|
AT LAST
it was our day of departure. The truck picked us up
at Tom Awira’s place, where the majority of the
'Motley Crew’ were billeted. The suspension
groaned with the weight of the 'Crew' and their
luggage. Conditions in the truck were mightily
cramped, as everyone held on while it snaked its way
through the dusty streets of Tarawa. The sun was at
its hottest by the time the truck reached the toll
booths of the Nippon causeway, which linked the
islets of Bairiki and Betio. We were all baked alive
by the searing heat as the truck driver paused to
pay the sixty cent toll; everyone was grateful when
we arrived at Betio Harbour.
The Marine Vessel "Marawan
te Ota", a wooden twin hulled catamaran of
dubious vintage waited at the wharf. A floating gin
palace it was not, with its yellow coat of paint
faded with age and use. Down in the two engine
holds, I saw a couple of filthy looking diesel
engines. I could have sworn they came from a
tractor.
‘Crew’
scattered in a myriad of different directions to buy
those essential last minute luxuries. Apples,
oranges, cigarettes, cans of drink and bottles of
mineral water; like junkies we needed our last fix
of civilisation.
The Captain arrived
and immediately set out his stall. The spread of
tattered, well worn charts and ancient navigational
instruments may not have immediately inspired
confidence but Captain Daniel had been at sea since
1947. He had started as a cook, then gradually
worked his way up to Captain, gaining his
Certificate in Suva, Fiji. Meanwhile, the ships
Engineer had been tinkering with the starboard
(right) engine. Repairs or maintenance? It was
difficult to tell, as the alternator and fan belt
were ripped out and replaced. The replacement
components were as worn as those removed. As good
omens go, this wasn't one.
Just before the
boat was due to leave, we discovered that one of our
brethren was missing and nowhere to be found. A
search of bars, restaurants, cafes and flesh pots
was launched, but to no avail. With a deep sense of
charity and with great compassion. everyone said we
should leave without him. This we were about to do,
until he arrived to ironic cheers from the Motley
Crew.
At 3 P.M. our
umbilical cord with Tarawa was broken, as the
catamaran made its way slowly and cautiously through
the harbour channel. Once outside, the sea was
clearer and cleaner; a delicate shade of turquoise.
In the distance, the coral atoll of Tarawa was a
picturesque image that remains engrained in my mind.
The sea was like an aquamarine millpond, with barely
a ripple to be seen. Overhead, Alto Stratus clouds
protected us from the piercing rays of the sun while
on the horizon, rain squalls erupted from thick
banks of black Cumulo Nimbus clouds.
Dinner was somewhat
surprisingly included in our charter fee and was
served by the cook, from the galley at the stern
(rear). Corned beef hash was served curried in a
pond of Rosella tomato soup with boiled rice and a
soupon of mixed vegetables. Strange but true: it
tasted better than it looked. Washing up was 'Do It
Yourself’, in a bucket of seawater.
The beginning of
our Voyage to Banaba had been romantically idyllic,
culminating that evening in the most glorious of
Pacific sunsets. In the West. majestic cloud
formations glowed scarlet, turning to red as the sun
sank slowly towards the horizon. Storm clouds formed
dark silhouettes as the light began to fade. In the
East, the moon was rising; a pale white disc vividly
contrasting with the wisps of pink cloud beneath.
Simply stunning.
After sundown. most
of the Motley Crew retired to their bedrolls, which
covered every available inch of deck space. The
braver ones among us slept upon the poop deck under
the stars, cooled by constant sea breezes. Later
that night, the brave became the stupid as they were
soaked by a huge rain shower. Everyone was forced
inside under cover. Now there was even less space,
bodies lay everywhere at all angles. Being one of
the stupid, I lay next to the starboard engine which
hammered away remorselessly. It was like trying to
sleep next to a tower of loudspeakers during an
AC/DC (heavy metal) concert.
At 2 A.M. next
morning, we hit trouble with the port side (left)
engine. The Engineer lifted both engine hatches up,
thus reducing sleeping space even more. The noise
emitted from the (now unmuffled) engine was
deafening to the point of being unbearable. Evil
clouds of black acrid smelling diesel fumes filled
the air. I smothered my head in a sweatshirt and my
ears in cotton wool to keep the noise and the fumes
out. The port engine wailed like a banshee,
screaming well beyond Its rev. limit; something was
going to blow. It did. The catamaran limped on, on
one engine only until dawn.
At first light,
much concern was expressed about the broken engine.
After much agitation from certain individuals, a
meeting was called following dark mutterings about
turning back. We were by now eighteen hours into the
voyage, with potentially thirty to go. Our speed was
down to four knots from six, with only the one
engine. The major concern of course was that in the
event of a further engine failure, we would be
adrift on the ocean. With our luck, like Captain
Bligh wa would have ended up in East Timor.
Jack Haden pointed
out to the Mutineers that "we should all put
our trust in the Captain, he knows what he is
doing". I said that "the day that twenty
I-Matangs (Whitemen) take over this vessel,
is the day I get off. You people know nothing about
seafaring". Jack added that "the Captain
is responsible for this vessel and for its
passengers and crew". I added that "If the
Captain turns back, we turn back. Leave the Captain
to make the decisions".
The Engineer began
the forlorn task of fixing the stricken engine. He
entered the engine hold barefoot; a primeval briny
emulsion of oil and diesel fuel slopped within. In
minutes, the engine lay sadly disassembled all over
what was once a clean pandanus mat. He poked,
prodded, cleaned and hammered the engine for at
least two hours, until finally we came to the point
of restarting it.
The starter motor
stuttered and pistons clattered. To our joyous
amazement the engine fired. Curiously the
effortlessly-ale of the I-Matang rose in direct
proportion to the engines fortunes. Emerging from
the hold like the beast from the black lagoon, the
Engineer beamed a toothless Cheshire cat smile. Cue:
spontaneous applause for the Engineer.
At 5 P.M., twenty
six hours into the Voyage, the Captain called me
over to look at the GPS (sextant). Together, we
counted down the minutes of latitude North from
0.149"N to O" - we had crossed the
equator. It was pleasant that evening up on the poop
deck, though our attempts to sleep there were to be
dashed again by rain.
The morning of
Sunday 20th July found us still aboard the
"Marawan te Ota". Time passed in the
manner expected when travelling on a slow boat to
Banaba. The engines droned on. Ron Davies and David
Corrie broke the monotony then they caught a huge
yellow fin tuna on their trawling line. Such was its
size, several people were needed to bring it to
gaff, Fresh fish for dinner! No such luck, as the
catamaran crew helped themselves to it.
Banaba was sighted
at 4.30 A.M.. a dim grey silhouette against the
background of a dirty black rainstorm. At last, I
good omen - the Motley Crew had brought rain to
Banaba. As the island drew nearer, you could see the
surf pounding against the outside reef, spurting
great white plumes of foaming water. The gloomy
weather seemed to lift just as our Voyage was
reaching its end. How green and lush the island
appeared with recent rainfall.
Our mute into the
harbour followed the contours of the reef. The
cantilever gantry starkly dominated the skyline. It
stood rusted and broken, its conveyor belt sadly
flapping limply into The ocean, no longer feeding
the once ravenous phosphate ships which used to be
moored offshore.
The surf pounded on
into the harbour entrance. We had started our
approach when suddenly the starboard engine died,
just before we'd reached the point of. no return,
where the catamaran would have been smashed into
matchwood against the reef or harbour walls. The
Captain, on his toes as ever, skilfully performed a
nimble U-turn (on one engine). The engineer
frantically tried to restart his stricken engine,
which roared into life at full throttle. We steered
heavily to port, missing the harbour wall by a
whisker, then steering right full rudder as the
engines screamed with the strain. To us it seemed
like disaster had been narrowly averted. I'm sure it
was all in a days work for the Captain, a case of
been there, done that! We cruised effortlessly into
the harbour. But like most boats, it had no brakes
and collided with a heavy thump into the harbour
wall. The Captain was not amused; he was left to
curse and castigate his inattentive crew.
Banabans and
I-Matangs (from a previous journey) flooded into the
wharf to greet us. Waves and shouts of
"Mauri" (hello and welcome) filled the
air. The boat couldn't dock, it was secured
mid-harbour by ropes swum to shore by crewmen and
fixed to bollards. Some of us couldn't wait to get
off the boat, our Voyage to Banaba had taken us
forty six hours in all; they plunged straight into
the water and crawled the green algae covered
harbour steps.
We were transferred
by row boat. using the fixed ropes to pull it to
shore, hand over hand. Everyone parked themselves
down on the harbour wall, under whatever shade they
could find. Even though we were on land, the world
was still rocking to the motion of the boat. We
found ourselves surrounded by the friendly curiosity
of the Banaban children. We waited for a lift to
Banaba House in the islands one and only truck
preserved from the mining days. We learnt that it
had broken down.
We would have to
walk.
THE
END
Copyright:
Garry Hawkins: October 1997
| 
