by Carlos Eyles
“Well, you better stay away from America, that’s all they do there is work. It gets worse every year. I remember when just my dad worked, now both parents work long hours. I was up to my eyeballs in work.”
Compton let the water roll through his fingers. It felt warm and inviting.
“The competition is fierce in America. Everyone is looking for an edge, something that will put them over the top. They lie and cheat and after awhile you begin to do it, too, just to keep up. You tell yourself it doesn’t feel wrong. When I was a kid, I could feel the wrong in my acts, then when I grew up the feeling sort of disappeared. Lately, my world has changed and has been exposing the things I’ve done that can’t be excused away.”
Compton was speaking softly to the water and Moses backed off the throttle to idle speed so he could hear him.
Moses spit into the water. “What is it that you did for the money?”
“I used to be an architect and built spec houses on the side. But I went broke, as you know, doing that, so now I’m training other architects how to use CAD software programs.” Compton reached down and pulled the water to his face, and doused it. “My father was a doctor. He took pride in his work. He once said that the only good work any man can do is the kind that can be felt and seen at the end of the day.”
Compton paused for a long moment, watched the water spill through the fingers of his outstretched hand, letting the kava release his burden.
“When my wife and I split up she got an injunction so I couldn’t see my son. My world came apart. I began to do cocaine. Then I broke my leg in a car wreck. Two places in the thigh bone, I got this rare thing called fat emboli which was caused by the bone break and got into my blood and formed a clot at the base of my brain stem. Couldn’t get any oxygen to the brain. Almost died, was in a coma for twenty-eight days. When I get out of the hospital, my ex had married somebody else and told my son I had died, and moved to Dallas. I haven’t seen either one in nearly two years. I’ve been trying to put my life back together ever since. Let me tell you, I’m a far better spear fisherman than I was a freelance architect. But being a spear fisherman in American is like being a computer repairman in Qamea. Unique perhaps but not a whole lot of demand for their skills.”
The boat moved into a lee and the sea calmed to glass. Neither man spoke and Moses kept the speed of the boa at idle.
“That explains much,” said Moses, following the stars. Then he laughed, “Man is crazy, eh. He chases something that kills him if he catches it. Sometimes I think only the rich and the poor are free. The rest work for promises that never come.”
21
The late moon cast its blanched light through the opened window of the hut illuminating the white netting that surrounded Compton in his bed. It appeared web-like and sinister and to further the illusion a large spider was making its way across the top of the netting, its weight enough to shake the net with each step. In the moment, Compton felt helplessly trapped and doomed to a gruesome fate. Thrusting open the netting he launched the spider into flight.
“I want that Silver Fish,” he said aloud. The spear gun leaned against the fallen tree and he went to it. Using a flashlight, he carefully inspected it, diligently going over the detachable spear cable looking for kinks that might eventually become splits. He checked the rubber where it was tied to the metal wishbones that fit into the grooves of the spear shaft for any stress cracks, finding none. All was in order with the gun. He removed two pounds of weight from his belt so that neutral buoyancy would be ten feet deeper. Satisfied that all was in readiness, he slipped into the wetsuit at the sound of Moses’ outboard breaking the predawn tranquility as it came round the East Point. A diffused light of the still buried sun cast across the gray heavens, leeching into a stainless steel sea, obscuring any delineation between the two. Though the air was warm, the lack of sun created the illusion of cold and Compton involuntarily shivered. A light rain began to fall.
Moses looked at the sky. “The fish are tamed by the rain. There will be wailu on the reef.” He then pointed straight ahead. Suspended between the gray sky and sea floated a small boat.
“Aprosa,” uttered Moses.
The way he said it quickened Compton’s competitive pulse, warming his stomach and dissipating the false coldness. He had his gear on and was ready to enter the water the moment they arrived. At full throttle Moses soon came alongside Aprosa’s yellow-hulled skiff a young boy was sitting in the stern mechanically bailing water. A forty-five pound mackerel lay in the bow and Aprosa appeared thirty yards away swimming towards the boat bringing another. Moses had arrived at Orchid Beach before dawn and Compton had thought they would have plenty of time. Now he hurried into the sea, anxious to impress the master. He cocked the gun as Aprosa swam by carrying a fish as large as the one in the boat. Compton swam a hundred feet north of the boats and made a dive to clear his suit of bubbles. He was near the north edge of the reef where he had seen the fish before and there was no sign. He feared that Aprosa might have taken the only two fish on the reef or that he had spooked the others after the last spearing. Compton leveled off at thirty feet, turning slowly in a three-sixty sweep, the coral reef spread out below like a stone cloud. On the far edge of the coral two mackerel came in from the outside. Compton had not the breath-hold left to dive to their depth and waited in the hope that the fish would see him and begin to drift up. His throat had already constricted and he was in need of air. His chest grew tight and he could feel a convulsion looming in his solar plexus. The fish came swiftly now but he knew he could not wait them out, spear one and make it back to the surface and rose reluctantly before the fish reached his position.
Aprosa dove past Compton coming silently out of the gray ceiling with the fluid grace of a raptor descending on its prey. He leveled off at a depth equal to the mackerel, sixty feet, and like a statue framed in white coral, waited for the fish. One behind the other they came and when they were astonishingly close, he let loose the spear. The shaft struck the fish and stopped it dead in its tracks. It was a remarkable sight to witness. More remarkable was the realization that Aprosa was able to do this on each and every shot. He swam the fish up from the depths, his thigh muscles large and rippling from the load. He had placed the spear exactly on the lateral line behind the pectoral fin. The second fish drifted off undisturbed by the subtle swiftness of its partner’s demise and the reef went about its usual business unaware of any intrusion.
Compton inhaled several deep breaths and dropped down on the remaining fish, which had circled back and leveled off at fifty feet. When parallel to the fish and very close he aimed and pulled the trigger. The shaft hit an inch off the lateral line and the mackerel accelerated off towards the bottom. Compton held the line and kicked hard against the tremendous pull of the fish that, in its frenzy to wrench free of the spear, tore muscle and skin as it fought against it. Kicking furiously with legs now strong from his months in the water, Compton was able to make his way to the surface fighting the fish every foot of the way. From there he hauled it up with a determination he had never known in himself.
The two boats had been lashed together and Compton handed the still fighting fish up to Moses and climbed aboard. The rain had stopped and Aprosa sat in his boat with fins off eating a pawpaw.
“Your legs are strong, Keli,” he said. “Save you another trip to Somosomo.”
Compton grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I saw too much of the fish, missed the spot.“ He spoke while restringing the shooting line and preparing to reenter the water. Aprosa made no move to join him and Compton hurried off the boat and into the water.
Save for a school of barracuda that breezed the reef like wingless vultures searching out carrion, the water was devoid of further fish activity. After a fruitless hour Compton returned to the boats where Moses and Aprosa were sharing a coconut, lost in idle gossip.
“No fish?” asked Moses. “Aprosa say they gone from the fight of the last one. They smell the death in the water.”
Compton removed his fins and settled into a seat across from Moses. “Is there somewhere else we can go?” he asked impatiently.
‴We have enough, eh.” replied Moses. “Hard to find fish now. Did you see that big wailu?”
“No, nothing,” said Compton indignantly to the bottom of the boat.
“We go to the village, have plenty fish for everyone,” said Moses in a jubilant manner that seemed to disturb Compton, who did not reply and appeared overly absorbed in removing his wetsuit. He sat in the bow throughout the trip, thus avoiding conversation. They found passage through the barrier reef that encircled the resort and cut across the bay as before but when they broke through the far side of the bay they did not shoot straight across to the Half Done Village, instead heading southeast down the channel. On the far shore, emerald hills of tree and grass stretched to the low gray sky. An easterly breeze was rending the clouds and through patches of blue poured yellow light, polishing the hillsides to jade. Brown, thatched huts grew out of the hills as if fallen from the light and gardens splashed with deep purples and reds vibrated in the breeze. Pathways were lined in white stones that were used to encircle coconut trees and flower beds, further highlighting the magical setting.
At the shoreline where the mangroves ended and earth met the mud, two old and wrinkled women shucked clams. Moses said that they were in their seventies and had dived for the clams in nearby shallows. A thin, muscular man balancing on a narrow raft of bamboo stalks drifted silently out of the mangroves. He was holding a four-pronged spear and, according to Moses, was returning from a hunt along the mangroves for small fish, which he speared from the raft. A tall, muscular man, heavy boned in the face and very black skin, introduced by Moses as Vito, had come down to the muddy shoreline to greet them. Shortly, children, men and women gathered at the base of a grassy knoll that stretched clean and uncluttered to the first bures and beyond.
Aprosa arrived and his three fish, along with Compton’s fish, were lifted from the boats and placed at the foot of the crowd. Compton stood apart from the gathering and when the fish were taken and paraded up the hill, he motioned Moses.
“I think it would be best if I went back to Orchid Beach.”
Moses appraised Compton for a long moment, then said, “All right, you go to the boat.”
After speaking to Vito, he returned wordlessly to the boat and poled out of the mud. From the beach came a shout from a woman. She was waving the boat back to shore but Moses shook his head no and she dropped her hand. Behind her stood Sinaca regally observing and when Compton saw her he turned his face to the sea as the boat cleared the mangroves.
They rode to Orchid Beach in silence. After beaching the boat Compton asked Moses up for tea. “I suppose I owe you an explanation.”
Moses said nothing and quietly fingered the shells in the middle of the table. When Compton had taken a seat, Moses said, “You have done a bad thing, Keli. You have insulted the village.”
“What are you talking about? How could I have done that?”
“They were to have a feast in your honor, with music and dancing.”
“Why my honor? I didn’t get three fish, Aprosa did.”
“So that is it, eh,” nodded Moses in understanding.
“One fish is hardly worth the labor of a celebration,” added Compton.
Moses put down his tea and looked out to sea, then turned to Compton. “Your pride is false, Keli. Your truths are small. The celebration is not because you brought a fish but you wished to share it with the village. It does not matter who gets the biggest fish or the most fish. Because everyday that changes. Nobody expected you to be a better spear fisherman than Aprosa. The village wishes to have a meal and laugh together and any reason is a good reason to do that. But you take that reason away from them. Chief Isikeli would have come, it would have been your time to be invited into the village.
“I didn’t know,” responded Compton stiffly. “I wanted to impress Sinaca.”
“If your pride was small it would have been easy to know but for you, Keli, it is difficult to see such things.”
“So what now?” asked Compton, the realization sinking in.
“They will forgive you because they know the smallness of the white man’s truths.”
“Will they forgive me just because I am white?”
“No, they forgive everyone. But only a white person would do such a thing, eh.”
“So they treat me differently because I’m white. They feel sorry for me, don’t they?”
“Of course they do. It is a terrible thing not to understand what is life and be confused about the simple things.”
Compton looked at the sky as if to hold back tears. It was true, he realized. I don’t understand life, real life. Hell, I still don’t understand myself.
“What must Sinaca think?” sprang from his lips. Moses impassively observed the torment that swept across Compton’s face.
“She will forgive quicker than the rest, already it is past her.”
“I mean, will she see me as the weak and confused white fool that I am?”
Moses laughed and shook his head. “You are two men, Keli. One man is weak with false pride and blind to truths, the other spears fish like a Fiji man. It is the spear fisherman that Sinaca sees and the people see. When you do something foolish like leave a celebration then they notice that you are white.”
Compton laughed at himself. “I know that everything you say is true, Moses. I don’t know why I do the things I do. It’s like if I don’t push life, it pushes me. Either way I wind up going in the wrong direction.”
“It is the small truths that your pride twists to please yourself. A man needs very little pride. Pride is like water inside the boat. A little bit is a good thing, it keeps the wood tight and washes the blood away. But when the boat begins to fill with too much water it cannot move and soon begins to sink. The man bails and bails to keep the boat from sinking. His head is down, he is working hard but his boat is not moving lightly across the water. He will say he has lived a worthwhile life but he has been bailing and knows nothing.”
Compton inhaled a deep breath as though he were about to make a dive, then let it out through his teeth.
Moses continued, “Well, you’re in a different world now. So pull your boat up on the beach and let your pride drain away, accept a little. Then we fix the leaks and put you back into the water so you can go lightly across the sea, eh.”
“How long does it take to fix leaks this bad?”
“They already being fixed, eh.”
Moses stood abruptly and said after a pause, “I’m going back to the village. There is eating and grog. Do you wish to come?”
“I’m too embarrassed. I think I’ll stay and give them some time to forget.”
“All right, brother.” Moses strode to the beach and was in the boat when Compton shouted to him.
“We go to the deep reef tomorrow for some wailu?”
Moses chuckled, and shouted back, “Kava night tonight.”
“Then I’ll see you when I see you.”
“No sooner than that, eh.”
22
It was with surprise and delight to see Moses arrive early in the morning and with scarcely a word between them, motored Compton out to the deep reef. On his first dive, the Silver Fish materialized out of a glycerin sea. The twisted white flesh of its wound caught the early light and identified it. The fish, in that grand pelagic style of movement that propelled it without tail or fin action, closed the distance as he held his place at a depth of forty feet. The fish drew to within twenty feet then broke off its line of approach and slid back to the edge of the reef and into the depths.
He dove for two hours but the Silver Fish did not reappear. Near the end of the dive a wailu breeout of those same depths and he speared it, finding the spot, making the kill. The fish quivered in its death throes and slowly sank but otherwise made no movement. White tips gathered at the top of the reef sixty feet down at the vibratio
ns but were of no consequence. He handed the fish to Moses who hefted its weight and declared it to be around twenty-five kilos.
Compton elected to make no mention of the Silver Fish to Moses or report any further sightings. The Silver Fish was obviously held in high regard by Aprosa, and perhaps others, but when the time came he would spear it. Until then, he felt his intentions were best left undeclared.
“I take this fish to Taveuni,” said Moses. “The resort has plenty of fish. I need the kerosene and some rice. Do you wish anything?”
Compton, in his preoccupation replied, “A couple of things. I’ll give you a list.”
They headed back to Orchid Beach on a fixed sea. Minutes into the run Moses abruptly turned the boat back to the open water, directing it to a skiff far out on the edge of a breaking reef, midway to the horizon. “They are in need of a fish,” he muttered to the sea.
Compton, baffled by the remark but no longer surprised by declarations Moses might utter, sat back to see what exactly would transpire. The run was long on the flat sea and took every bit of twenty minutes. They came alongside a blue-hulled boat that was similar to most other skiffs on the island. An old Fijian man was at the outboard and in the bow was a white man wearing a large Panama hat. Moses asked the white fisherman if he wanted to buy a fish.
“Yes, by all means,” he cordially replied. “I need something for tonight.”
He identified himself as an Australian and was quite impressed with the size of the speared mackerel. “You speared that fish?” he asked, looking at Compton then at the spear gun.
“I did,” answered Compton, affecting a manner of boredom to enhance the feat.
“Magnificent! We had given up on fish today. We were about to pack it in. Your arrival was timely. A third of that fish would do nicely. What do I owe you?”