like some breakfast?” he asked.
The thought of food made my stomach turn.
“Toast and coffee please, mate,” Rick moaned. “Black coffee, very black.”
“Same for me, Henry,” I added. “And go easy on the margarine.” I sat up. “Oh shit! Why do I do these things to myself?”
Rick and I struggled up the ladder to the saloon. He looked at me and I looked at him.
“Hair of the dog?” he asked.
“Might be the only thing.”
He reached down towards the fridge, thought better of bending right over and went down on his haunches instead, and took out the last of the stubbies we had brought on board. I searched for and finally found the opener and poured a glass each. We sat on either side of the table, staring at the two foaming glasses, but somehow I wasn’t as thirsty as I had been the night before.
“Come on, you pair of alcoholics,” Henry ordered, arms folded, his face trying its best to look grim. “Get them down.”
I glanced across at where he stood silhouetted in the doorway: bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, looking as though he hadn’t had a drink in years. The sunlight blurred his outline and hurt my eyes.
“You first,” Rick muttered at me.
“Both together,” I replied.
He nodded and we each lifte
d our respective glasses: he with two hands and me with the one, the shakes threatening to slop most of it onto the table.
The beer was cold and after the first two mouthfuls didn’t taste too bad at all; and by the end of the glass it even tasted good. Perhaps it was just as well that there had only been the one stubbie left.
“Well, guys,” I said, half an hour, three cups of very black coffee, and a dip over the side into the tepid water later. “What next?”
“We’d better head into town,” Rick replied, “and change some of those traveller’s cheques into the local currency, and I guess we need some fresh food.”
“And some booze,” I added.
“Yeah,” he agreed, a smile beginning to form for the first time that morning. “And some booze.”
******
We flagged a taxi down outside the front of the hotel, watching and doubting our choice as the driver pulled to the side of the road in a slide that could only have been caused by bald tyres. Rick jumped into the front seat, leaving the back for Henry and me. It took three tries to get the door closed. The handle was missing from the inside. I caught Henry’s eye as he glanced around the interior, seeing the torn seat, the missing near-side window and the roof-lining drooping ominously.
“She’s been around,” he said.
I nodded and reached for the non-existent seat belt as we took off with a jolt, the Indian driver grinning and then cursing as he missed one of the gears.
It was only a short ride into Suva itself, not more than three or four miles, the road following the shoreline. The greenness stretching away to our left surprised even me. Cairns was fertile, but it had nothing to compare with this. Not only did there appear to be coconut palms everywhere, but also hundreds upon hundreds of frangipani; huge ginger plants; twenty different shades and colours of hibiscus; thick, soggy, green grass; and palm fronds and branches lying by the roadside, half filling the rough-dug drains that followed the twisting road.
Humid air and the heavy muskiness of rotting vegetation poured in through the open windows as we rushed along, hurtling around swaying buses: passengers watching uninterested as we lurched past.
The Stone Dog Page 4