 CHAPTER X To the eastward Uahuka was being blotted out by an evening rain squall that was fast overtaking the snark. But that little craft, her big spinnaker filled by the southeast trade, was making a good race of it. The southeasternmost point of Nukuhiva was a beam. The Comptroller Bay was opening up as we fled past its wide entrance, where Sail Rock, for all the world, like the spritzel of a Columbia River salmon boat, was making brave weather of it in the smashing southeast swell. What do you make that out to be, I asked Herman at the wheel. The fishing boat, sir, he answered after careful scrutiny. Yet on the chart it was plainly marked Sail Rock. But we were more interested in the recesses of Comptroller Bay, where our eyes eagerly sought out the three bites of land and centred on the midmost one, where the gathering twilight showed the dim walls of a valley extending inland. How often we had poured over the chart and centred always on that midmost bite and on the valley it opened, the valley of Taipi. Taipi, T-A-I-P-I, the chart spelled it, and spelled it correctly, but I prefer Taipi, T-Y-P-E-E, and I shall always spell it Taipi. When I was a little boy I read a book spelled in that manner, Herman Melville's Taipi, and many long hours I dreamed over its pages. Nor was it all dreaming. I resolved there and then, mightily, come what would, that when I had gained strength and years, I, too, would voyage to Taipi. For the wonder of the world was penetrating to my tiny consciousness, the wonder that was to lead me to many lands and that leads and never pales. The years passed, but Taipi was not forgotten. Returned to San Francisco from a seven-months cruise in the North Pacific, I decided the time had come. The brig Galilee was sailing for the Marquesas, but her crew was complete, and I, who was an able seaman before the mast and young enough to be overweeningly proud of it, was willing to condescend to ship as cabin-boy in order to make the pilgrimage to Taipi. Of course the Galilee would have sailed from the Marquesas without me, for I was bent on finding another fairway and another quarry- quarry. I doubt that the captain read desertion in my eye, perhaps even the birth of cabin-boy was already filled. At any rate I did not get it. Then came the rush of years, filled brimming with projects, achievements, and failures, but Taipi was not forgotten, and here I was now, gazing at its misty outlines till the squalls swooped down and the snark dashed on into the driving smother. Ahead we caught a glimpse and took the compass-bearing of Sentinel Rock, wreathed with pounding surf. Then it, too, was effaced by the rain and darkness. We steered straight for it, trusting to hear the sound of breakers in time to shear clear. We had to steer for it. We had not but a compass-bearing with which to orientate ourselves, and if we missed Sentinel Rock, we missed Hiohei Bay, and we would have to throw the snark up to the wind and lie off and on the whole night. No pleasant prospect for voyagers weary from a sixty days traverse of the vast Pacific solitude, and land-hungry and fruit-hungry, and hungry with an appetite of years for the sweet veil of Taipi. Abruptly, with a roar of sound, Sentinel Rock loomed through the rain dead ahead. We altered our course, and, with mainsail and spinnaker, bellying to the squall, drove past. Under the lee of the rock, the wind dropped us, and we rolled in an absolute calm. Then a puff of air struck us, right in our teeth, out of Taiohei Bay. It was in spinnaker, up mizzen, all sheets by the wind, and we were moving slowly ahead, heaving the lead and straining our eyes for the fixed red light on the ruined fort that would give us our bearings to anchorage. The air was light and baffling, now east, now west, now north, now south, while from either hand came the roar of unseen breakers. From the looming cliffs arose the bladding of wild goats, and overhead the first stars were peeping mystically through the ragged train of the passing squall. At the end of two hours, having come a mile into the bay, we dropped anchor in eleven fathoms, and so we came to Taiohei. In the morning we awoke in fairyland. Snark rested in a placid harbor that nestled in a vast amphitheater, the towering vine-clad walls of which seemed to rise directly from the water. Far up to the east we glimpsed the thin line of a trail, visible in one place, where it scoured across the face of the wall. The path by which Tobi escaped from Taipi, we cried. We were not long in getting ashore, and astride horses, though the consummation of our pilgrimage had to be deferred for a day. Two months at sea, barefooted all the time, without space in which to exercise one's limbs, is not the best preliminary to leather shoes and walking. Besides, the land had to cease its nauseous rolling before we could feel fit for riding goat-like horses over giddy trails. So we took a short ride to break in, and crawled through thick jungle to make the acquaintance of a venerable moss-grown idol, where had foregathered a German trader and a Norwegian captain to estimate the weight of said idol, and to speculate upon depreciation and value caused by sawing him in half. They treated the old fellow sack religiously, digging their knives into him to see how hard he was and how deep his mossy mantle, and commanding him to rise up and save them trouble by walking down to the ship himself. In lieu of which, nineteen Kanakas slung him on a frame of timbers and towed at him to the ship, where, batten down under hatches, even now he is cleaving the South Pacific hornward and toward Europe, the ultimate abiding place for all good heathen idols, saved for the few in America, and one in particular who grins beside me as I write, and who, barring shipwreck, will grin somewhere in my neighborhood until I die, and he will win out, he will be grinning when I am dust. Also as a preliminary we attended a feast, where one, Tyara Tamarii, the son of an Hawaiian sailor, who, deserted from a whale-ship, commemorated the death of his Marquesan mother by roasting fourteen whole hogs and inviting in the village. So we came along, welcomed by a native herald, a young girl, who stood on a great rock and chanted the information that the banquet was made perfect by our presence, which information she extended impartially to every arrival. Scarcely were we seated, however, when she changed her tune, while the company manifested intense excitement. Her cries became eager and piercing. From a distance came answering cries in men's voices, which blended into a wild, barbaric chant that sounded incredibly savage, smacking of blood and war. Then, through vistas of tropical foliage, appeared a procession of savages, naked, saved for gaudy loincloths. They advanced slowly, uttering deep guttural cries of triumph and exaltation. Slung from young saplings carried on their shoulders were mysterious objects of considerable weight, hidden from view by wrappings of green leaves. Nothing but pigs, innocently fat and roasted to a turn, were inside those wrappings, but the men were carrying them into camp in imitation of old times when they carried in long pig. Now, long pig is not pig. Long pig is the Polynesian euphemism for human flesh, and these descendants of man-eaters, a king's son at their head, brought in the pigs to table as of old their grandfathers had brought in their slain enemies. Every now and then the procession halted in order that the bearers should have every advantage in uttering particularly ferocious shouts of victory, of contempt for their enemies, and of gustatory desire. So Melville, two generations ago, witnessed the bodies of slain happer warriors, wrapped in palm leaves, carried to banquet at the tea. At another time, at the tea, he observed a curiously carved vessel of wood, and on looking into it his eyes fell upon the disordered members of a human skeleton, the bones still fresh with moisture and with particles of flesh clinging to them here and there. Cannibalism has often been regarded as a fairy story by ultra-civilized men who dislike, perhaps, the notion that their own savage forebears have somewhere in the past been addicted to similar practices. Captain Cook was rather skeptical upon the subject until, one day, in a harbor of New Zealand he deliberately tested the matter. A native happened to have brought on board for sale a nice sun-dried head. At Cook's order strips of the flesh were cut away and handed to the native, who greedily devoured them. To say the least, Captain Cook was a rather thoroughgoing empiricist. At any rate, by that act he supplied one ascertained fact of which science had been badly in need. Little did he dream of the existence of a certain group of islands, thousands of miles away, where in subsequent days there would arise a curious suit at law, when an old chief of Maui would be charged with defamation of character because he persisted in asserting that his body was the living repository of Captain Cook's great toe. It is said that the plaintiffs failed to prove that the old chief was not the tomb of the navigator's great toe, and that the suit was dismissed. I suppose I shall not have the chance in these degenerate days to see any long pig eaten, but at least I am already the possessor of a duly certified Marquesan Calabash, oblong in shape, curiously carved over a century old, from which has been drunk the blood of two shipmasters. One of those captains was a mean man. He sold a decrepit whale-boat as good as knew what of the fresh paint to a Marquesan chief. But no sooner had the captain sailed away than the whale-boat dropped to pieces. It was his fortune, some time afterwards, to be wrecked of all places on that particular island. The Marquesan chief was ignorant of rebates and discounts, but he had a primitive sense of equity and an equally primitive conception of the economy of nature, and he balanced the account by eating the man who had cheated him. We started in the cool dawn for Taipi, astride ferocious little stallions that pawed and screamed and bit and fought one another quite oblivious of the fragile humans on their backs, and of the slippery boulders, loose rocks, and yawning gorges. The way led up an ancient road through a jungle of haw trees. On every side were the vestiges of a one-time dense population. Wherever the eye could penetrate the thick growth, glimpses were caught of stone walls and of stone foundations, six to eight feet in height, built solidly throughout, and many yards in width and depth. They formed great stone platforms upon which at one time there had been houses. But the houses and the people were gone, and huge trees sank their roots through the platforms and towered over the underrunning jungle. These foundations are called pipis, the pipis of Melville who spelled phonetically. The marquesons of the present generation lack the energy to hoist and place such huge stones. Also, they lack incentive. There are plenty of pipis to go around, with a few thousand unoccupied ones left over. Once or twice, as we ascended the valley, we saw magnificent pipis bearing in their general surface pitiful little straw huts, the proportions being similar to a voting booth perched on the broad foundation of the pyramid of Chiops. For the marquesons are perishing, and to judge from conditions at Tauhe, the one thing that retards their destruction is the infusion of fresh blood. A pure marqueson is a rarity. They seem to be all half-breeds and strange conglomerations of dozens of different races. Nineteen able laborers are all the trader at Tauhe can muster for the loading of cobra on shipboard, and in their veins runs the blood of English, American, Dain, German, French, Corsican, Spanish, Portuguese, Chinese, Hawaiian, Pomoten, Tahitian, and Easter Islander. There are more races than there are persons, but it is a wreckage of races at best. Life faints and stumbles and gasps itself away. In this warm, equitable climb, a truly terrestrial paradise, where are never extremes of temperature and where the air is like balm, kept ever pure by the ozone-laden southeast trade, asthma, the thesis, and tuberculosis, flourish as luxuriously as the vegetation. Everywhere from the few grass huts arises the racking cough or exhausted groan of wasted lungs. Other horrible diseases prosper as well, but the most deadly of all are those that attack the lungs. There is a form of consumption called galloping, which is especially dreaded. In two months' time it reduces the strongest man to a skeleton under a grave cloth. In valley after valley the last inhabitant has passed, and the fertile soil has relapsed to jungle. In Melville's day the valley of Hapa, H-A-P-A-A, spelled by him H-A-P-P-A-R, was peopled by a strong and warlike tribe. A generation later it contained but two hundred persons. Today it is an untenentent howling tropical wilderness. We climbed higher and higher in the valley, our unshawed stallions picking their steps on the disintegrating trail, which led in and out through the abandoned peepies and insatiable jungle. The sight of red mountain apples, the ohias, familiar to us from Hawaii, caused a native to be sent climbing after them. And again he climbed for coconuts. I have drunk the coconuts of Jamaica and of Hawaii, but I never knew how delicious such a drought could be till I drank it here in the Marquesas. Occasionally we rode under wild limes and oranges, great trees which had survived the wilderness longer than the moats of humans who had cultivated them. We rode through endless thickets of yellow pollened cassie, if riding it could be called, for those fragrant thickets were inhabited by wasps. And such wasps, great yellow fellows the size of small canary birds darting through the air with behind them drifting a bunch of legs a couple of inches long. A stallion abruptly stands on his forelegs and thrusts his hind legs skyward. He withdraws them from the sky long enough to make one wild jump ahead and then returns them to their index position. It is nothing, his thick hide has merely been punctured by a flaming lance of wasp virility. Then a second and a third stallion and all the stallions begin to cavort on their forelegs over the precipitous landscape. Swat! A white hot ponyard penetrates my cheek. Swat again! I am stabbed in the neck. I am bringing up the rear and getting more than my share. There is no retreat and the plunging horses ahead on a precarious trail promise little safety. My horse overruns Charmian's horse and that sensitive creature fresh stung at the psychological moment planks one of its hoofs into my horse and the other hoof into me. I think my star is that he is not steel shod and half arise from the saddle at the impact of another flaming dagger. I am certain to getting more than my share and so is my poor horse whose pain and panic are only exceeded by mine. Get out of the way! I am coming, I shout, frantically dashing my cap at the winged vipers around me. On one side of the trail the landscape rises straight up. On the other side it sinks straight down. The only way to get out of my way is to keep on going. How that string of horses kept their feet is a miracle, but they dashed ahead overrunning one another galloping, trotting, stumbling, jumping, scrambling and kicking methodically skyward every time a wasp landed on them. After a while we drew breath and counted our injuries. And this happened not once, nor twice, but time after time. Strange to say it never grew monotonous. I know that I, for one, came through each brush with the undiminished zest of a man flying from sudden death. No, the pilgrim from Taiohae to Taipi will never suffer from Anwi on the way. At last we arose above the vexation of wasps. It was a matter of altitude, however, rather than of fortitude. All about us lay the jagged backbones of ranges, as far as the eye could see, thrusting their pinnacles into the trade wind clouds. Under us, from the way we had come, the snark lay like a tiny toy on the calm water of Taiohae Bay. Ahead we could see the inshore indentation of Comptroller Bay. We dropped down a thousand feet and Taiipi lay beneath us. Had a glimpse of the gardens of paradise been revealed to me I could scarcely have been more ravished with the sight, so said Melville, on the moment of his first view of the valley. He saw a garden. We saw a wilderness. Where were the hundred groves of the breadfruit tree he saw? We saw a jungle, nothing but jungle, with the exception of two grass huts and several clumps of coconuts breaking the primordial green mantle. Where was the tea of Mahevi? The bachelor's hall, the palace where the women were taboo, and where he ruled with his lesser chieftains, keeping the half-dozen dusty and torpid ancients to remind them of the valorous past. From the swift stream no sounds arose of maids and matrons pounding tapa. And where was the hut that old Naheo eternally builded? In vain I looked for him, perched ninety feet from the ground in some tall coconut, taking his morning smoke. We went down a zigzag trail under overarching matted jungle where great butterflies drifted by in the silence. No tattooed savage with club and javelin guarded the path, and when we forded the stream we were free to roam where we pleased. No longer did the taboo, sacred and merciless, reign in that sweet veil. Nahe the taboo still did reign, a new taboo, for when we approached too near the several wretched native women the taboo was uttered warningly, and it was well, they were lepers. The man who warned us was afflicted horribly with elephantiasis. All were suffering from lung trouble. The valley of Taipi was the abode of death, and the dozen survivors of the tribe were gasping feebly the last painful breaths of the race. Certainly the battle had not been to the strong, for once the Taipians were very strong, stronger than the Hapars, stronger than the Taohans, stronger than all the tribes of Nukaheva. The word Taipi, or rather Taipi, originally signified an eater of human flesh, but since all the Marquesans were human flesh-eaters, to be so designated was the token that the Taipians were the human flesh-eaters par excellence. Not alone, to Nukaheva did the Taipian reputation for bravery and ferocity extend, and all the islands of the Marquesas the Taipians were named with dread. Man could not conquer them, even the French fleet that took possession of the Marquesas left the Taipians alone. Captain Porter of the frigate Essex once invaded the valley. His sailors and marines were reinforced by two thousand warriors of Hapar and Taohae. They penetrated quite a distance into the valley, but met with so fierce a resistance that they were glad to retreat and get away in their flotilla of boats and war canoes. Of all inhabitants of the South Seas, the Marquesans were adjudged the strongest and the most beautiful. Melville said of them, I was especially struck by the physical strength and beauty they displayed. In beauty of form they surpassed anything I had ever seen. Not a single instance of natural deformity was observed in all the throng attending the revels. Every individual appeared free from those blemishes which sometimes mar the effect of an otherwise perfect form. But their physical excellence did not merely consist in an exemption from these evils. Nearly every individual of the number might have been taken for a sculptor's model. Mindana, the discoverer of the Marquesas, described the natives as wondrously beautiful to behold. Figueroa, the chronicler of his voyage, said of them, in complexion they were nearly white of good stature and finely formed. Captain Cook called the Marquesans the most splendid islanders in the South Seas. The men were described as in almost every instance of lofty stature scarcely ever less than six feet in height. And now all this strength and beauty has departed and the valley of Taipi is the abode of some dozen wretched creatures afflicted by leprosy, elephantiasis, and tuberculosis. Melville estimated the population at 2000, not taking into consideration the small adjoining valley of Ho'oumi. Life has rotted away in this wonderful garden spot where the climate is as delightful and healthful as any to be found in the world. Not alone were the Taipians physically magnificent. They were pure. Their air did not contain the bacilli and germs and microbes of disease that fill our own air. And when the white men imported in their ships these various microorganisms or disease, the Taipians crumpled up and went down before them. When one considers the situation, one is almost driven to the conclusion that the white race flourishes on impurity and corruption. Natural selection, however, gives the explanation. We of the white race are the survivors and the descendants of the thousands of generations of survivors in the war with the microorganisms. Whenever one of us was born with a constitution peculiarly receptive to these minute enemies, such of one promptly died. Only those of us survived who could withstand them. We who are alive are the immune, the fit, the one's best constituted to live in a world of hostile microorganisms. The poor marquesans had undergone no such selection. They were not immune, and they, who had made accustomed of eating their enemies, were now eaten by enemies so microscopic as to be invisible, and against whom no war of dart and javelin was possible. On the other hand, had there been a few hundred thousand marquesans to begin with, there might have been sufficient survivors to lay the foundation for a new race, a regenerated race, if a plunge into a festering bath of organic poison can be called regeneration. We unsaddled our horses for lunch, and after we had fought the stallions apart, mine was several fresh chunks bitten out of his back, and after we had vainly fought the sand flies we ate bananas and tin meats washed down by generous drots of coconut milk. There was little to be seen. The jungle had rushed back and engulfed the puny works of man. Here and there, PPs were to be stumbled upon, but there were no inscriptions, no hieroglyphics, no clues to the past they attested. Only dumb stones, builded and carved by hands that were forgotten dust. Out of the PPs grew giant trees, jealous of the wrought work of man, splitting and scattering the stones back into the permeable chaos. We gave up the jungle and sought the stream, with the idea of evading the sand flies, vain hope, to go in swimming one must take off his clothes. The sand flies are aware of the fact, and they lurk by the river bank in countless myriads. In the native they are called the Naunau, N-A-U-N-A-U, which is pronounced Naunau. They are certainly well named, for they are the insistent present. There is no past nor future when they fasten upon one's epidermis, and I am willing to wager that Omer Kayam could never have written the rubyat in the valley of Taipea. It would have been psychologically impossible. I made the strategic mistake of undressing on the edge of a steep bank where I could dive in, but could not climb out. When I was ready to dress, I had a hundred yards walk on the bank before I could reach my clothes. At the first step, fully ten thousand Naunaus landed upon me. At the second step, I was walking in a cloud. By the third step, the sun was dimmed in the sky. After that, I don't know what happened. When I arrived at my clothes, I was a maniac, and here enters my grand tactical error. There is only one rule of conduct in dealing with Naunaus. Never swat them. Whatever you do, don't swat them. They are so vicious that in the instant of annihilation they eject their last atom of poison into your carcass. You must pluck them delicately between thumb and forefinger, and persuade them gently to remove their proboscis from your quivering flesh. It is like pulling teeth, but the difficulty was that the teeth sprouted faster than I could pull them, so I swatted, and so doing, filled myself full with their poison. This was a week ago. At the present moment, I resemble a sadly neglected smallpox convalescent. Ho'oumi is a small valley separated from Taipi by a low ridge and thither we started when we had knocked our indimitable and insatiable riding animals into submission. As it was, Warren's Mount, after a mile run, selected the most dangerous part of the trail for an exhibition that kept us all on the anxious seat for fully five minutes. We rode by the mouth of Taipi Valley and gazed down upon the beach from which Melville escaped. There was where the whale-boat lay on its oars close into the surf, and there was where Karakaui, the taboo Kanaka, stood in the water and trafficked for the sailor's life. There, surely, was where Melville gave Fayoway the parting embrace ere he dashed for the boat, and there was the point of land from which Mahevi and Momo and their following swam off to intercept the boat, only to have their wrists gashed by sheath-knives when they laid hold of the gunnel, though it was reserved for Momo to receive the boat-hook full in the throat from Melville's hands. We rode on to Ho'oumi, so closely was Melville guarded that he never dreamed of the existence of this valley, though he must continually have met its inhabitants, for they belonged to Taipi. We rode through the same abandoned pee-pees, but as we neared the sea we found a perfusion of coconuts, breadfruit trees, and taro patches, and fully a dozen grass dwellings. In one of these we arranged to pass the night, and preparations were immediately put on foot for a feast. A young pig was promptly dispatched, and while he was being roasted among hot stones, and while chickens were stewing in coconut milk, I persuaded one of the cooks to climb an unusually tall coconut palm. The cluster of nuts at the top was fully 125 feet from the ground, but that native strode up the tree, seized it in both hands, jack-knived at the waist so that the soles of his feet rested flatly against the trunk, and then he walked right straight up without stopping. There were no notches in the tree. He had no ropes to help him. He merely walked up the tree, 125 feet in the air, and cast down the nuts from the summit. Not every man there had the physical stamina for such a feat, or the lungs, rather, for most of them were coughing their lives away. Some of the women kept up a ceaseless moaning and groaning, so badly were their lungs wasted. Very few of either sex were full-blooded marquesans. They were mostly half-breeds and three-quarter-breeds of French, English, Danish, and Chinese extraction. At the best these infusions of fresh blood merely delayed the passing, and the results led one to wonder whether it was worthwhile. The feast was served on a broad pee-pee, the rear portion of which was occupied by the house in which we were to sleep. The first course was raw fish and poi-poi, the latter sharp and more accurate of taste than the poi of Hawaii, which is made from taro. The poi-poi of the marquesas is made from breadfruit. The ripe fruit, after the core is removed, is placed in a kalabash and pounded with a stone pestle into a stiff, sticky paste. In this stage of the process, wrapped in leaves, it can be buried in the ground, where it will keep for years. Before it can be eaten, however, further processes are necessary. A leaf-covered package is placed among hot stones, like the pig, and thoroughly baked. After that is mixed with cold water and thinned out, not thin enough to run, but thin enough to be eaten by sticking one's first and second fingers into it. On close acquaintance it proves a pleasant and most healthful food, and breadfruit, ripe and well-boiled, are roasted. It is delicious. Breadfruit and taro are kingly vegetables, the pair of them, though the former is patently a misnomer, and more resembles a sweet potato than anything else, though it is not mealy like a sweet potato, nor is it so sweet. The feast ended, we watched the moon rise over Taipei. The air was like balm, faintly scented, with the breath of flowers. It was a magic night, deathly still, without the slightest breeze to stir the foliage, and one caught one's breath and felt the pang that is almost hurt, so exquisite was the beauty of it. Faint and far could be heard the thin thunder of the surf upon the beach. There were no beds, and we drowsed and slept wherever we thought the floor softest. Nearby a woman panted and moaned in her sleep, and all about us the dying islanders coughed in the night. End of Chapter 10. Recorded by Brian Ness. This recording is in the public domain. Chapter 11 of The Cruise of the Snark. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Brian Ness. The Cruise of the Snark by Jack London. Chapter 11. The Nature Man. I first met him on Market Street in San Francisco. It was a wet and drizzly afternoon, and he was striding along clad solely in a pair of abbreviated knee trousers and an abbreviated shirt, his bare feet going slick slick through the pavement slush. At his heels trooped a score of excited gammons. Every head, and there were thousands, turned to glance curiously at him as he went by. And I turned too. Never had I seen such lovely sunburn. He was all sunburn of the sort a blonde takes on when his skin does not peel. His long yellow hair was burnt, so was his beard, which sprang from a soil unplowed by any razor. He was a tawny man, a golden tawny man, all glowing and radiant with the sun. Another prophet thought I, come up to town with a message that will save the world. A few weeks later I was with some friends in their bungalow in the Piedmont Hills overlooking San Francisco Bay. We've got him, we've got him, they barked. We caught him up a tree, but he's all right now. He'll feed from the hand. Come on and see him. So I accompanied them up a dizzy hill, and an arickety shack in the midst of a eucalyptus grove found my sunburned prophet of the city pimmons. He hastened to meet us, arriving in the whirl and blur of a handspring. He did not shake hands with us. Instead, his greeting took the form of stunts. He turned more handsprings. He twisted his body sinuously like a snake until, having sufficiently limbered up, he bent from the hips and with legs straight and knees touching beat a tattoo on the ground with the palms of his hands. He whirligigged and pirouetted, dancing and cavorting round like an inebriated ape, all the sun warmth of his ardent life beamed in his face. I am so happy was the song without words he sang. He sang it all evening, ringing the changes on it with an endless variety of stunts. A fool, a fool, I met a fool in the forest, thought I, and a worthy fool he proved. Between handsprings and whirligigs he delivered his message that would save the world. It was twofold. First, let suffering humanity strip off its clothing and run wild in the mountains and valleys, and second, let the very miserable world adopt phonetic spelling. I caught a glimpse of the great social problems being settled by the city populations, swarming naked over the landscape, to the popping of shotguns, the barking of ranch dogs, and countless assaults with pitchforks wielded by irate farmers. The years passed, and one sunny morning the snark poked her nose into a narrow opening in a reef that smoked with the crashing impact of the trade winds swell, and beat slowly up Papayte Harbor. Coming off to us was a boat flying a yellow flag. We knew it contained the port doctor, but quite a distance off, in its wake, was a tiny outrigger canoe that puzzled us. It was flying a red flag. I studied it through the glasses, fearing that it marked some hidden danger to navigation, some recent wreck or some boy or beacon that had been swept away. Then the doctor came on board. After he had examined the state of our health, and been assured that we had no live rats hidden away in the snark, I asked him the meaning of the red flag. Oh, that is darling, was the answer. And then darling, earnest darling, flying the red flag that is indicative of the brotherhood of man hailed us. Hello Jack, you called? Hello Charmian. He paddled swiftly nearer, and I saw that he was the tawny prophet of the Piedmont Hills. He came over the side as sun god clad in a scarlet loincloth with presence of Arcady, and greeting in both his hands, a bottle of golden honey and a leaf basket filled with great golden mangoes, golden bananas specked with freckles of deeper gold, golden pineapples and golden limes, and juicy oranges minted from the same precious ore of sun and soil, and in this fashion under the southern sky I met once more darling, the nature man. Tahiti is one of the most beautiful spots in the world, inhabited by thieves and robbers and liars, also by several honest and truthful men and women. Wherefore, because of the blight cast upon Tahiti's wonderful beauty by the spidery human vermin that infested, I am minded to write, not of Tahiti, but of the nature man. He, at least, is refreshing and wholesome. The spirit that emanates from him is so gentle and sweet that it would harm nothing, hurt nobody's feelings, save the feelings of a predatory and plutocratic capitalist. What does this red flag mean, I asked? Well, socialism, of course. Yes, yes, I know that, I went on, but what does it mean in your hands? Why, that I found my message. And that you are delivering it to Tahiti, I demanded incredulously? Sure, he answered simply, and later on I found that he was, too. When we dropped anchor, lowered a small boat into the water, and started ashore, the nature man joined us. Now, thought I, I shall be pestered to death by this crank. Waking or sleeping, I shall never be quit of him until I sail away from here. But never in my life was I more mistaken. I took a house, and went to live and work in it, and the nature man never came near me. He was waiting for the invitation. In the meantime, he went aboard the snark, and took possession of her library, delighted by the quantity of scientific books, and shocked, as I learned afterwards, by the inordinate amount of fiction. The nature man never wastes time on fiction. After a week or so, my conscience smote me, and I invited him to dinner at a downtown hotel. He arrived, looking unwontedly stiff and uncomfortable in a cotton jacket. When invited to peel it off, he beamed his gratitude and joy, and did so, revealing his sun-gold skin, from waist to shoulder, covered only by a piece of fishnet of coarse twine and large mesh. A scarlet loincloth completed his costume. I began my acquaintance with him that night, and during my long stay in Tahiti, that acquaintance ripened into friendship. So you write books, he said one day, when tired and sweaty I finished my morning's work. I too write books, he announced. Ah-ha, thought I. Now at last he is going to pester me with his literary efforts. My soul was in revolt. I had not come all the way to the South Seas to be a literary bureau. This is the book I write, he explained, smashing himself a resounding blow on the chest with his clenched fist. The gorilla in the African jungle pounds his chest till the noise of it can be heard half a mile away. A pretty good chest, quoth I, admiringly, it would even make a gorilla envious. And then, and later, I learned the details of the marvelous book Ernest Darling had written. Twelve years ago he lay close to death. He weighed but ninety pounds, and was too weak to speak. The doctors had given him up. His father, a practicing physician, had given him up. Consultations with other physicians had been held upon him. There was no hope for him. Overstudy, as a school teacher and as a university student, and two successive attacks of pneumonia were responsible for his breakdown. Day by day he was losing strength. He could extract no nutrition from the heavy foods they gave him, nor could pellets and powders help his stomach to do the work of digestion. Not only was he a physical wreck, but he was a mental wreck. His mind was overwrought. He was sick and tired of medicine, and he was sick and tired of persons. Human speech jarred upon him. Human attentions drove him frantic. The thought came to him that since he was going to die, he might as well die in the open, away from all the bother and irritation. And behind this idea lurked a sneaking idea that perhaps he would not die after all if only he could escape from the heavy foods, the medicines, and the well-intentioned persons who made him frantic. So Ernest Darling, a bag of bones and a death's head, a perambulating corpse with just the dimmest flutter of life in it to make it perambulate, turned his back upon men and the habitations of men, and dragged himself for five miles through the brush, away from the city of Portland, Oregon. Of course he was crazy. Only a lunatic would drag himself out of his deathbed. But in the brush Darling found what he was looking for. Rest. Nobody bothered him with beefsteaks and pork. No physicians lacerated his tired nerves by feeling his pulse, nor tormented his tired stomach with pellets and powders. He began to feel soothed. The sun was shining warm, and he basked in it. He had the feeling that the sunshine was an elixir of health. Then it seemed to him that his whole wasted wreck of a body was crying for the sun. He stripped off his clothes and bathed in the sunshine. He felt better. It had done him good, the first relief in weary months of pain. As he grew better he set up and began to take notice. All about him were the birds fluttering and chirping, the squirrels chattering and playing. He envied them their health and spirits, their happy, carefree existence. That he should contrast their condition with his was inevitable, and that he should question why they were splendidly vigorous while he was a feeble, dying wraith of a man was likewise inevitable. His conclusion was the very obvious one, namely that they lived naturally while he lived most unnaturally, therefore if he intended to live he must return to nature. Alone there in the brush he worked out his problem and began to apply it. He stripped off his clothing and leaped and gambled about, running on all fours, climbing trees, in short doing physical stunts, and all the time soaking in the sunshine. He imitated the animals. He built a nest of dry leaves and grasses in which to sleep at night, covering it over with bark as a protection against the early fall rains. Here is a beautiful exercise, he told me once, flapping his arms mightily against his sides. I learned it from watching the rooster's crow. Another time I remarked the loud sucking intake with which he drank coconut milk. He explained that he had noticed the cows drinking that way and concluded there must be something in it. He tried it and found it good, and thereafter he drank only in that fashion. He noted that the squirrels lived on fruits and nuts. He started on a fruit and nut diet, helped out by bread, and he grew stronger and put on weight. For three months he continued his primordial existence in the brush, and then the heavy organ rains drove him back to the habitations of men. Not in three months could a ninety-pound survivor of two attacks of pneumonia develop sufficient ruggedness to live through an organ winter in the open. He had accomplished much, but he had been driven in. There was no place to go but back to his father's house, and there, living in close rooms with lungs that panted for all the air of the open sky, he was brought down by a third attack of pneumonia. He grew weaker even than before. In that tottering tabernacle of flesh his brain collapsed. He lay like a corpse, too weak to stand the fatigue of speaking, too irritated and tired in his miserable brain to care to listen to the speech of others. The only act of will which he was capable was to stick his fingers in his ears and resolutely to refuse to hear a single word that was spoken to him. They sent for the insanity experts. He was a judged insane, and also the verdict was given that he would not live a month. By one such mental expert he was carted off to a sanatorium on Mount Tabor. Here when they learned that he was harmless they gave him his own way. They no longer dictated as to the food he ate, so he resumed his fruits and nuts, olive oil, peanut butter and bananas, the chief articles of his diet. As he regained his strength he made up his mind to live thenceforth his own life. If he lived like others, according to social conventions, he would surely die. And he did not want to die. The fear of death was one of the strongest factors in the genesis of the nature man. To live he must have a natural diet, the open air and the blessed sunshine. Now an organ winter has no inducements for those who wish to return to nature, so Darling started out in search of a climate. He mounted a bicycle and headed south for the sunlands. Stanford University claimed him for a year. Here he studied and worked his way attending lectures in a scant garb as the authorities would allow and applying as much as possible the principles of living that he had learned in Squirreltown. His favorite method of study was to go off in the hills back of the university and there to strip off his clothes and lie on the grass soaking in sunshine and health at the same time that he soaked in knowledge. But Central California has her winters and the quest for a nature man's climate drew him on. He tried Los Angeles and Southern California being arrested a few times and brought before the insanity commissions because forsooth his mode of life was not modeled after the mode of life of his fellow men. He tried Hawaii where unable to prove him insane the authorities deported him. It was not exactly a deportation. He could have remained by serving a year in prison. They gave him his choice. Now prison is death to the nature man who thrives only in the open air and in God's sunshine. The authorities of Hawaii are not to be blamed. Darling was an undesirable citizen. Any man is undesirable who disagrees with one and that any man should disagree to the extent Darling did in his philosophy of the simple life is ample vindication of the Hawaiian authorities' verdict of his undesirableness. So Darling went thence in search of a climate which would not only be desirable but wherein he would not be undesirable, and he found it in Tahiti, the garden spot of garden spots, and so it was according to the narrative as given that he wrote the pages of his book. He wears only a loincloth and a sleeveless fishnet shirt. His stripped weight is 165 pounds. His health is perfect. His eyesight, that at one time was considered ruined, is excellent. The lungs that were practically destroyed by three attacks of pneumonia have not only recovered but are stronger than ever before. I shall never forget the first time while talking to me that he squashed a mosquito. The stinging pest had settled in the middle of his back between his shoulders. Without interrupting the flow of conversation, without dropping even a syllable, his clenched fists shot up in the air, curved backward, and smote his back between the shoulders, killing the mosquito, and making his frame resound like a base drum. It reminded me of nothing so much as of horses kicking the woodwork in their stalls. The gorilla in the African jungle pounds his chest until the noise of it can be heard half a mile away. He will announce suddenly and there at beat a hair-raising devil's tattoo on his own chest. One day he noticed a set of boxing gloves hanging on the wall and promptly his eyes brightened. Do you box, I asked? I used to give lessons in boxing when I was at Stanford, was the reply. And there and then we stripped and put on the gloves. Bang! A long gorilla arm flashed out, landing the gloved end on my nose. Biff! He caught me in a duck on the side of the head, nearly knocking me over sidewise. I carried the lump raised by that blow for a week. I ducked under a straight left and landed a straight right on his stomach. It was a fearful blow. The whole weight of my body was behind it, and his body had been met as it lunged forward. I looked for him to crumple up and go down, instead of which his face beamed approval, and he said, that was beautiful. The next instant I was covering up and striving to protect myself from a hurricane of hooks, jolts, and uppercuts. Then I watched my chance and drove in for the solar plexus. I hit the mark. The nature man dropped his arms, gasped, and sat down suddenly. I'll be all right, he said, just wait a moment. And inside thirty seconds he was on his feet, I, and returning the compliment, for he hooked me in the solar plexus, and I gasped, dropped my hands, and sat down just a trifle more suddenly than he had. All of which I submit is evidence that the man I boxed with was a totally different man from the poor ninety-pound weight of eight years before, who given up by physicians and alienists lay gasping his life away in a closed room in Portland, Oregon. The book that Ernest Darling has written is a good book, and the binding is good, too. Hawaii has wailed for years her need for desirable immigrants. She has spent much time and thought and money in importing desirable citizens, and she has, as yet, nothing much to show for it. Yet Hawaii deported the nature man. She refused to give him a chance. So it is to chase in Hawaii's proud spirit that I take this opportunity to show her what she has lost in the nature man. When he arrived in Tahiti he proceeded to seek out a piece of land on which to grow the food he ate. But land was difficult to find, that is, inexpensive land. The nature man was not rolling in wealth. He spent weeks in wandering over the steep hills until high up the mountain, where clustered several tiny canyons. He found eighty acres of brush jungle which were apparently unrecorded as the property of any one. The government officials told him that if he would clear the land and till it for thirty years he would be given a title for it. Immediately he set to work, and never was there such work. Nobody farmed that high up. The land was covered with matted jungle and overrun by wild pigs and countless rats. The view of Papa Ete and the sea was magnificent, but the outlook was not encouraging. He spent weeks in building a road in order to make the plantation accessible. The pigs and the rats ate up whatever he planted as fast as it sprouted. He shot the pigs and trapped the rats. Of the latter, in two weeks he caught fifteen hundred. Everything had to be carried up on his back. He usually did his pack horse work at night. Gradually he began to win out. A grass-walled house was built. On the fertile volcanic soil he had rested from the jungle and jungle beasts, were growing five hundred coconut trees, five hundred papaya trees, three hundred mango trees, many breadfruit trees, and alligator pear trees, to say nothing of vines, bushes, and vegetables. He developed the drip of the hills in the canyons and worked out an efficient irrigation scheme, ditching the water from canyon to canyon, and paralleling the ditches at different altitudes. His narrow canyons became botanical gardens. The arid shoulders of the hills were formerly the blazing sun had parched the jungle and beaten it close to earth, blossomed into trees and shrubs and flowers. Not only had the nature-man become self-supporting, but he was now a prosperous agriculturist with produce to sell to the city-dwellers of Papeete. Then it was discovered that his land, which the government officials had informed him was without an owner, really had an owner, and that deeds, descriptions, etc. were on record. All his work bade fair to be lost. The land had been valueless when he took it up, and the owner, a large landholder, was unaware of the extent to which the nature-man had developed it. A just price was agreed upon, and Darling's deed was officially filed. Next came a more crushing blow. Darling's access to market was destroyed. The road he had built was fenced to cross by triple-barb wire fences. It was one of those jumbles in human affairs that is so common in this absurdist of social systems. Behind it was the fine hand of the same conservative element that hailed the nature-man before the Insanity Commission in Los Angeles and that deported him from Hawaii. It is so hard for self-satisfied men to understand any man whose satisfactions are fundamentally different. It seems clear that the officials have connived with the conservative element, for to this day the road the nature-man built is closed. Nothing has been done about it, while an adamant unwillingness to do anything about it is evidenced on every hand. But the nature-man dances and sings along his way. He does not sit up nights thinking about the wrong which has been done him. He leaves the worrying to the doers of the wrong. He has no time for bitterness. He believes he is in the world for the purpose of being happy, and he has not a moment to waste in any other pursuit. The road to his plantation is blocked. He cannot build a new road, for there is no ground on which he can build it. The government has restricted him to a wild pig trail which runs precipitously up the mountain. I climbed the trail with him, and we had to climb with hands and feet in order to get up. Nor can that wild pig trail be made into a road by any amount of toil less than that of an engineer, a steam engine and a steel cable. But what does the nature-man care? In his gentle ethics the evil men do him, he requites with goodness, and who shall say he is not happier than they? Never mind their pesky road, he said to me, as we dragged ourselves up a shelf of rock and sat down, panting, to rest. I'll get an air machine soon and fool them. I'm clearing a level space for a landing stage for airships, and next time you come to Tahiti you will alight right at my door. Yes, the nature-man has some strange ideas besides that of the gorilla pounding his chest in the African jungle. The nature-man has ideas about levitation. Yes, sir, he said to me, levitation is not impossible, and think of the glory of it, lifting oneself from the ground by an act of will. Think of it. The astronomers tell us that our whole solar system is dying, that, barring accidents, it will all be so cold that no life can live upon it. Very well. In that day all men will be accomplished levitationists, and they will leave this perishing planet and seek more hospitable worlds. How can levitation be accomplished? By progressive fasts. Yes, I have tried them, and toward the end I could feel myself actually getting lighter. The man is a maniac, I thought. Of course, he added, these are only theories of mine. I like to speculate upon the glorious future of man. Levitation may not be possible, but I like to think of it as possible. One evening, when he yawned, I asked him how much sleep he allowed himself. Seven hours was the answer, but in ten years I'll be sleeping only six hours, and in twenty years only five hours. You see, I shall cut off an hour's sleep every ten years. Then, when you are a hundred, you won't be sleeping at all, I interjected. Just that, exactly that. When I am a hundred, I shall not require sleep. Also, I shall be living on air. There are plants that live on air, you know. But has any man ever succeeded in doing it? He shook his head. I never heard of him if he did, but it is only a theory of mine, this living on air. It would be fine, wouldn't it? Of course, it may be impossible, most likely it is. You see, I am not unpractical. I never forget the present. When I soar ahead into the future, I always leave a string by which to find my way back again. I fear me the nature man is a joker. At any rate, he lives the simple life. His laundry bill cannot be large. Up on his plantation, he lives on fruit, the labor cost of which, in cash, he estimates at five cents a day. At present, because of his obstructed road, and because he is head over heels in the propaganda of socialism, he is living in town, where his expenses, including rent, are twenty-five cents a day. In order to pay those expenses, he is running a night school for Chinese. The nature man is not bigoted. When there is nothing better to eat than meat, he eats meat, as, for instance, when in jail, or on shipboard, and the nuts and fruits give out. Nor does he seem to crystallize into anything except sunburn. Drop anchor anywhere, and the anchor will drag, that is, if your soul is a limitless, fathomless sea and not dog-pound. He quoted to me, then added, You see, my anchor is always dragging. I live for human health and progress, and I strive to drag my anchor always in that direction. To me, the two are identical. Dragging anchor is what has saved me. My anchor did not hold me to my deathbed. I dragged anchor into the brush, and fooled the doctors. When I recovered health and strength, I started by preaching, and by example, to teach the people to become nature men and nature women. But they had deaf ears. Then on the steamer, coming to Tahiti, a quartermaster expounded socialism to me. He showed me that an economic square deal was necessary before men and women could live naturally. So I dragged anchor once more, and now I am working for the cooperative commonwealth. When that arrives, it will be easy to bring about nature living. I had a dream last night. He went on, thoughtfully, his face slowly breaking into a glow. It seemed that twenty-five nature men and nature women had just arrived on the steamer from California, and that I was starting to go with them up the wild pig trail to the plantation. Ah, me, Ernest Darling, sun worshipper and nature man. There are times when I am compelled to envy you and your carefree existence. I see you now, dancing up the steps and cutting antics on the veranda. Your hair dripping from a plunge in the salt sea. Your eyes sparkling. Your sun-guilded body flashing. Your chest resounding to the devil's own tattoo as you chant. The gorilla in the African jungle pounds his chest until the noise of it can be heard half a mile away. And I shall see you always, as I saw you that last day, when the snark poked her nose once more through the passage in the smoking reef, outward bound, and I waved good-bye to those on shore. Not least in good will and affection was the wave I gave to the golden sun-god in the scarlet loincloth, standing upright in his tiny outrigger canoe. End of Chapter 11, recorded by Brian Ness. This recording is in the public domain. Chapter 12 of The Cruise of the Snark This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Todd Lennon The Cruise of the Snark by Jack London Chapter 12 The High Seat of Abundance On the arrival of strangers, every man endeavored to obtain one as a friend and carry him off to his own habitation, where he is treated with the greatest kindness by the inhabitants of the district. They place him on a high seat and feed him with abundance of the finest food. Polynesian Researches The snark was lying at anchor at Raiatea, just off the village of Utu Rua. She had arrived the night before after dark, and we were preparing to pay our first visit ashore. Early in the morning I had noticed a tiny outrigger canoe with an impossible spritz sail skimming the surface of the lagoon. The canoe itself was coffin shaped, a mere dugout, fourteen feet long, a scant twelve inches wide, and maybe twenty-four inches deep. It had no lines, except in so far that it was sharp at both ends. Its sides were perpendicular. Sure enough the outrigger it would have capsized itself inside a tenth of a second. It was the outrigger that kept it right side up. I have said that the sail was impossible. It was. It was one of those things that you have to see to believe, but that you cannot believe after you have seen it. The hoist of it, the length of its boom were sufficiently appalling, but not content with that its artificer had given it a tremendous head. So large was the head that no common spritz could carry the strain of it in an ordinary breeze. So a spar had been lashed to the canoe projecting aft over the water. To this had been made fast a spritz guy. Thus the foot of the sail was held by the mainsheet and the peak by the guy to the spritz. It was not a mere boat, not a mere canoe, but a sailing machine. And the man in it sailed it by his weight and his nerve, principally by the ladder. I watched the canoe beat up from leeward and run in towards the village. It's so occupant, far out on the outrigger, and luffing up and spilling the wind and the puffs. Well I know one thing I announced. I don't leave Rayatea until I've had a ride in that canoe. A few minutes later Warren called down the companion way. Here's that canoe you were talking about. Promptly I dashed on deck and gave greeting to its owner, a tall slender Polynesian, ingenious of face, and with clear sparkling intelligent eyes. He was clad in a scarlet loincloth and a straw hat. In his hands were presents, a fish, a bunch of greens, and several enormous yams, all of which acknowledged by smiles which are coinage still in isolated spots of Polynesia, and the frequent repetitions of Maruru, which is the Tahitian thank you. I proceeded to make signs that I desired to go for a sail in his canoe. His face lighted with pleasure, and he uttered the single word Taha, turning at the same time and pointing to the lofty, cloud draped peaks of an island three miles away, the island of Taha. It was fair wind over, but a hard beat back. Now I did not want to go to Taha. I had letters to deliver in Raiatea and officials to see, and there was Charmian down below getting ready to go ashore. By insistent signs I indicated that I desired no more than a short sail on the lagoon. Quick was the disappointment in his face, yet smiling was his acquiescence. Come on for a sail I called below to Charmian, but put on your swimming suit, it's going to be wet. It wasn't real, it was a dream. That canoe slid over the water like a streak of silver. I climbed out on the outrigger and supplied the weight to hold her down, while Tahie supplied the nerve. He too in the puffs climbed part way out on the outrigger at the same time steering with both hands on a large paddle and holding the mainsheet with his foot. Ready about, he called. I carefully shifted my weight inboard in order to maintain the equilibrium as the sail emptied. Hard to lee, he called, shooting her into the wind. I slid out on the opposite side over the water on a spar lashed across the canoe, and we were fallen away on the other tack. All right, said Tahie, those three phrases, ready about, hard to lee, and all right comprised Tahie's English vocabulary and led me to suspect that at some time he had been one of a Kanaka crew under an American captain. Between the puffs I made signs to him and repeatedly, interrogatively uttered the word sailor. Then I tried it in atrocious French. Marin conveyed no meaning to him, nor did Madeleau. Either my French was bad or else he was not up in it. I have since concluded that both conjectures were correct. Finally, I began naming over the adjacent islands. He nodded that he had been to them. By the time my quest reached Tahie, he caught my drift. His thought processes were almost visible, and it was a joy to watch him think. He nodded his head vigorously. Yes, he'd been to Tahie, and he added himself names of islands such as Tiki Hau, Rangaroa, and Fakarava, thus proving that he had sailed as far as the Puomotus, undoubtedly one of the crew of a trading schooner. After our short sail, when he had returned on board, he by signs inquired the destination of the snark, and when I had mentioned Samoa, Fiji, New Guinea, France, England, and California in their geographical sequence, he said Samoa, and by the gestures intimated that he wanted to go along. Whereupon I was hard put to explain that there was no room for him. Petite Boteau finally softed it, and again the disappointment in his face was accompanied by smiling acquiescence, and promptly came the renewed invitation to accompany him to Taha. Charmy and an eye looked at each other. The exhilaration of the ride we had taken was still upon us. Forgotten were the letters to Raiatea and officials we had to visit. Shoes, a shirt, a pair of trousers, cigarettes, matches, a book to read, were hastily crammed into a biscuit tin and wrapped in a rubber blanket, and we were over the side and into the canoe. When shall we look for you, one called, as the wind filled the sail and sent to Hayee and me scurrying out on the outrigger? I don't know, I answered. When we get back as near as I can figure it, in a way we went. The wind had increased, and with slacked sheets we ran off before it. The freeboard of the canoe was no more than two and a half inches, and the little waves continually lapped over the side. This required bailing. Now bailing is one of the principal functions of the Vahine. Vahine is the Tahitian word for woman. And Charmian, being the only Vahine aboard, the bailing fell appropriately to her. To Hayee and I could not very well do it, the both of us being perched part way out on the outrigger and busyed with keeping the canoe bottom side down. So Charmian bailed, with a wooden scoop of primitive design and so well she did do it that there were occasions when she could rest off almost half the time. Raiatea and Taha are unique in that they lie inside the same encircling reef. Both are volcanic islands, ragged of skyline with heaving aspiring peaks and minarets. Since Raiatea is 30 miles in circumference and Taha 15 miles, some idea may be gained of the magnitude of the reef that encloses them. Between them and the reef stretches from one to two miles of water, forming a beautiful lagoon. The huge Pacific seas extending in unbroken lines, sometimes a mile or a half as much again in length, hurl themselves upon the reef, over-towering and falling upon it with tremendous crashes, and yet the fragile coral structure withstands the shock and protects the land. Outside lies destruction to the mightiest ship afloat. Inside rains the calm of untroubled water, whereupon a canoe like ours can sail with no more than a couple of inches of freeboard. We flew over the water, and such water, clear as the clearest spring water, and crystalline in its clearness, all enter shot with the maddening pageant of colors, and rainbow ribbons more magnificently gorgeous than any rainbow. Jade-green alternated with turquoise, peacock blue with emerald, while now the canoe skimmed over reddish-purple pools, and again over pools of dazzling, shimmering white, where pounded coral sands lay beneath and upon which oozed monstrous sea slugs. One moment we were above wonder gardens of coral, wherein colored fishes desported fluttering like marine butterflies. The next moment we were dashing across the dark surface of deep channels, out of which schools of flying fish lifted their silvery flight. In a third moment we were above other gardens of living coral, each more wonderful than the last, and above all was the tropic, tradewind sky with its fluffy clouds racing across the zenith and heaping the horizon with their soft masses. Before we were aware we were close in to Taha, and Tehei was grinning approval of the Vahine's proficiency at bailing. The canoe grounded to a shallow shore, twenty feet from land. We waited out on a soft bottom where big slugs curled and writhed under our feet, and where small octopuses advertised their existence by their superlative softness when stepped upon. Close to the beach, amid coconut palms and banana trees, erected on stilts, built of bamboo, with grass-thatched roofs, was Tehei's house. And out of the house came Tehei's Vahine, a slender might of a woman, kindly eyed, and Mongolian of feature when she was not North American Indian. Biaura, Tehei called her, but he did not pronounce it according to English notions of spelling. Spelled B-I-H-A-U-R-A. It sounded like B-I-U-R-A, with every syllable sharply emphasized. She took Charmian by the hand and led her into the house, leaving Tehei and me to follow. Here, by sign language unmistakable, we were informed that all they possessed was ours. No Hidalgo was ever more generous in the expression of giving, while I'm sure that few Hidalgos were ever as generous in the actual practice. We quickly discovered that we dare not admire their possessions, for whenever we did admire a particular object, it was immediately presented to us. The two Vahines, according to the way of Vahines, got together in a discussion and examination of feminine fripperies, while Tehei and I, man-like, went over fishing tackle and wild pig-hunting to say nothing of the device whereby bonitas are caught on 40-foot poles from double canoes. Charmian admired a sewing basket, the best example she had seen of Polynesian basketry. It was hers. I admired a bonita hook, carved in one piece from a pearl-shell. It was mine. Charmian was attracted by a fancy braid of straw-sinnet, 30 feet of it in a roll, sufficient to make a hat of any design one wished. The roll of sinnet was hers. My gaze lingered upon a poi-pounder that dated back to the old stone days. It was mine. Charmian dwelt a moment too long on a wooden poi-bowl, canoe-shaped with four legs, all curved in one piece of wood. It was hers. I glanced a second time at a gigantic coconut calabash. It was mine. Then Charmian and I held a conference in which we resolved to admire no more. Not because it did not pay well enough, but because it paid too well. Also, we were already racking our brains over the contents of the snark for suitable return presents. Christmas is an easy problem compared with a Polynesian giving-feast. We sat on the cool porch on Bihauura's best mats while dinner was preparing and at the same time met the villagers. In twos and threes and groups they strayed along, shaking hands and uttering the Tahitian word of greeting Yorana, pronounced Yorana. The men, big strapping fellows, were in loincloths, with here and there no shirt, while the women wore the universal ahu, a sort of adult pinafore that flows in graceful lines from the shoulders to the ground. Sad to see was the elephanteasus that afflicted some of them. Here would be a comely woman of magnificent proportions, with the port of a queen, yet marred by one arm four times or a dozen times the size of the other. Beside her might stand a six-foot man, erect, mighty muscled, bronzed and with the body of a god, yet with feet and calves so swollen that they ran together, forming legs, shapeless, monstrous, that were for all the world like elephant legs. No one seems really to know the cause of the South Sea elephanteasus. One theory is that it is caused by the drinking of polluted water. Another theory attributes it to inoculation through mosquito bites. A third theory charges it to predisposition plus the process of acclimatization. On the other hand, no one that stands in finicky dread of it and similar disease can afford to travel in the South Seas. There will be occasions when such a one must drink water. There may be also occasions when the mosquitoes let up biting, but every precaution of the finicky one will be useless. If he runs barefoot across the beach to have a swim, he will tread where an elephanteasus case tried a few minutes before. If he closets himself in his own house, yet every bit of fresh food on his table will have been subjected to the contamination, be it flesh, fish, fowl or vegetable. In the public market at Papiete, two known lepers run stalls and heaven alone knows through what channels arrive at that market the daily supplies of fish, fruit, meat and vegetables. The only way to go through the South Seas is with a careless poise without apprehension and with a Christian science like faith in the resplendent fortune of your own particular star. When you see a woman afflicted with elephanteasus ringing out cream from coconut meat with her naked hands, drink and reflect how good is the cream, forgetting the hands that pressed it out. Also remember that diseases such as elephanteasus and leprosy do not seem to be caught by contact. We watched a rarotongan woman with swollen distorted limbs prepare our coconut cream and then went out to the cook's shed where Tehei and Bia'ura were cooking dinner and then it was served to us on a dry goods box in the house. Our host waited until we were done and then spread their table on the floor. But our table, we were certainly in the high seat of abundance. First there was glorious raw fish caught several hours before from the sea and steeped in the intervening time in lime juice diluted with water. Then came roast chicken, two coconuts, sharply sweet, served for drink. There were bananas that tasted like strawberries and that melted in the mouth. And there was banana poi that made one regret his Yankee Four Bears ever attempted puddings. Then there was boiled yam, boiled taro, and roasted face, which last or nothing more or less than large, mealy, juicy, red-colored cooking bananas. We marveled at the abundance and even as we marveled, a pig was brought on, a whole pig, a sucking pig swathed in green leaves and roasted upon the hot stones of a native oven, the most honorable and triumphant dish in the Polynesian cuisine. After that came coffee, black coffee, delicious coffee, native coffee grown on the hillsides of Taha. Tehei's fishing tackle fascinated me and after we arranged to go fishing, Charmian and I decided to remain all night. Again Tehei broached Samoa and again my petite bateau brought the disappointment and the smile of acquiescence to his face. Boroboro was my next port. It was not so far away but the cutters made the passage back and forth between it and Raiatea. So I invited Tehei to go that far with us on the snark. Then I learned that his wife had been born on Borobora and still owned a house there. She likewise was invited and immediately came the counter-invitation to stay with them in their house in Borobora. It was Monday. Tuesday we would go fishing and return to Raiatea. Wednesday we would sail by Taha and off a certain point a mile away pick up Tehei and Biaura and go on to Borobora. All this we arranged in detail and talked over scores of other things as well and yet Tehei knew three phrases in English. Charmian and I knew possibly a dozen Tahitian words and among the four of us there were a dozen or so French words that all understood. Of course such polyglot conversation was slow but eked out with a pad, a lead pencil, the face of a clock Charmian drew on the back of a pad and with ten thousand and one gestures we managed to get on very nicely. At the first moment we evidenced an inclination for bed the visiting natives with soft dioranas faded away and Tehei and Biaura likewise faded away. The house consisted of one large room and it was given over to us our host going elsewhere for sleep. In truth their castle was ours and right here I want to say that of all the entertainment I have received in this world at the hands of all sorts of races in all sorts of places I have never received entertainment that equaled this at the hands of this brown-skinned couple of Taha. I do not refer to the presence the free-handed generousness the high abundance but to the fineness of courtesy and consideration and tact and to the sympathy that was real sympathy and that it was understanding they did nothing they thought ought to be done for us according to their own standards but they did what they defined we wanted to be done for us while their devination was most successful it would be impossible to enumerate the hundreds of little acts of consideration they performed during the few days of our intercourse let it suffice for me to say that of all hospitality and entertainment I have known in no case was theirs not only not excelled but in no case was it quite equaled perhaps the most delightful features of it was that it was due to no training to no complex social ideals but that it was untutored and spontaneous outpouring from their hearts the next morning we went fishing that is Taha'i Sharmin and I did in the coffin shaped canoe at this time the enormous sail was left behind there was no room for sailing and fishing at the same time in that tiny craft several miles away inside the reef in a channel twenty fathoms deep Taha'i dropped his baited hooks and rock sinkers the bait was chunks of octopus flesh which he bit out of live octopus that writhed in the bottom of the canoe nine of these lines he said each line attached to one end of the bamboo floating on the surface when a fish was hooked the end of the bamboo was drawn under the water naturally the other end rose up in the air bobbing and waving frantically for us to make haste and make haste we did with whoops and yells and driving paddles from one signaling bamboo to another hauling up from the depths great glistening beauties from two to three feet in length steadily to the eastward dropping out the bright trade wind sky as we were three miles to the leeward of home we started as the first wind gust swight in the water then came the rain such rain is only the tropics afford where every tap and main in the sky is open wide and when to top it all the very reservoir itself spills over in blinding deluge well sharmion was in a swimming suit I was in pajamas and Taha'i cloth Biura was on the beach waiting for us and she led sharmion into the house in much the same fashion that a mother leads in a naughty little girl who's been playing in mud puddles it was a change of clothes and a dry and quiet smoke while Kaikai was preparing Kaikai by the way is the Polynesian for food or to eat or rather it is one form of the original root planted far and wide over the vast area of the Pacific it is Ka'i in the Marquesas Rarotanga Manikiki Ne'iu Fakafo Tonga New Zealand and Vaute and Tahiti to eat changes to Amu in Hawaii and Samoa to A'i in Ban to Kana to Kaka and in New Caledonia to Ki but by whatever sound or symbol it was welcome to our ears after that long paddle in the rain once more we sat in the high seat of abundance until we regretted that we had been made unlike the image of the giraffe and the camel again when we were preparing to return to the snark the sky to windward turned black and another squall swooped down but this time it was little rain and all wind it blew hour after hour moaning and screeching through the palms tearing and wrenching and shaking the frail bamboo dwelling while the outer reef set on a mighty thundering as it broke the force of the swinging seas inside the reef the lagoon sheltered though it was was white with fury and not even Tahie's seamanship could have enabled his slender canoe to live in such a welter sunset the back of the squall had broken though it was still too rough for the canoe so I had Tahie find a native who was willing to venture his cutter across to Raiatea for the outrageous sum of two dollars chile which is equivalent in our money to ninety cents half the village was told off to carry presents with which Tahie and Biaura speeded their parting guest captive chickens fishes dressed and swat wrappings of green leaves great golden bunches of bananas leafy baskets spilling over with oranges and limes alligator pears the butter fruit also called the avoca huge baskets of yams bunches of taro and coconuts and last of all large branches and trunks of trees firewood for the snark while on the way to the cutter we met the only white man on Tahoe and of all men a native of New England eighty six years of age he was sixty out of which he said he had spent in the society islands with occasional absences such as the gold rush to El Dorado and forty nine and a short period of ranching in California near Tulare given no more than three months by the doctors to live he had returned to a south seas and lived to eighty six and to chuckle over the doctors who were all in their graves Feifei he had which is the native for elephantiasis and which is pronounced Feifei a quarter of a century before the disease had fastened upon him and it would remain with him until he died we asked him about Keth and Ken beside him set a sprightly damsel of sixty his daughter she's all I have he murmured plaintively and she has no children living the cutter was a small sloop rigged affair but large it seemed along to Haye's canoe on the other hand when we got out on the lagoon we were struck by another heavy wind squall the cutter became Lillipushan while the snark in our imagination seemed to promise all the stability and permanence of a continent they were good boatmen to Haye and Bihuruah had come along to see us home and the latter proved a good boatwoman herself the cutter was well balanced and we met the squall under full sail it was getting dark the lagoon was full of coral patches and we were carrying on in the height of the squall we had to go about in order to make a short leg to windward to pass around a patch of coral no more than a foot under the surface as the cutter filled on the other tack and while she was in that dead condition that precedes gathering way she was knocked flat jib sheet and main sheet were let go as she rided into the wind three times she was knocked down and three times the sheets were flung loose before she could get away on that tack by the time we went about again darkness had fallen we were now to windward of the snark and the squall was howling in came the jib and down came the mainsail all but a patch of it the size of a pillow slip by an accident we missed the snark which was riding it out on two anchors of the coral running the longest line on the snark by means of the launch and after an hour's hard work we heaved the cutter off and had her lying safely astern the day we sailed for Bora Bora the wind was light and we crossed the lagoon under power to the point where Taha'i and Biorua were to meet us as we made into the land between the coral banks we vainly scanned the shore for our friends there was no sign of them there was no fetches to Bora Bora by dark and I don't want to use any more gasoline than I have you see gasoline in the south seas is a problem one never knows when he'll be able to replenish his supply but just then Taha'i appeared through the trees as he came down to the water he had peeled off his shirt and was wildly waving it Biorua apparently was not ready once aboard Taha'i informed us by signs that we must proceed along the land till we got opposite to his house he took the wheel and conned the snark through the coral around point after point till we cleared the last point of all cries of welcome went up from the beach and Biorua assisted by several of the villagers brought off two canoe loads of abundance there were yams taro, phase breadfruit, coconuts oranges, limes pineapples watermelons alligator pears pomegranates fish chickens galore crowing and crackling and laying eggs on our decks and a live pig that squealed infernally and all the time in apprehension of eminent slaughter under the rising moon we came in through the perilous passage of the reef of Bora Bora and dropped anchor off via Tape village Biorua with house-wifely anxiety could not get ashore too quickly to her house to prepare more abundance for us while the launch was taking her into Haya to the Little Jetty the sound of music and of singing drifted across the quiet lagoon throughout the society islands we had been continually informed that we would find the Bora Borans very jolly Sharmy and I went ashore to sea and on the village green cotton graves on the beach found the youths and maidens dancing flower garland and flower bedecked with strange phosphorescent flowers in their hair that pulsed and dimmed and glowed in the moonlight farther along the beach we came upon a huge grass house oval shaped 70 feet in length where the elders of the village were singing hymenes they too were flower garland and jolly and they welcomed us into the fold along from outer darkness early next morning to Haya was on board with a string of fresh caught fish and an invitation to dinner for that evening on the way to dinner we dropped in at that hymenae house the same elders were singing in here or there a youth or maiden that we had not seen the previous night from all the signs a feast was in preparation towering up from the floor flanked on either side by numerous chickens tethered by coconut strips after several hymenes had been sung one of the men arose and made oration the oration was made to us and though it was Greek to us we knew that in some way it connected us with that mountain of preventer can it be that they're presenting us with all that impossible I muttered back why should they be giving it to us besides there's no room on the snark for it we could not eat a tithe of it the rest would spoil maybe they're inviting us to the feast at any rate that they should give all that to us is impossible nevertheless we found ourselves once more in the high seat of abundance the orator by gestures unmistakable in detail presented every item in the mountain to us and next he presented it to us in Toto it was an embarrassing moment what would you do if you lived in a hall bedroom and a friend gave you a white elephant our snark was no more than a hall bedroom and already she was loaded down with the abundance of tithe this new supply was too much we blushed and stammered and maroo-rood we maroo-rood with repeated newies which conveyed the largeness and overwhelmingness of our thanks at the same time by signs we committed the awful breach of etiquette of not accepting the present the Hameenei singer's disappointment was plainly betrayed and that evening aided by tithe we compromised by accepting one chicken one bunch of bananas one bunch of tarot and so on down the list I bought a dozen chickens from a native out in the country and the following day he delivered 13 chickens along with a canoe load of fruit the French storekeeper presented us with pomegranates and lent us his finest horse the gendarm did likewise lending us a horse that was the very apple of his eye and everybody sent us flowers the snark was a fruit stand and a green grocers shop that was excavating under the guise of a conservatory we went around flower garlanded all the time when the Hameenei singers came on board to sing the maidens kissed us welcome and the crew from Captain the Cabin Boy lost its heart to the maidens of Bora Bora tithe got up a big fishing expedition in our honor to which we went in a double canoe paddled by a dozen strapping amazons we were relieved that no fish were caught else the snark would have sunk at our moorings the days passed but the abundance did not diminish on the day of departure canoe after canoe put off to us tithe brought cucumbers and a young papaya tree burdened with splendid fruit also for me he brought a tiny double canoe with fishing apparatus complete further he brought fruits with the same lavishness as at tithe Biaura brought various special presents for sharmians such as silk cotton pillows, fans and fancy mats the whole population brought fruits flowers and chickens and Biaura added a live sucking pig natives whom I did not remember ever having seen before straight over the rail and presented me with such things as fish poles, fish lines and fish hooks carved from pearl shell as the snark sailed out through the reef we had a cutter in tow this was the craft that was to take Biaura back to tithe but not tithe I had yielded at last he was one of the crew of the snark when the cutter cast off and headed east and the snark's bow turned towards the west tithe knelt down by the cockpit and breathed a silent prayer the tears flowing down his cheeks a week later when martin got around to developing and printing he showed to heye some of the photographs and that brown-skinned son of Polynesia gazing on the pictured liniments of his beloved Biaura broke down in tears but the abundance there was so much of it we could not work the snark for the fruit that was in the way she was festooned with fruit and then launched were packed with it the awning guys groaned under their burdens but once we struck the full trade wind sea the disburdening began at every roll the snark shook overboard a bunch or so of bananas and coconuts or a basket of limes a golden flood of limes washed about in the least scuppers the big baskets of yams burst and pineapples and pomegranates rolled back and forth the chickens had got loose on the awnings fluttering and squawking out on the jib boom and essaying the perilous feet of balancing on the spinnaker boom they were wild chickens accustomed to flight when attempts were made to catch them they flew out over the ocean circled about and came back sometimes they did not come back and in the confusion unobserved the little sucking pig got loose and slipped overboard on the arrival of strangers every man endeavored to obtain one as a friend and carry him off to his own habitation where he is treated with the greatest kindness by the inhabitants of the district they place him on a high seat and feed him with abundance of the finest foods end of chapter 12 recorded by Todd Lennon Albuquerque, New Mexico New Year's Eve 2008 Chapter 13 of The Cruise of the Snark This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Cruise of the Snark by Jack London Chapter 13 The Stone Fishing of Bora Bora At five in the morning the conchs began to blow From all along the beach the conchs arose like the ancient voice of war calling to the fishermen to arise and prepare to go forth We on the snark likewise arose for there could be no sleep in that mad din of conchs Also, we were going stone fishing though our preparations were few Tata'i Taora is the name for stone fishing Tata'i meaning a fishing instrument and Tata'i Taora meaning throne Tata'i Taora in combination means stone fishing for a stone is the instrument that is thrown Stone fishing is in reality a fish drive similar in principle to a rabbit drive or cattle drive though in the latter affairs drivers and driven operate in the same medium while in the fish drive the men must be in the air to breathe this drive the fish just the same this is the way it is done the canoes form in line 100 to 200 feet apart in the bow of each canoe a man wields a stone several pounds in weight which is attached to a short rope he merely smites the water with the stone pulls up the stone and smites again he goes on smiting in the stern of each canoe another man paddles keeping it in the formation the line of canoes advances to meet a second line a mile or two away the ends of the lines hurring together to form a circle the far edge of which is the shore the circle begins to contract upon the shore where the women standing in a long row out into the sea form offensive legs which serves to break any rushes of the frantic fish a canoe dashes out from shore dropping overboard a long screen of coconut leaves and encircling the circle thus reinforcing the palisade of legs of course the fishing is always done inside the reef in the lagoon trejoli the gendarm said after explaining by signs and gestures that thousands of fish would be caught of all sizes from minnows to sharks and that the captured fish would boil up and upon the very sand of the beach it is the most successful method of fishing while its nature is more that of an outing festival rather than of a prosaic food getting task such fishing parties take place about once a month at Bora Bora and it is a custom that is descended from old time the man who originated it is not remembered but one cannot help wondering about that forgotten savage of the long ago and whose mind first flashed this scheme of easy fishing of catching a huge quantities of fish without hook or net or spear one thing about him we can know he was a radical and we can be sure that he was considered featherbrained and anarchistic by his conservative tribesmen his difficulty was much greater than that of the modern inventor who has to convince in advance only one or two capitalists that early inventor had to convince his whole tribe in advance for without the cooperation of the whole tribe the device could not be tested one can well imagine the nightly pow wowings in that primitive island world when he called his comrades antiquated moss backs and they called him a fool a freak and a crank and charged him with having come from Kansas heaven alone knows at what cost of gray hairs and expletives he must finally have succeeded in winning over a sufficient number to give his idea a trial at any rate the experiment succeeded it stood the test of truth it worked and thereafter we can be confident there was no man to be found who did not know all along that it was going to work our good friends who were fishing in our honor had promised to come for us we were down below when the call came from on deck that they were coming we dashed up the companion way to be overwhelmed by the sight of the Polynesian barge in which we were to ride it was a long double canoe the canoes lashed together by timbers with an interval of water between and the hole decorated with flowers and golden grasses the stern of each canoe was a strapping steersman all were garlanded with gold and crimson and orange flowers while each wore about the hips a scarlet parade there were flowers everywhere flowers, flowers, flowers without end the whole thing was an orgy of color on the platform forward resting on the boughs of the canoes Teha and Bahara were dancing all voices were raised in a wild song or greeting everyone circled the snark before coming alongside to take Charmian and me on board then it was away for the fishing grounds a five mile paddle dead to windward everyone is jolly in Bora Bora is the saying throughout the society islands and we certainly found everybody jolly canoe songs shark songs and fishing songs were sung to the dipping of the paddles all joining in on the swinging choruses once in a while they were raised were upon all strained like mad at the paddles Mao is shark and when the deep sea tigers appear the natives paddle for dear life for the shore knowing full well the danger they run of having their frail canoes overturned and of being devoured of course in our case there were no sharks but the cry of Mao was used to incite them to paddle with as much energy as if the shark were really after them in the water on the platform to high in Bahara danced accompanied by songs and choruses or by rhythmic hand clappings at other times a musical knocking of the paddles against the side of the canoes mark the accent a young girl dropped her paddle leaped to the platform and danced a hula in the midst of which still dancing she swayed and bent and imprinted on our cheeks the kiss of welcome and they were especially beautiful the deep bases of the men mingling with the altos and thin sopranos of the women informing a combination of sound that irresistibly reminded one of an organ in fact kanaka organ is the scoffers description of the humine on the other hand some of the chants or ballads were very barbaric having come down from pre-christian times and so singing dancing paddling these joyous Polynesians took us to the fishing the gendarme who is the French ruler of Bora Bora accompanied us with his family in a double canoe of his own paddled by his prisoners for not only is he a gendarme and ruler but he is jailer as well and in this jolly land when anybody goes fishing all go fishing a score of single canoes without rigors paddled along with us around a point a big sailing canoe appeared running beautifully before the wind as it bore down to greet us balancing precariously on the outrigger three young men sleutered us with the wild rolling of drums the next point half a mile farther on brought us to the place of meeting here the launch which had been brought along by Warren and Martin attracted much attention the Bora Borns cannot see what made it go the canoes were drawn upon the sand and all hands went ashore to drink coconuts and sing and dance here our numbers were added to by many who arrived on foot from nearby dwellings and a pretty sight it was to see the flower crown maidens hand in hand and two by two arriving along the sands they usually make a big catch alicot a half case trader told us at the finish it was fairly alive with fish it is lots of fun of course you know all the fish will be yours all I groaned for already the snark was loaded down with lavish presence by the canoe load of fruits vegetables pigs and chickens yes every last fish alicot answered you see when the surround is completed you being the guest of honor must take a harpoon and impale the first one it is the custom to catch out on the sand there will be a mountain of them then one of the chiefs will make a speech in which he presents you with the whole kit and bootle but you don't have to take them all you get up and make a speech selecting what fish you want for yourself and presenting all the rest back again then everyone says you are very generous but what will be the result if I kept the whole present I ask it has never happened was the answer it is the custom to give the native minister started with a prayer for success in the fishing and all heads were bared next the chief fisherman told off the canoes and a lot of them their places then it was into the canoes and away no women however came along with the exception of Bihara and Charmin in the old days even they would have been tabooed the women remained behind to wade out into the water and form the palisade of legs a double canoe was left on the beach and we went in the launch half the canoes paddled off to Leeward while we with the other half headed to one word a mile and a half until the end of our line was in touch with the reef the leader of the drive occupied a canoe midway in our line he stood erect a fine figure of an old man holding a flag in his hand he directed the taking of positions and the forming of the two lines by blowing on a conch when all was ready he waved his flag to the right with a single splash the throwers in every canoe on that side struck the water with their stones while they were hauling them back a matter of a moment for the stones scarcely sank beneath the surface the flag waved to the left and with admirable precision every stone on that side struck the water so it went back and forth with every wave of the flag a long line of concussion smote the lagoon at the same time the paddles drove the canoes forward and what was being done in our line was being done in the opposing line of canoes a mile and more away on the bow of the launch Tehi with eyes fixed on the leader worked his stone in unison with the others once the stone slipped from the rope and the same instant Tehi went overboard after it and we know that the next instant Tehi broke surface alongside with the stone in his hand I noticed the same accident occur several times among the nearby canoes but in each instance the thrower followed the stone and brought it back the reef ends of our lines accelerated the shore ends lagged all under the watchful supervision of the leader until at the reef the two lines joined the poor frightened fish harried shoreward by the streaks of concussion that smote the water in the same fashion elephants are driven through the jungle by moats of men who crouch in the long grasses or behind trees and make strange noises already the palisade of legs had been built we could see the heads of the women in a long line dotting the placid surface in shore nearly all were up to their necks in the water still the circle narrowed till canoes were almost touching there was a pause a long canoe shot out from shore following the line of the circle it went as fast as paddles could drive in the stern a man threw overboard the long continuous screen of coconut leaves the canoes were no longer needed the board went the men to reinforce the palisade with their legs for the screen was only a screen and not a net and the fish could dash through it if they tried hence the need for legs that ever agitated the screen and for hands that splashed and throats that yelled pandemonium rained as the trap tightened but no fish broke surface or collided against the hidden legs carefully but there were no fish boiling up and out upon the sand there was not a sardine not a minnow not a polywog something must have been wrong with that prayer or else and more likely as one grizzled fellow put it the wind was not in its usual quarter and the fish were elsewhere in the lagoon in fact there had been no fish to drive and it brought us to Bora Bora and it was our luck to draw the one chance in five had it been a raffle it would have been the other way about this is not pessimism nor is it an indictment of the plan of the universe it is merely that feeling which is familiar to most fishermen at the empty end of a hard day end of chapter 13 recording by Pam Burton in Hayes, Virginia