Eternal Love

by Max Howell

  It was obvious there was more to Bill Howell than met the eye. “You have got a point, Bill.”

  “Too bloody right I have. A class war, mate, and we have to strangle the bastards. Because they have been strangling the likes of you and me for bloody years and getting away with it.” His antagonism and deep feeling suddenly changed, as he shook his shoulders. “But in the meantime, mate, here we are, the sons of the poor, in bloody Tahiti, and those silly, nice bastards do not give a damn that your old man and mine could not even win a prize in a raffle. They could not care less. Every man is judged on what he is here. Everyone is a king unless proven otherwise. So let us cut out the serious stuff, and amble up to Quinn’s Tahitian Hut.” He put one arm around Mark and the other around Mere, and they edged their way towards the bar.

  Mark was a little taken aback when they walked up the steps. It was a run-down, rickety joint with old photographs and various Pacific mementoes on the walls. The tables were in a bad state of repair and the chairs were also barely surviving. The light was poor, but the atmosphere was already electric, with couples dancing sensuous native dances to the sound of a ukelele, which had everyone moving faster and faster and the bodies, glistening with sweat, merged closer. “They are just warming up,” laughed Bill, “and the girls from the hills are not here yet. They are still waking up from last night.”

  Mark sat mesmerised watching the action, the dancers putting an enormous amount of energy into their activities. Some of the dances resembled the sexual act, the bodies moving towards each other, and he felt his eyes drawn to the pelvis’s of the dancers as they moved and rotated. Occasionally a pair would dash off into the night, doubtless to complete the real act.

  The noise and the laughter made it difficult to talk, but every now and then a beautiful girl would amble over to the table and talk to Bill, and Mark could see him shaking his head. During one of the few moments when the din subsided Bill leaned over and said: “There are a few of the locals who would like to sleep with you to-night, but I told them you were not quite right in the head. They would be insulted if I told them you did not want to because of a girl in a far-off land.”

  Mark laughed. “Well, if I am really crazy I am perfectly happy.”

  It was a marvellous night. Bill would stagger to the floor and have a go himself, being nowhere as proficient as the locals, but he had few inhibitions and threw himself into it. Mark had never seen anything like the general hilarity, and sat enjoying the music and the atmosphere.

  At about midnight Mark excused himself and retreated from the bar. The sound of the music followed him all the way to the ship, and he thought how well the Polynesian music suited Tahiti. It was a beautiful night, the moon was out and there was a slight breeze. As he wended his way home and watched the shimmering light on the water, and saw the gently moving coconut trees, he felt a certain sympathy for Fletcher Christian and the mutineers.

  The Lakemba left the following afternoon, but he was able to spend the morning with Bill and Mere. Mere brought Mark a lei made up of local flowers, and he wore it until the time he left, loving the smell of the tropical flowers. She made a lunch of papaya and mangoes, and they sat on chairs at the stern of Bill’s boat and enjoyed the repast.

  “And where are you going off to, Mark, for your studies?” enquired Bill.

  “The University of California at Berkeley.”

  “Berkeley? Well bugger me! You would not read about it, but my young brother went there. He finished last year, got his doctorate and now is a professor at the University of British Columbia in Canada. He loved it there. He played for Australia in Rugby Union, and was one of the Wallabies.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Max - Max Howell.”

  “I remember him,” said Mark, “I saw him play for Randwick a few times, and one time watched him play for New South Wales against the All Blacks. I remember he was thin as a rake and fit as a fiddle. I wondered how he could stand up to the pounding. He was an idol in our school. He was a former captain of the school I went to, Sydney Technical High School.”

  “That is him, that is my bloody brother,” replied Bill. “Well, he went off to Berkeley, much like yourself. Too bad he is not there now, as he could give you a few clues. I will drop him a line and let him know you are there. He goes down every year as UBC plays Berkeley for the World Cup. It was named after a Vancouver newspaper, The World, but the deluded Yanks think they are playing for world supremacy.”

  “I would love to hear from him. Need all the help I can get.”

  “Well, maybe we were fated to meet here in Tahiti. Both from Randwick, and both you and my young brother going to Berkeley.”

  “Yes,” said Mark, “it is amazing, and of all places, it happened in Tahiti. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever expect to get here.”

  “Life is funny, sometimes,” replied Bill. “I am a bloody agnostic myself, and think religion is a bunch of crap for people of limited intelligence. But there are coincidences, I have got to admit, and this certainly is one of them.”

  When they finished their conversation, Bill and Mere walked down to the ship to see him off, Mark feeling quite proud wearing his lei and arm-in-arm with his new-found friends.

  “It was great to meet you, Bill and Mere and, Bill, I wish you all the best on your sea adventures.”

  “Thanks, mate, and if you are ever in England look me up and I will check your teeth. Charge you like a wounded buffalo, too.”

  Mark laughed, and walked up the gang-plank. As the ship eventually pulled away, he watched Bill and Mere waving, and Tahiti slowly receded into the distance. He felt sad. He liked the island, he enjoyed his conversations with Bill Howell, and his only regret was that he could not share it with Faith. She would have loved every moment of it.

  The final stop for the ship was Honolulu. Mark had read so much about it, and he had been told that if he ever got there he had to look up Duke Kahanamoku. ‘The Duke,’ as he was called, was a legend in swimming and surfing circles. Mark had no idea of his age, but thought he might be in his late sixties. He knew he had competed for the USA in 1912, though he was Hawaiian. He had seen photographs of this Polynesian-looking, grey-haired and smiling ex-athlete, who the captain said was the Honorary Mayor of Hawaii. He had competed over the years against all of Australia’s greats, and against one of the first Tarzans, the American Johnny Weismuller. His sportsmanship was legendary, and on a visit to Australia in those early years he reportedly introduced the ancient Hawaiian sport of surf-boarding.

  So as soon as Mark got to Hawaii he went to Waikiki Beach, and after a few enquiries he was led into the Duke’s presence. He was bigger than Mark had envisaged, he was an imposing figure.

  “So you are Mark Jamieson,” he said, “of course I have read about you. We thought we were pretty good in our day, and we do not admit it in public, but the top girls would beat us to-day. But things were different then. We did not train too much, and there was no scientific side to the sport. I guess you might say we were naturals. Johnny Weismuller and Buster Crabbe were the same, great natural athletes. If we did the amount of training you young fellows do to-day, who knows? One thing I am certain about, and that is we had more fun than the present-day athletes. It was nowhere as serious in our days. There was not the same emphasis on winning. We were all friends - Arne Borg from Sweden, Boy Charlton from your country, the great Johnny Weismuller. When we finished a race we would invariably put our arms around the winner, whoever he was. There was no pettiness, no jealousies. I hate to say they were the good old days, and I have nothing but the fondest memories of my swimming years. We did not get paid anything, but I can tell you I saw the world and have friends all over the globe. I would not have changed anything that I have done. I have had a marvellous life! I meet people like you, every day. Now what would you like to do, how about a swim with the Duke? I will not be able to keep up with you these days, but maybe I can still show you a thing or two on the boards.”

  “Th
ere is nothing I can think of that I would like to do more,” said Mark earnestly. “I would love to test the waters at Waikiki.”

  “I think you might be disappointed, son. I swam at Bondi and Maroubra and some of those other Sydney beaches, and I loved those waves. Waikiki does not have body surfing because of the reefs, and the waves are only good for board surfing. We do have beaches as good as yours, but you have to go to the other side of Oahu. Anyhow, the water here at Waikiki is beautiful and we love it.”

  When they arrived at the beach, the Duke’s striking grey hair and deeply tanned skin made him instantly recognisable. Children ran towards him laughing, and he patted them on the head, called them by name, and put his immense arms around them. People stopped and hailed him, and his face always broke into a broad smile. He was obviously a national hero. The beach boys also clambered around him. The Duke introduced Mark to them and then strode towards the sea. “Let us have a swim first, Mark, but do not go too fast, remember my age,” said the Duke, always smiling.

  They walked into the water. There was a gradual increase in depth, and occasionally Mark would step on a piece of coral. “It is as flat as a pancake,” said Mark.

  “I told you, Mark. But it is good for swimming and board surfing. Let us just swim for a while.” They both dived in and began stroking. It was wonderful to feel the water again, and to stretch his muscles out. He glanced over at the Duke, and grinned as he saw the rhythmical arm action, the extension of the arm being much longer than was the present custom. The Duke had a wonderfully efficient and relaxed style, his body hydroplaning more than Mark’s, which was lower in the water and had a shorter arm pull. It was thrilling to watch an old ‘pro’ in action, and he felt very proud matching the Duke stroke for stroke in a leisurely fashion. Mark just fitted in to the Duke’s pace.

  After a few hundred yards of easy swimming, Mark tapped the Duke on the shoulder and, as they trod water he said: “I do not think I could handle you if you had a little training.”

  The Duke smiled, his white teeth shining in the sun. “I would insist they put lead weights on you, and then I might have a chance. No, Mark, times have changed, that Dawn Fraser of yours could have beaten me in my prime.”

  “It is all a function of time, Duke. It is a pleasure to watch you swim. I can see what a natural you must have been.”

  “Well, Mark, let us go back to the beach. This is just the warm-up. Now we shall see how you handle the board. I took mine to Australia forty years ago, and they could not believe it. Thousands would turn out for my exhibitions, and they caught on to surf-boards pretty fast. You Aussies live in the surf.”

  They swam back to the shore and the Duke got out his own board and borrowed one for Mark. They were large things, about eight feet long and one-and-a-half feet wide, and he marvelled as the heavily muscled Duke casually tossed his on his shoulder and walked majestically towards the water. Soon the Duke’s body was on the board, and his powerful arms were pulling him through the water. He glanced back at Mark, and yelled, “Now you happen to be in my territory, young lad.”

  They worked their way out to about a hundred yards from shore, where a group of enthusiasts were waiting for the better waves. They all hailed the Duke, and one youngster laughingly said, “Hey, old man, do you know what you are doing out here?”

  The Duke smiled and said slowly “Sonny, I was doing this stuff before your father was even thought of.” Then suddenly he turned the board and caught a wave, just as he ended the sentence. In a second he was standing up, and Mark and the others watched in awe as this magnificent figure of a man balanced himself on the board, his arms to the side, his white mane flowing in the breeze, a smile on his face. My God, Mark thought, he looks like a Polynesian god. Surely he must be an immortal.

  Mark caught a wave not long thereafter. It was a long and even run, and he found it surprisingly easy to keep his balance. The waves in no way resembled those in Australia, which crashed and roared. But it was a thrill to glide in toward the beach, and as he passed the Duke on his way back he waved. In front of him was the glorious shore-line of Waikiki, with its wide stretch of white sand, dominated by the stately Royal Hawaiian Hotel.

  After the wave petered out, he turned the board around and paddled back to the reef. They surfed for about three hours, and Mark felt restored, with the sun beating down on his back and the taste of salt in his mouth. It reinforced, for him, his love of the sea, and he hoped that wherever he finished up in life that the surf would be nearby. He could scarcely imagine a life without the sea.

  When they came back to shore the Duke took him for a car ride around Oahu, showing him the memorial to the U.S. fleet when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbour, Diamond Head, the pineapple plantations, the other beaches and so on.

  As they travelled, the Duke recounted the problems of Oahu. “I have seen a lot of the world through swimming, and I kept my eyes and my ears open. The problem the Hawaiian has is the same as that of the Australian aborigine, the North American Indian, the Maori and so on. We all had societies that were in harmony with our environment. Our aim was cultural continuity, and we had a near perfect life-style. We respected our elders, loved our children, had plenty of food and drink. The gods were kind to us, they smiled on us seemingly forever. But it was not forever!

  “The white man came, the French, the English, the Americans, the missionaries. They brought diseases with them that were unknown to us, and they ravaged our people. Our women were abused, and our men were sought after as serfs in the plantations. Our land, the land we took for granted, started to diminish, barriers were put up, fences and towns emerged where our villages once were.

  “The white man represented change, whereas we represented continuity. Why change perfection? We were doomed, and in the twinkling of an eye there were more of them than us. We had no desire to be serfs in our own domain, where freedom had ever been the catch-cry. So the Japanese and Chinese were imported to fill the labour gap, and they saved and calculated and the next generation that they bred bought the land and started the businesses and got educated, while we stumbled around bewildered, hoping that someone would wave a magic wand and restore the wonders that we once had.

  “The missionaries treated us like children, clothed us in western clothes and made us ashamed of our own religion. They said we worshipped pagans, practiced idolatry, were licentious. What was innocence became something filthy, and change was forced upon us. We began to realise that we had to adapt or we would not survive. Our basic ways were lost forever, and in some ways we became parodies of our former selves. We were expected to play the ukelele, the women were supposed to do the hula, the strongest of the men were supposed to rent beach chairs and surf boards and take tourists out to sea.

  “Many of us have become bitter, and some have become alcoholics and/or have had mental breakdowns because of the pressures placed on them. They lost their identity, their family associations, their beliefs, their gods, their land, their women, their chiefs. In many ways I was seen as a hero to my people, who I love, because I was accepted by the European community. However I saw myself in neither world, yet trying to pretend I was of both worlds. But in my heart I am Hawaiian, and hear the chanting of the wind and the rolling of the surf, and I miss the village dances, the physical challenges, the group feasts, the fishing and canoeing. Although I am seen as a kind and friendly person, my heart burns for my people, because unless they adapt they are doomed. The pity of it all is I believe our culture was superior to the European. Look at our men and women, their arms and their legs and their chests. Which was the superior race and which was happier?”

  “I feel a great sympathy for you and your people, Duke,” said Mark earnestly. “I have never travelled out of Australia before, but I have seen the same problem in Fiji and Tahiti. I did not give it much thought before, but I realise now that the same thing has happened in my own country. I took history at school, and it starts with Captain Cook’s discovery in 1770 and the beginning of white coloni
sation with Governor Phillip in 1788. What was never told in our history books was the heritage and culture of the people who occupied our land for 30-40,000 years before that influx of white settlers. It was as if the prior people did not exist. The concept that was drummed into me was that they were a stone-age people, backward, little better than animals, more pests than humans, with no feelings, and with little pride. What if they were like your people, perhaps even a superior culture, who were simply overrun by so-called civilisation? I am an Australian, and proud to be one, but I shamefully admit my own ignorance about our aborigines. This trip has broadened my horizons, opened my eyes to the world in ways I can scarcely believe. I feel it is the beginning of my own education.”

  “You surprise me, Mark,” said the Duke solemnly, “you show an understanding well beyond your years. Many people travel, but few scratch the surface to reveal the underlying reality. Though we have just met, you display to me an empathy that comes from the heart, and cannot be learned from a book or be taught. But enough of this seriousness, it saddens me. We still have the remnants of villages, though the erosion is rapid. To-night I am invited to a luau, and I would like you to come with me. You can get an idea of what our life used to be like, when we were happy and free in our own land.”