Time after time I returned to plead with Mr. Nevill. Inevitably the answer was the same and I was forced to retreat from his whitewashed office shaking my head and muttering to myself, "Neale, there must be a way!" Of course there was - but it was to take me six years to discover it. Meantime I had to eat, so before long I was forced to take a job as storeman with the Cook Islands Trading Company - the same firm for whom I had worked before in the outer islands. The pay was 25 pounds a month. Inevitably, I loathed every minute, for after Suvarov, it was no easy job adjusting myself, and every moment in the warehouse found me nostalgically comparing this dreary commercial existence with the free and intensely satisfying life I had known on the island. I found myself constantly irritated. During the past twenty-one months almost the only time I had ever used a clock had been for cooking uto; now my entire day seemed doomed to be governed by the ticking of this infernal machine. For nearly two years my only clothing had been a strip of pareu; now long trousers encased and imprisoned my reluctant legs. Every time I drew breath I felt chocked with petrol fumes from the cars outside my office window at the filling station. Only occasionally was I to find something that reminded me of Suvarov. I had found a place to live and batch for ten shillings a week, and my new dwelling was almost on the water's edge outside the town. When the wind was in the right quarter, I could hear the boom of the reef; whilst nearby, from the field framed by mountains where my neighbour kept fowls, I was still awakened each morning by cockcrow.  

Yet I mustn't give the impression that my life in Raro was nothing but along melancholy interlude; nor that I went to and from my daily work with a face so miserable that people shunned me. I had friends, I had plenty of work to do, and of course I would often go for days without thinking about Suvarov. Raro looked much the same. Main Street was just as dusty as it had been before I went away, the Residency seemed just as solid. A new garage had sprung up beside Avatiu harbour, and on the edge of Avarua village there was now a new general store. I found that the radio station near the airstrip had been enlarged, while the sanatorium by Black Rock on the West Coast had been modernised. but basically the place remained just the same - an easy-going, small community clustered close to the bountiful ocean which washed the beaches, and backed by the 2,000-foot-high dramatic peak of Te Managa, the island's largest volcanic mountain. Before long, despite my restiveness, I began to settle in. Nor did I resent the hard life of a storekeeper. Every morning at seven I collected the keys from the manager's house before opening up the store. My own tiny office, which was in a corner of a warehouse, reminded me in way of my little study on Suvarov. Its furniture was sparse - only a table and chair - but there any resemblance ended, for when I hurried to open the shutter each morning, I looked out not on a coral path lined with coconut trees leading down to a beach, but on a petrol station by the edge of an unpaved road, so dusty that it had to be hosed down each day throughout the dry season. I would gaze out on this rather depressing scene for a few moments before picking up my heavy bunch of keys and setting off to unlock each of the warehouses grouped near the store which, in common with all island stores, stocked pretty well everything. 

At this time one of my few friends was Ron Powell whose boatyard was only a short distance from my shack, and I had fallen into the habit of dropping in on him during the long evenings to watch him building his latest order. I have always admired boat builders, but what drew me specially to Ron was the fact that he had visited Suvarov. Of course we naturally chatted about the island and I made no bones about my wish to get back. Then one evening out of the blue he suggested, "Let's build a twelve-footer for when you go back to Suvarov!" "You really mean it?" I asked incredulously. "Of course I do." His pleasant cheerful face was beaming. "You can take your time - there's plenty of room in the yard. Come on,. Tom, we might as well get down to some scale plans." Now, I am no boat builder, but during the next few evenings I hurried straight from the store to Ron's home where we worked until the late hours drawing plans to scale. This would not, of course, be a boat to take me to Suvarov, but a boat to use when I got there, and I knew just what I wanted. She had to be light and strong with practically no keel and a slight "V" bottom - light so I could handle her myself, haul up on the beach, turn her over for painting; strong because I wanted her not only for shallow water, but to cross the eight miles of the lagoon.

I never told a should the real reason, preferring to keep her behind my shack where I erected a frame conversed with sheets of roofing iron to keep the rain off. As the years passed, however, she and I seemed fated to stay on Raro for ever and I almost began to forget how I had connected her building with my dream of getting away. Sometimes now I was almost frightened at the realisation of how swiftly the years were passing, how inevitably I was getting older. But my boring, if tranquil, life seemed to act like an unaesthetic, until suddenly one night, talking to Andy about the old days, I was startled into reality by an earnestness in his voice I had never known before. Leaning across the table, he urged me "Give it up, tom! Do you realise it's five years since you left Suvarov?" His words brought me right up against the truth. It was five years! And I was getting on for sixty! That night I went home to my little shack and looked around despondently at the things I had been collecting against the day of my return. Already twenty cases or packages were stacked against the walls - ready for the day. There were all sorts of new things I had bought - an emery wheel which I hadn't been able to afford on my first trip, a carpenter's plane, two more saws, a couple of rolls of wire netting, several lengths of twelve-by-one boards for shelving or making tables. I had even bought a galvanised bath tub. As I made myself a cup of tea I wondered gloomily if it were all worthwhile. Was I - close on sixty - an ageing idiot pursuing an ideal which had long ago quietly and silently slipped out of my reach? Why didn't I face the truth and settle for the sort of life that seemed to satisfy other people? Even Andy - Andy of all people - had said "Give it up!" Had it not been for an American called Loren Smith who sailed into Rarotonga I think I might have entirely lost heart. But Smith, who luckily for me decided to stay awhile, was destined to bring me the order of release which I had almost ceased to believe would ever come.

Oren (or "Smithy" as I called him) was about sixty, a cheerful gregarious character who loved the islands, and was perfectly content sailing from one to another, taking a job when he ran out of money. Although he owned a thirty-foot boat of the type known as a Tahiti ketch, which was called Tahiti, she had not been built there. He decided to settle down for a spell and work at our local garage. As a result we met quite often, and one day he asked me if I would help him haul his boat out of the water since he wanted to repaint her. As we had to slipway at Rarotonga the job involved using a block and tackle, to say nothing of the P.W.D. bulldozer. Naturally, I gave him a hand and even helped with the painting as well. Once the job was over and we had put the Tahiti back in the water, I got into the habit of visiting Smithy on his boat in the evenings for a yarn. Inevitably, I must have talked about Suvarov. Indeed I harped on my experiences there so often that I was half afraid I had bored him, until one night when we were having a final drink in his cabin, Smithy turned to me without warning, and said, "Tom, if you really want to go, I'll take you back there." I almost dropped my glass as I swallowed the wrong way and choked. "Tom, I mean it," he added. I was so taken aback that at first I could not reply, but when I did, I forced myself, despite a mounting surge of excitement, to remain severely practical - deliberately, for I didn't want this hallucination to get out of hand. "That's a wonderful offer," I said as evenly as I could, "but you know, Smithy, you could never get all my stuff aboard." "That's a easy," said this remarkable man as he filled up my glass, "we'll just have to make two trips." Even now I refused to allow myself to believe him. "But you've got a dinghy on deck." I must have sounded as though I were trying to find excuses. "You could never get my boat on board as well." "That's okay -" there was not a moment of hesitation - "we'll tow her."

Now for the first time I allowed myself to believe that I might really be going back.  It never entered my head to inquire why he had made this generous offer, I just took it for granted, though now, looking back, I imagine it was probably because he wanted to repay me for the work I had done on his boat. That and the fact that he had a natural love of adventure. We talked long into the night. By the time I went back to my shack I knew not only that this was real, but that we were actually due to sail within the next three weeks. The very next day I started to send all my packages by lorry to a friend who lived opposite the Tahiti's moorings, and who had an empty shed. From then on every evening found me storing some of my stores aboard. Once again I made the round of stores I had made so many years before in search of bulk provisions; but this time, although I bought very much the same sort of supplies, my improved finances enabled me to buy in much larger quantities. I had learned many lessons during my first stay on the island, and I was determined not to forget them each time I visited the stores. Above all I remembered how I had needed meat, so this time I bought three times as much bully beef as I had done the first time. I also invested in a larger supply of tea and powdered milk, for I knew how miserable I could be without my evening cup of tea on the beach.  I still had all my crockery and kitchenware; most of my tools were in excellent condition, especially as I had added to them over the years, but on the first trip I had sadly missed garden tools, so now I bought a good rake, a big fork and spade and a wheelbarrow for the topsoil I knew I would have to collect to make a new garden. Since I knew every corner of each warehouse in the Cook Islands Trading Company, I was able to "scrounge" all sorts of invaluable extras. When I bought my garden tools the manager threw in a tin of fertiliser. Determined to help. One of the men in the paint shop brought me a selection of brushes as a gift just because I casually mentioned how I had had to make my own on Suvarov. One other thing I remembered - to buy half a dozen small children's paintbrushes to pollinate my tomato blossoms. The news of my departure was, of course, soon known to everybody in Raro, and once again, in those three weeks of rush and bustle, I sensed in the kindness which everybody showed me a trace of wistful envy, as though they would have given anything to be setting off on a similar adventure. Indeed, I was in Donald's one day buying a couple of old sugar sacks when one of the assistants I had known for years suddenly looked me straight in the eyes, and blurted out, "Tom - will you take me along with you?" He was a freckle-faced man of about forty-five - young compared with me. There was an almost pathetic eagerness in his voice, and I suddenly realised that he had been serving behind that same counter even before I left on my first trip. Poor devil! But it was impossible, and there was only one reply I could make. "I'm sorry," I said, and I really meant it for he was a nice fellow, "It wouldn't work, Jim. Believe me, it wouldn't. I am going back to Suvarov because I like being alone - and if we were cooped up there together we'd be fighting like cat and dog after a month." I only needed one companion on the island - a cat.

Mrs. Thievery and Mr. Tom-Tom had long since faded out of my life, and had been replaced by another female. )Like my boat she as yet possessed no name. I seemed during this period to have given up using names!) I decided against taking the cat until my second trip, but I did plan to take two roosters and six fowls with me. As there was no room on deck for the crate I had built for them, I decided to stow this in the stern of my boat which we would tow up on the first trip and leave on the island whilst we returned for the rest of my belongings. Only one thing was really worrying me now - how I was going to be able to pay for my passage. I knew Smithy was not a rich man, and I felt that it was too much to ask him to foot the bill for fuel for his auxiliary engine for two trips of five hundred and thirteen miles each way - over two thousand miles in all. So, a grew days before I had finished loading my first lot of cases on board, I went to Smithy and handed him a bundle of notes - fifty pounds.  "What's this for?" He looked astonished. "That's for taking me to Suvarov," I replied. He looked at it in silence for a moment. Then without a word, he stowed the money away. We never referred to the matter again, but I felt much better for having paid my way. One more call remained to be made - Mr. Nevill, the Resident commissioner. I knew he must be aware of my plans, but nonetheless I felt I should go and face him, and tell him as man to man, because despite all the times when he had refused to help me, he had always behaved perfectly correctly, so that we had remained on the sort of terms which never excluded a friendly chat when we met. I didn't want him to think that I was sneaking off behind his back/ I might have guessed his reaction when I went up to his office in the Residency a few days before sailing. "Mr. Nevill," I told him. "I'm going to Suvarov. "He smiled. "Oh yes, Tom, I know you're leaving."

Then, since this was no longer his official business, he turned to me, held out a hand, gripped ;mine, and said, "Good luck, Tom!" On the last night before sailing I made the rounds of my few close friends to say good-bye, wondering, now that I was nearly sixty, how many of them I would ever see again. Andy happened to be in port, so I cycled out to have a final drink with him, and as he sat opposite me across the table, with a bottle of rum between us, he uttered one sentence which I must admit gave me great pleasure, "You never give up, do you, Tom?" This oldest of friends looked almost puzzled. "I wish I knew what it is that drives you to love Suvarov so much." "I don't know myself, Andy," I admitted. "Perhaps it's just as swell that I don't."

I cycled back to the shack and went to see Ron Powell, whose encouragement in building the boat had made me promise that he should be there when finally, after all these years, we launched her. Together we carried her down to the water's edge and then, for the first time, I took her out. She behaved beautifully, as though responding to the knowledge that I, who was now sailing her, had built her from the word go. We had to have another drink to celebrate the launching, and then Smithy joined us, and one or two others, and we sat yarning until it was nearly dawn. It seemed as if half Raro had come to bid me farewell on that day in early March, 1960, when we finally sailed. Curious, and I dare say fascinated, people lined the quay. Old acquaintances came to shake my hand and wish me luck. Somebody brought me a pound of tea. A lady who lived in a big house not far from my shack brought a cake she had baked herself. And almost at the last moment before we sailed, the friend with whom I had parked my bicycle came running down to the quay, almost out of breath, waving what looked like a thin black stick.  It was my bicycle pump! "You found it useful last time," gasped. "I thought you might need it again! "Then we cast off, and soon we were sliding out of the harbour. Behind us, Rarotonga slowly grew smaller. Fist the people vanished, then the bright white houses, then the church, and finally, only old Te Manga stood out starkly against the skyline. Despite my excitement and anticipation, I had a lump in my throat. Wasn't it ridiculous, I thought, how you long to get away from friends, and then it hurts when you finally do. "Hey, Tom!" Smithy interrupted my daydreams, "Take the tiller while I go check on the motor. "No more time for thinking. We were on the way - back to the island of desire.

Return to Suvarov

We took eleven days to reach Suvarov. We experienced constantly dirty weather with headwinds and sometimes even cross seas running. Despite these drawbacks, however, I managed to scramble into the dinghy each morning and evening to feed and water my fowls and bale out the rain water. I was only able to get in by hauling on the tow line until the dinghy was close up to our stern and then Smithy would hold it whilst I clambered precariously across. It wasn't easy, and when the weather was really bad there was no alternative but to make the passage four times a day to bale her out and stop her from sinking. One occasion I missed my footing while clambering aboard and fell into the sea, but managed to grab the tow line. It could hardly be described as a pleasure cruise, for it took all our effort to keep the Tahiti on course; we had little time for cooking, and - as far as I was concerned - very little time to think of what lay ahead. The fact that I had been able to return to Suvarov was one of the great triumphs of my modest life, and should have filled me with excitement; yet, because of the bad weather, the voyage of the Tahiti was something of anti-climax. We were too occupied to think. Even eating a cold meal was hazardous when the weather was at its vilest.

The day before we reached Suvarov, the wind dropped, and we spent the night some miles outside the reef. Even though it was a long way off, I could occasionally hear its booming, and I sat on deck - just as I had sat on the deck of Andy's Tiare Taporo that night so many years ago - at last able to luxuriate in anticipation, knowing that my island was only a few miles away, and that on the morrow I should be walking along its firm, white beach listening to the la of the warm waves and the rustle of the palm fronds. Smithy was asleep in the cabin but now, with the bad weather behind us, I sat under a sky crowded with stars. Only the gentle slap of water against wood disturbed the night. Though we were both dog-tired after the trip, I couldn't bear the thought of wasting this night in sleeping, for it was, I think, the most perfect night I can remember, the sort of beautiful night that must have inspired Mansfield's line "The lonely sea and the sky." It all seemed one, as though I were alone in the centre of a vast black sphere. It was four a.m. before I finally turned in, and I awoke two hours later as fresh as a daisy to a fine sunny morning. Now that there was no wind, we used the auxiliary engine to approach the island, and by eight o'clock we had reached the passage in the reef and Suvarov was there before me.

What a moment to remember! Seen from the deck of the Tahiti, nothing seemed to have changed (though I was under no illusions about the mess I would find when we landed). The morning sunlight seemed to catch the tops of the old, eighty-foot palms in such a way that they stood out almost in silhouette - jet black with a dazzling light shining through them. It seemed to me (perhaps understandably!) that the island had never looked more beautiful, and as we rounded the south end into the lagoon I noticed first the canopy of shorter palms that bent almost protectively over the beach, like a natural umbrella, and then the old pier which looked much as it had when I left. Frisbie's five big tamanu trees were still standing - nothing could ever dislodge them! - but I could see the evidence of past storms in the few old coconut palms which lay where they had crashed. It was very still until scores of ugly frigate birds rose almost as one, angry or afraid at our intrusion, and wheeled off noisily towards the seclusion of One Tree Island. Smithy yelled, "Let's anchor here and I'll help you into your boat. No point taking mine off the deck, Tom - not yet anyway." 

Once the anchor was down, I pulled the tow-line taut, and Smithy grabbed it as I clambered aboard. The fowls looked very sorry for themselves as I cast off, then Smith climbed in and I rowed ashore. It was a strange moment, charged with emotion, as the boat grounded and I jumped into the warm shallow water to make her fast. In an instant the six years of waiting were wiped off the slate; it was as though they had never happened, and I felt just as if I were returning from an expedition to one of the motus and that Smithy's Tahiti, riding at anchor in the lagoon, was just another visiting yacht. The beach looked just the same - a bit dirty with old palm fronds that had been blown up against the edge of the trees. But nothing had changed, as nothing had changed a thousand years. When I stepped off the coral on to the sandy beach, I took off my rubber shoes so that I could feel the heat burning the soles of my feet. The baleful clucking of the fowls reminded me of more mundane things. We had work to do, especially as Smithy naturally wanted to return to Raro as soon as possible for the second trip. "But we just can't start unloading until I've had a quick look at the shack," I begged Smithy. "Who knows - it may have blown down!" We had some difficulty forcing a way along the coral path - the path I had kept so spick and span - which was now crowded with convolvulus vine and fronds. It was just like walking through jungle, and when we reached the edge of the yard, by the corner of the shack, Smithy took one look and, scratching his head, said simply, but with complete conviction, "Tom! No one man can clean up this mess!" The shack and the outhouses were completely smothered and encased by creepers, though I was glad to see that my wire guy ropes were still in position. coconut fronds were littered all over the place. The old shed in the yard where I used to keep my tools and firewood looked even worse than the first time I had arrived on the island. One glance at the cook-house told me that I would virtually need to rebuild it; behind it, my breadfruit tree had all but disappeared under a convolvulus vine. Looking around me, I could see I would have to start all over from the beginning again. The garden was a mass of weeds and sprouting coconuts which must have fallen from the nearby palms. The garden fence and fowl run had both collapsed.

And yet I cannot remember feeling the least sensation of dismay. It was no worse than it had been in 1952, and I had managed then - at first even without a boat. Now I had better tools, larger stores and a good boat. Obviously there was going to be a long hard pull ahead to get things straight, but if I had done it once, I could do it again, and this was not time to start moaning.

"At least the shack's standing - let's have a look at that." I stroke towards the veranda. The veranda was all right; my repairs following the big storm which had smashed the pier had stood up for six years, though I would have to do a bit of thatching. As I opened the door, I started to explain to Smithy, "This was my office." Then I stopped. The centre of the floor was a lake. "That's where it's come from." Smithy pointed to the roof. "Nothing to worry about - we can mend that in a day." It was a bad leak, where a section of the tin roof had been ripped off, and soon I discovered that that the roof of the kai room was also leaking. However, I had hardly examined the roof before something else riveted my attention. It was a bit of paper - or rather two pieces, one white, one green - held in position on the kai bench by a lump of coral. I picked up the white paper. It was a note dated March, 1956, and it read, "Don't know who you are or if you're returning, but would like you to know my boat stayed here two weeks. We enjoyed the fruits of your well-kept garden and ate five of your fowls. Hope this will cover everything. Sincerely, Sid P. Thatcher, San Francisco." The other "bit of paper" was a twenty-dollar bill.

"Well, I'll be damned," said Smithy. "I didn't know there were any honest people left in the world."

What a pleasant gesture from the unknown Mr. Thatcher. It conjured up all sorts of thoughts. Was there a Mrs. T? Were they still alive? I kept that bill for a long, long time - until one day when it came in very handy. "Come on, Tom!" Smithy interrupted my thoughts. "Stop thinking how you're going to spend it! I want to see more of the place." We made our way back through the office into the bedroom. Luckily, it was as dry as a bone, without a trace of damp. In view of the leaking roof, which wouldn't present a serious problem once I got down to it - we decided to store all my possessions in the bedroom pending my return.

First we unloaded everything on to the beach, ferrying the cases, the planks of wood, the wire netting, the fowls, from the Tahiti in my small boat. I lost count of the number of trips we made, but at last we had an enormous mound on the beach. While Smithy made a fire, I went fishing and came back with three large cray for lunch, after which, working almost without a break, we lugged the heavy cases up the coral path to the shack. All the cases were nailed down, though I had not been able to fasten my tins of kerosene, so for safety I now tied these up firmly between the wall and some cases. I had to let the fowls run wild. Poor devils! When I let them out of the box, they tottered around as though drunk. It would take them quite a while to get used to dry land. We got everything into the shack that afternoon, but by the time we had hauled my boat on to the veranda and covered it with sacking, dusk was approaching, so we decided to sleep the night on board the Tahiti and sail the following day. Before we left for Raro to pick up the second load, I wrote a note on a piece of cardboard, and tacked it on the door. It said:

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

PLEASE DO NOT KILL ANY OF THE ROOSTERS

OR FOWLS, OR TAKE ANY OF MY STORES OR

USE MY BOAT. I EXPECT TO RETURN IN ABOUT THREE WEEKS.

                                                                                          T. NEALE

I was back on April 23.

ON THE ISLAND

April 1960 - December 1963

Visitors by Helicopter

When I came to write this book, I almost decided to end it at the point where I was taken off the island with my bad back. It seemed to me that I might become a bore by retracing old steps again in print, for after all I lived pretty much the same sort of life on my second visit as I had done on my first. I returned because I couldn't keep away from the place - my reasons for loving Suvarov have always been as uncomplicated as that - but the challenge of living again on the island, performing the same old tasks, might savour of repetition to the reader. Then I had second thoughts, because in fact a number of fascinating incidents did break the monotony of my existence and I think you might care to read about them. Yet before I reach them I must, as briefly as I can (and at the risk of repetition) tell you how AI settled down, for those first days took on a strange dream-like quality in which, though I had to fish and cook and gather my firewood, I was hardly aware of what I was doing. I would get up in the morning, put on my pareu, brew my coffee and suddenly reflect that by rights I should be in a pair of long trousers, jangling a bunch of keys ready to open the store. I had escaped! That was the overwhelming sensation, that was what made those early days so unbelievably wonderful and precious; I had cheated authority, fate, life itself, and all by a miracle. My second stay on Suvarov lasted over three and a half years, and ruing this time only six yachts called at the island; once fourteen months passed without my seeing another human being; yet I was never lonely. The first weeks were to set a pattern of living that lasted my entire time on the island. Never again did I punish myself with long hours of physical work as I had done during my first stay. I had learned a bitter lesson then - that you cannot overwork on an island diet - and I vowed never to forget it.

Now that I had had six years to re-live every moment I had spent on the island, and to reflect on the mistakes I had made, I rather ruefully came to the conclusion that I, who loved the leisurely pace of life on the islands, had failed when I reached Suvarov the first time to put into practice the lessons learned during half a lifetime in the South Pacific. I could understand how it had happened. I had been so proud of my island that I wanted to do everything in a rush. And so, in a curiously ironic way, I had unwittingly imposed on the timeless quality of the island the speed and bustle of modern cities from which I had been so anxious to escape. Perhaps this sounds a little exaggerated, but now that I was back I was determined not to make the same mistake again, even though I found myself faced with the same overgrown wilderness which had greeted me when I landed in 1952. This time, however, I had better tools, better stores, and in a way a much better start. For though the garden looked an overgrown tangle of vines and weeds, at least the ravening pigs had been eliminated so that the old banana trees were flourishing and my paw-paw shoots had grown up into sizeable trees. The fowls I had brought with me were thoroughly domesticated and this seemed to revive memories amongst the survivors of the flock. I had abandoned six years before; so much so that almost as soon as they sighted me they came running for food. And even surveying what was left of their old run, I knew that now I was equipped with my two fifty-yard rolls of wire netting, the job of rebuilding it would be comparatively simple.

During those first weeks, I gradually tried to put the house in order. After I had mended the roof, I painted the inside of the kai room white, renovated the cookhouse and built a new and more permanent stove with an oven in which I could cook dishes from the more exciting ingredients I had brought with me. Since I now had milk powder, I was able to make myself a baked custard as soon as the hens started laying, and even scones and pastry while my flour lasted. Although it was to prove a Herculean task, I think that remaking the garden gave me more pleasure than any other single task, though I had my problems. Clearing away the jumble of vines was only the beginning. I discovered that the topsoil which remained underneath was choked with weeds, so that at first it seemed that, no matter how many I wrenched up, others would have sprung up in their place the following day. Once I had cleared a space I would rake over a bed for my seedlings until not a living thing showed above the carefully prepared soil. But it seemed I had only to turn my back or a couple of heavy showers to come down before the place would be alive again with joyful green sprouts. If only seeds would grow as fast as weeds! When, finally, the seeds did start to thrust through the poor soil, I was often unable to decide which were weeds and which were seeds, so that I was forced to let the weeds grow unmolested until I was eventually able to tell the difference. And then, just as they really started to look promising, as like as not in would come my old friends (or their descendants) the tiny hermit crabs, and nib off all the tender shoots. It was almost as though they had been waiting patiently for me to weed the garden to make life easier for them.

Beyond the garden the jungle had to be cleared too, for the path to the beach was now so overgrown in places that I had to saw away heavy limbs which had burgeoned from the trees during my absence. Over the past six years the winds had piled up enormous heaps of dead branches and fronds, almost - as though out of spite - exactly where I needed plenty of freedom to move about. I was constantly busy with machete or axe. Much of the debris I cleared came in useful as firewood, and I always had my eye open for handy saplings or sticks to tie up my tomato plants which, now that they had room to breathe, were growing with amazing rapidity. Imperceptibly, without any apparent period of transition, I slipped gently back into the well-remembered routine - at a slower tempo, however, which meant that though I still had plenty to keep me occupied, I felt no guilt when I took a day off. Now that I had a really sturdy boat, this temptation was much greater. I began to make periodic excursions to all the tiny islets in the lagoon, and on one good day, with the wind in the right quarter, I actually covered the six miles to Motu Tuo, in two hours. Once there, the weather seemed so perfect that on an impulse I decided to remain on the islet for the night. Though I am quite used to sleeping outside, a sudden through now struck me. Robinson Crusoe had built himself a secondary residence some miles away from his stockade. Why shouldn't I do the same? What was to stop me having a "summer house" on Motu Tuo, so that, if I ever felt bored, I could sail or row over for a change of scenery? I was seized with enthusiasm and spent all day building a rough lean-to out of coconut fronds. Then I speared some ku, picked some wild paw-paw and cooked supper of grilled fish and baked fruit on the beach in front of my new house, washing it down with coconut water in place of my usual cup of tea.

Only one minor incident ruined this idyllic expedition. I woke with a yell in the middle of the night as a sudden pain transfixed my let so violently that it felt as though my calf had been slashed open with a knife. There was no moon, and I was without a lamp, but as instinctively I bent down to touch my leg I felt the sicky wetness of blood in the darkness and became aware of something moving and shuffling close beside my hand. I had forgotten those damned coconut crabs! The cruel nip0 didn't appear to have done any serious damage, but I got no more sleep that night after washing my wound in salt water. And on my next trip0 to Motu Tuo, in self preservation, I took a saw, hammer and nails and made myself a bunk, from odd bits of driftwood. Over the months (though I worked only when I felt so inclined) my shack on Motu Tuo became quite comfortable. It never had the permanence of my home on Anchorage, but I rigged up some shelves for crockery and pots and pans which I felt there, together with a spare hurricane lamp, some kerosene and two boxes of matches, each sealed in separate water-tight tins - a precaution I took in case I got doused when sailing over. On one occasion I stayed there a week, taking with me some more tools, and built a more permanent bed, and then re-thatched the roof and walls with pandanus which, if well done, will outlast coconut thatching b y many years. I laid in a big stock of firewood and built a rough but serviceable cook-house just behind the shack. The only drawback was the complete lack of water which I needed for my evening cup of tea on the beach. The trouble was, I had nothing to serve as a receptacle in which I could store the rain, and though I toyed with the idea of scouring out an old oil drum and taking it over, I discarded the plan because I didn't relish the thought of drinking water which might have been uncovered for a month between my visits. In the end I compromised and carried bottles of water over each time I made the trip.

I loved my little excursions to Motu Tuo, for though it was not as beautiful as "my" island, it was surprising how pleasant a change of scenery could be. Moto Tuo, where Frisbie had once jokingly suggested I should live, was almost as large as Anchorage, but the other islet like One Tree (where my back had seized up) and Brushwood were so small that I seldom visited them except for my brief trips in search of valuable flotsam. And so time seemed almost to float on from week to week so effortlessly that had I not faithfully entered up my journal every evening, I could hardly have believed six months had already passed. They were months which had seen great changes. The garden was now flourishing, I had pollinated the blossoms, re-thatched the veranda roof and repainted the inside of the shack. The fowl population had multiplied, the coconut crabs had been killed off. But during all that time I had never once seen a sail on the horizon, nor an aircraft overhead. I had been utterly alone, and utterly content. Without warning in November 1960 the silence which enveloped the island - broken only by the boom of the surf and the crying of birds - was suddenly shattered by a roar which made the old cat run for her life and sent the hens fluttering into the illusionary security of their coop. It was so unexpected that for one moment I too froze with fear, and I remember it flashed though my mind that another war must have started. I ran out of the shack in a panic as the roaring became louder and more ominous. From the cover of the coconut trees I looked up and saw two enormous shadows in the sky, as monstrous and as predatory as the frigate birds now flying away in protest. Then I realised - they were two helicopters. Until they hovered almost directly over the shack I thought perhaps they were going to leave me alone. I was still hidden in the trees, but now I ran down the coral path and waited in the shelter of the palms edging the beach by the old pier as the leading helicopter slowly came down in front of me with a flurry of wings which blew dust everywhere. When she finally settled - even more like a bird than before - the giant blades stopped rotating, a door was thrust open and two men in khaki drill stepped out. Almost immediately afterwards, the second helicopter landed a few yards farther along the beach. From their behaviour it was quite obvious to me that none of the men had the slightest suspicion thee was anyone on this tiny island, and I hope I may be forgiven for introducing a touch of drama. As they stood there, one of them pushing back his peaked cap to wipe the sweat off his forehead, I stepped out of the trees, raised my battered old hat and said, "United States Navy, I presume?"

I have never seen two men so stunned with surprise. Both stood there gaping for fully ten seconds until one of them, recovering his wits, stepped back a pace, saluted smartly, then walked forward and shook hands. It was a signal to end the "formalities." "Well, I'll be damned!" he gasped. "What in hell's name are you doing here?"

"I live here!" I replied. "Alone?"

"Yes, alone - and you're the first person I've spoken to for six months." They were all crowding around me, and one offered me a cigarette, looked at my skin the colour of mahogany and said rather doubtfully, "You don't look like a native, sir."

"I'm not," I replied simply, "I'm a New Zealander."

"Well, by God!" he cried. "It's lucky for you we've called. Now we can get you off." As yet they had no conception I was on the island because I wanted to be. One of them told me eagerly that their ship - which I could now see outside the lagoon - was going to New Zealand, and he was quite sure they could "rescue" me and give me a lift back to civilisation. "But I like it here!" I replied, almost unable to stop chuckling. The senior officer scratched his brown hair again, and muttered, "Well, I'll be darned! Robinson Crusoe come true." I took them on a tour of my shack, and discovered they belonged to an American icebreaker, the Glacier, on its way tot he Antarctic via New Zealand. She was still steaming ahead, so they could not stay, otherwise she would move outside flying range and they might become marooned with me! They had flown over "for a practice spin" and with the idea of collecting a few drinking nuts. I split some for them as they examined every detail of the shack, the garden, the fowl run, still finding it difficult to believe that such a state of affairs could exist in the twentieth century. "Are you sure you don't want to string along with us?" one asked. Very shortly they were ready to go. Our farewells were marked by much handshaking and delving into pockets which yielded up all the half-empty packets of cigarettes they happened to have with them.

"Gee," said one ruefully, "we could have brought you anything you wanted if we'd only known you were here." We talked a minute or so longer and they promised to contact my sister in New Zealand to let her know I was in good health. Then one said, almost awkwardly, "Sorry, Mr. Neale, we just gotta go. Orders are orders and half an hour was the limit. But it's been wonderful meeting you." They climbed aboard, waved farewell, and with a flurry of rotors and a cloud of dust, rose up back into the air bound for the twentieth century again. When I returned to the shack, the old cat had crept back and the fowls were already busy pecking in the run. Their entire visit had occupied half an hour - the briefest visit anybody has ever yet paid to Suvarov.

The landing of the helicopters was to have an interesting sequel. Though I knew nothing of it at the time, the U.S. Navy released a brief news item about their visit to Suvarov, and this was how Noel Barber, the author and journalist, first heard about me whilst recovering in hospital from a car crash. Apparently he decided he wanted to see the island  - and me - and arrived about five months later in the Manua Tele, which he had chartered in Pago Pago. When he landed Noel was still only able to walk with the aid of sticks for he had been badly smashed up, but he stayed two days, and brought me a liberal supply of stores which included tea, flour, corned beef, together with whisky, rum and cigarettes. He also brought with him Chuck Smouse, an American photographer, and he and Noel took many of the photographs which appear in this book. I was so touched by the stores they had brought for me that when the Manua Tele had sailed, I sat down in the office and wrote Noel Barber a long letter of thanks. It was fourteen months before that letter left the island; for it was fourteen months before the next ship called in at Suvarov. Call in it did eventually, however, and under the most unexpected circumstances. One morning I had just washed my face and was about to sip my breakfast coffee when suddenly I heard a ship's whistle - a particular whistle I knew as well as my own voice. "Well, I'll be damned!" I cried out loud. "The Tuare Taporo. It must be Andy!" Leaving my coffee untasted, I rand down to the beach - and there was the Tiare Taporo, lying in the passage. Two Cook Islanders were already half-way to the pier in the ship's boat. The moment I saw the Tiare lying in the passage I knew she wouldn't be staying long. Andy knew the lagoon so well that, had he intended to remain, he would have sailed right in and anchored. As the ship's boat beached, I recognised one of the boys amongst the crew who cried "Hallo Tom!" Once they were on the shore I saw they had a native passenger who greeted me by shaking hands solemnly but eyeing me, I thought, a trifle queerly - almost as though I were an apparition.    

"Is Andy still captain?" I inquired. I was assured that he was - and he was anxious to see me. They were ready to row me to the Tiare right away. Begging them to wait a few moments, I nipped back to the shack and took out Mr. Thatcher's twenty-dollar bill from the tin box where I kept my "petty cash" (to pay yachtsmen who kindly posted my letters) together with some mail for Andy to post. Then we set off for the Tiare and before long I could see Andy standing on the poop. I boarded her at the stern, climbing up by the after rigging, then made my way to the poop where Andy came forward to meet me with his usual hearty handshake. I think this moment of meeting was the first time I can remember feeling a little lonely. In the ordinary way meeting visitors never moved me deeply, but Andy was my oldest friend, he was a direct link with my past, with Raro, with half my life. To see him standing there brought a lump to my throat and took me right back to the big veranda several miles out of Raro where we had so often spent an evening. But the instant of emotion vanished the moment he spoke.

"Tom!" he cried. "Thank God you're alive!" I looked at him in astonishment. "Is there any reason why I shouldn't be?" I asked. "Don't you know?" he replied slowly. "Haven't they -" with a jerk of the head to the boat's crew - "told you? You're supposed to be dead!" I burst out laughing. "Come into the cabin and have a drink-" Andy's voice was almost brusque -"and I'll tell you all about it." Down in the main cabin I remembered so well that it was almost like home opposite this man who had been my friend for over thirty years, I gratefully sipped my first drink for over a year and listened to the most astounding story. He had been sailing from Puka Puka back home to Rarotonga, Andy explained, when he received a radio message from the Resident Commissioner - a new one, for Mr. Nevill had long since gone. The message was brief and to the point. A strong rumour had reached Rarotonga that a Japanese fishing boat calling in at Suvarov had found my body. Looking at me over his drink, Andy said soberly, "The Tiare Taporo was ordered to call in, investigate and if necessary give you a Christian burial."

"A Japanese fisherman!" I burst out laughing again. "But Andy - you're the first man I've seen for fourteen months." "Well, I'm more than delighted to see it was only a rumour," said Andy dryly. "But how could a rumour like that start?" "Your guess is as good as mine," Andy confessed. "I got the radio message, that's all. Let's forget it - come one, tom, have another drink." Time means money to a ship, and Andy was not the owner of the Tiare Taporo, so his visit was brief - though not quite so brief as that of the Americans in their helicopters, for he stayed in the passage for over two hours whilst we gossiped about friends in Rarotonga and what was happening in the outside world. There was so much to talk about, however unimportant, that the time seemed to fly, and I found myself hoping until the very last minute that he would stay a little longer. After all, it was Andy who had taken me to the island in the first place. But though we had another drink and yarned for a little while longer, Andy finally said reluctantly, "I'll have to be on my way. Sorry I can't stay longer, Tom, and come ashore - do you remember that first picnic on Motu Tuo? - but I'm under orders." Before leaving, I bought a tine of cabin bread and some tobacco from the ship's store, and Andy gave me a bottle of rum. As I was getting ready to sway good-bye and step down into the boat alongside, I could not resist saying, "Don't forget to let them know that I'm alive."

"I've already radioed - the news'll be round Raro tonight that you're fit and well." He paused, shifted from one foot to the other and then said seriously, "Make sure you stay that way, Tom." My parting words as I climbed down his after rigging were, "You'll have to wait a long time yet before you bury me!" I stood on the old pier until the Tiare had faded from sight, feeling rather sad, wondering what they were doing on board, reflecting that in a few days Andy would be back in the "civilisation" I so despised, yet which now, suddenly and for the first time, seemed to have its desirable qualities. Almost despondently I could picture Andy returning to his bungalow, I could visualise his garden with its African daisies, then I had a sudden picture in my mind's eye of the stores on Main Street. As I stood gazing out past the lagoon to the open sea, I thought that I wouldn't have minded returning to Raro for a fortnight's holiday. The old cat, rubbing against my bare ankle, brought me back to reality. "Don't be a sentimental old fool, Neale," I said severely. "You know damned well you'd hate it after a week." All the same, when I reached the shack I poured out half a tumbler of Andy's excellent rum,. It was the only time I ever took a drink alone during the daytime. But then, that was the only time I really needed it.   

Five Hours in the Water  

I have never in my life encountered any natural force more relentless than the Pacific Ocean. Sometimes it almost put me in mind of an enemy biding its time, awaiting the one moment when I might be off my guard. Consequently, I never took a chance of never took my boat out should the barometer show the slightest sign of impending bad weather, because I knew only too  well how swiftly the Pacific can change her moods; one moment calm and tranquil, the next a cauldron of titanic force. Nor did I ever let a week go by without examining my box of tools, which would be my only insurance against survival should a hurricane sweep over the island. And yet - though no fault of my own - I suddenly found myself one morning, in July 1961, struggling for my life when my boat capsized in the middle of the lagoon. I didn't know it then, but I was to be in the water for five hours. There had been no warning. We had been experiencing a short spell of bad weather, but this was over now and we were well out of reach of the hurricane season. The marometer stood high, and that morning, which dawned as placidly as any I can remember, there seemed nothing on earth to prevent me sailing the five miles to Bird Island on one of my "tours of inspection" to see if anything of value had been washed up on the beach. I reached the motu aided by a good breeze, collected one or two useful bits of flotsam and by midday, I was on my way back to Anchorage. I was in the middle of the lagoon, in about a hundred and fifty feet of water, when a squall rose right out of nowhere and hit us. Within a few seconds everything had changed. The sun had vanished, the clouds grew horridly black and the wind started screaming. Plainly we were in for a sudden sharp squall - the sort which could be on one in a few minutes. I did not even have time to lower the sail, but simply rapidly pushed up the boom and sail, making sure the main sheet was free to run. Next I lashed it to the mast, a trick I had long ago learned for getting sail off quickly. Altogether the whole job took less than a minute, so that I had the boat trimmed before the squall had a chance to reach its height. I still had the jib set. I would be able to sail it out, and was quite confident. Obviously the next hour or so looked like being thoroughly rough and uncomfortable, but perfectly safe so long as I resigned myself to being tossed about like a cork. But as the storm gathered force - and I could see it sweeping towards me across the lagoon - I began to have doubts.

It was astonishing how rapidly the sea rose with the force of the wind. Suddenly shivering a little, I remembered a description in one of Frisbie's books of how heavy seas tearing through the pass would meet a comber inside the lagoon and explode in a cloud of spray. This was exactly what did happen. Within a few minutes the coral ring had become a cloud of spume and the waves inside the lagoon started gathering ever-increasing force and size. Over above Brushwood and Turtle - the nearest motus - I could see clouds of black frigate birds being blown all over the place despite their four-foot wing span. The great waves hitting each other far out across the reef were forming gushers which curtained off every speck of land. I was still not really worried, for the force of the heavy seas roaring through the pass was still well south of me, so that the combers came rolling in from east to west. In actual fact I was only getting the backwash, so that, though drenched, I was able to stand the buffeting well until unexpectedly a stronger gust overtook us. What happened next ought, rights, never to have occurred. I had stowed the sail carefully away when I used the boom to the mast, but this freak gust seemed to bite into it and sneak inside so that before I could move, the sail was bellying out above the mast. I knew immediately that I must act swiftly since otherwise I would be in real danger of capsizing. Cautiously, but as rapidly as I dared, I clambered on to the forward thwart, where I stood, hugging the mast with one arm, and trying to secure the wildly flapping sail. I almost succeeded when another gust caught us and the sail bellied out right into my face. Without warning, the boat gently keeled over. I couldn't do a thing. One moment I was standing there helpless, waiting, as my twelve-footer slowly turned right over beneath me - so slowly that the next minute I almost stepp0ed into the water.

A wave caught me, forcing me under the warm water. When I surfaced, eyes smarting with the salt, gasping, spitting out sea water I found I had been swept several yards away from the boat. Everything was so confused - the big waves were charging at me all the time - that at first I thought I'd lost the boat, for it was all so dark - the darkness of storm clouds covering the sky. Then I saw a patch of white and knew the boat at least was safe - even if upside down. I struck out towards her, and tried to grab her for support but it was impossible to obtain any hold on that smooth bottom. Luckily I was thoroughly at home in the water, a legacy of my old Tahit days. I knew that somewhere under the water the mast must be pointing downwards, and felt confident that if I could only get a grip on it, give it a sharp jerk and a heave, I might have a chance of turning her upright again. It was not so much a question of strength; given a well-placed shove, a capsized boat with a mast will naturally tend to move upwards in the right direction. I took a deep breath and submerged. But I had underestimated my task. Time after time I had to dive before I was able to grab the mast by its tip. I knew that once I caught hold of it I would have to swim under water and push it with one hand whilst I kicked out with my feet. Fortunately the water at midday was warm, but I think that I must have had to dive ten or a dozen times. The struggle seemed never-ending. Each time I shot to the surface for air, I had no support on which to rest and was forced to dog-paddle whilst getting a breather. Finally I managed to teach the mast and give it one enormous jerk. Immediately it seemed to give, to slip away from my pushing fingers. I followed it up until I could feel the wind on my face, and as I gulped in air and spray and trod water in the violent chop, I felt something brush my leg. I knew at one that if it told me that this was no shark. It was the mast. It was horizontal at last, just under the waves, and I grabbed it and had my first real rest, leaning across it, indifferent as wave after wave swept over me, just hanging on grimly, half submerged, wondering what on earth I was going to do next. For a moment I toyed with the idea of trying to push the mast out of the water. But I abandoned this plan since I knew that were I to let go of it for long the waves would seep me away.

However, now the mast was level on the water, it was acting in the same way as a spar on an outrigger canoe, and now the boat was on her side I had at least a sort of floating platform to support me. If I wanted to right her, however, there was only one thing to do - get the mast out. And this was impossible until the wind went down. Hanging on there, I tried to open my eyes between the waves that kept coming over me. I wanted to see the sky, the clouds. It seemed - from the brief glimpses I could manage - that the sky was growing lighter. I knew from experience that these storms are violent but short-lived. And so I prepared to "sit it out" hanging on to the mast, waiting until the waves were smaller, more infrequent, so I could tread water without fear of drifting away from the boat. The squall must have lasted an hour or more, and curiously enough - or perhaps, on reflection, it was natural - I do not remember ever being afraid of sharks during all that time. I never saw one, and I suppose I was too busy holding on to my boat - and my life - to think about them. I suppose in fact that all this time I must have been acting instinctively. The wait seemed interminable - so long that when finally I found myself waiting for the next wave to fill my eyes with stinging salt water and it didn't come, I could hardly believe my good fortune. Raising myself slightly in the water I looked around. It was still chop0py, but the sea was definitely beginning to quieten. Waves still hit me from time to time, but failed to push me under. The sky, too, had lightened from black to grey, and as I floated, one hand clutching the mast, I noticed a sliver of blue in the sky - and knew the sun must be trying to struggle through. All at one life seemed much more cheerful! Fortified with the new energy this realisation seemed to summon up, I now set about the major task of getting the mast and sails off the boat. It took at least an hour. I remember later, when I told somebody how I had managed this job, he told me flatly that it was impossible, but in fact, given strength and patience, it wasn't so difficult as one might imagine.  

But it certainly seemed to take an age. First I had to free the rigging - the two back stays and the fore stay. These were made of wire, but were fastened down with rope lashings which had swollen and were difficult to free when I dived under for short bursts. However, I managed to undo them. Next I had to dive to free the jib sheets - a simpler job because they were only fastened to the cleats. I had to take several rests, clinging with one hand to the mast to support myself and give my legs a rest. My next job was to haul all this gear I had dismantled into a sort of state where I could wrap it round the boom and then try and lash the whole unwieldy lot roughly to the mast, which was still lying a little under the water. I managed this by wrapping the loose ends of the ropes round everything until I had boom, sails and all attached in a rough bundle to the mast. Now I surveyed the mast itself which had been stepped by being passed down through a half loop of brass fastened to a timber which in turn was made fast to each gunwale. It was a simple design, so that the foot of the mast fitted into a notch in another piece of timber fastened to the keelson. I had deliberately designed it this way so that, though it was strong, I could easily step the mast unaided by merely lifting it up, dropping it through the half-loop and into the notch. It was not, of course, permanently fastened. Getting it out, however, proved much more difficult than I had anticipated. Since the boat was lying on her side, the weight of the mast - encumbered by its bulky burden of sail and boom - made the butt jam in the loop.

I couldn't bridge it at first and thought the wind had fallen a lot by now, and the chop was not too bad, I had been in the water for some hours and was beginning to tire. Each fresh attempt seemed more wearying. Every time I held on to the boat with one hand and tried to free the mast with the other, I found I was too close to get a proper leverage. Finally I decided I would have to use both hands so after clinging to the boat to regain a little strength, I swam to where the tip of the mast lay just under the waves, and grabbed hold of it, kicking as hard as I could with my feet, and violently jerking and pulling it up and down to get it free. To my delight my efforts were almost immediately rewarded. At the first attempt I could feel it had left its step at the bottom of the boat. Bit in its wake this victory seemed to conjure up a new hazard. For almost at the moment I felt the mast loosen, it started to swing. I clutched at it, endeavouring to keep it steady, for I knew that were the loop of soft brass to bend under the pressure, the mast would jam irretrievably. If I were eve to get it free, it was not no longer a question of brute force. What was needed was a gentle, coaxing pull and a pretty constantly maintained pressure in order to keep the mast as straight as possible while I slowly tugged it free through the loop. Treading water all the time, I used one hand to balance and swim and held on to the mast with the other, kicking as I carefully manoeuvred it back in by inch through the loop. And at last I managed it, too exhausted now to experience anything but a profound feeling of relief. I didn't have to worry about it floating away; it lay, with all the sails attached, a soggy mass in the water. After that it was fairly simple to right the boat. I swam round, climbed over the opposite side and put my foot on the centreboard. She righted herself immediately and I let go and fell back into the waves before my weight sank her, for amidships she was barely an inch or two above water.   

I had lost my baler when she capsized, so after hanging on to a gunwale until I regained my breath, I tried to start scooping some of the water out of her with my hands. The wind had eased up considerably by now but the seas were still rough enough to slip into the boat, until, holding on with both hands and kicking with my feet, I managed to turn her bows into the wind. Gripping one gunwale with my right hand, I began splashing out water with my left. For over an hour I was forced to keep on baling madly with intervals for rests. Every so often she would swing broadside to the waves and the water would start to slop in again so that it seemed as though I would never make any real headway. Amidships she was still barely two inches above the water, but I kept on doggedly in the knowledge that the wind was continuing to drop. Nearly an hour lager - it may have been longer but I had lost count of time - I suddenly began to realise that she was imperceptibly rising in the water. And the sun was breaking through! From then on I took great care to keep her head on to th3e seas and frequently had to swim away from my task to slew her round. Even today, so long afterwards, I still only remember one particular moment during this long-drawn struggle, as I hung on to the gunwale, getting my breath back, crying out loud, "Neale! You're not going to let this beat you." And I didn't because, simply though sticking at it, I kept on baling until eventually I had three inches of freeboard at the lowest part of the sheer. By now I was so tired that this seemed like the promised land and I decided I would try and get into the boat. I knew it would be fatal to try and clamber in over the side so, having made sure her bows were well into the seas, I summoned up what strength I had left an swam round to the bows where I climbed quickly and carefully inboard. To my relief, I found she was just able to bear my weight without going down. But it was a near thing and I didn't dare to rest, not even for a second. I sat down on the midship thwart and baled like mad with cupped hands. It is amazing what a lot of water you can shift this way; before long as I had four inches of freeboard and only then did I take a brief rest.

Now at last I felt safe and all I had to do was go on ladling out water until it was low enough for me to haul in the bundle of mast, sail and boom, and make for home. I did not have the strength to try and set the mast to sail home, but fortunately the oars had been well stowed and had remained in the boat all the time. I dragged them out and warily started rowing for Anchorage. I reached Anchorage at dusk, and not until I was rubbing myself down in the shack did I notice that all the skin on the inside of my left arm had been rubbed off. Each time I had scooped out the water, I must have rasped my arm against the gunwale. I was too tired to bother about it, for as I wrote in my journal that evening, "There's no need for a rocking chair tonight."

The Castaways  

No vessel came in to Suvarov for many months after Andy had left, but by now I was too occupied and happy to take much notice of lack of human contact. Everything was going splendidly. I was getting three crops of tomatoes a year, plenty of melons, cucumbers, onions and sweet potatoes; more breadfruit and bananas than I could eat, and though I had long since used up my flour, my patch of cassava made an excellent substitute for puddings. I had a fair amount of tea (given to me by Noel Barber) but I horded it carefully, using the leaves over and over again. Nor was I short of eggs or a rooster for the pot since by now there were fifty fowls in the hen house. Even the fact that I had run out of tobacco did not worry me. I just seemed to be immune to the craving which had tortured me when this had happened before, a happy state of affairs which confirmed what I had always suspected: that my desire for tobacco (and meat) had been brought about by overwork during the time I was building the pier. I could have found some substitute for the tobacco had I wished, for many Cook Islanders smoke banana leaves rolled up tightly to form a sort of local cigar, though believe me it has a vastly different flavour. I had tried them before now and discovered they were not unpleasant, but fortunately I had reached the stage where for the moment anyway I did not need tobacco. I would have thoroughly enjoyed a cigarette had someone offered me one, but I couldn't be bothered to roll my own banana cigars. Though time was really of no consequence, some inhibition from the past, some subconscious need to maintain some link with the outside world, impelled me to keep careful track of the days, months and years. I had no calendar, so I made my own as I went along, using small pieces of paper which I divided into thirty squared. Each day after I had collected and counted the eggs I wrote the number down in a square, adding a day and date to the previous square - taking care at the end of each month to remember that invaluable schoolboy rhyme "Thirty days hath September" and putting two s3ets of figures in one square when necessary.

 

Since I had to collect eggs, I rather enjoyed keeping the record straight, and entering the date alongside the number of eggs became a formality to which I meticulously adhered. As a double check I used to copy the date from my home-made calendar into the exercise books which served as my journal. I wrote these up every evening - always starting with the barometer reading and following with the day's events, though I doubt if any were as staggering as the entry for August 30, 1963 when I wrote, "Got the biggest shock of my life today. Was sitting on the veranda plaiting some fronds for a hole in the veranda roof, when some instinct caused me to look up. Standing there, silently observing me, was a tall, thin man, dressed in a pareu and Hawaiian-style flowered shirt. My heart seemed to stop beating for a second at the sight until my fear gave way to anger." I remember my first words, blurted out in a fury of shock and surprise were, "What the hell do you mean--" It was only as he began to stammer a reply that I realised he was almost more flabbergasted than I. "I'd no idea-" he began. "I thought this island was uninhabited."

"Who are you?" I asked a little more civilly. He told me his name was Ed Vessey and explained he was an American travelling in his yacht with his Samoan wife and daughter from Pago-Pago to Honolulu. They had put into the lagoon for a spell of rest after a windless passage during which it had taken them twelve days to travel four hundred miles.

"I'm really sorry if I scared you," he added, "but, honestly, I was a damn' sight more frightened than you. When I saw you I tried to holler, but the words just wouldn't come out." 

"That's all right," I said more cheerfully, for I was in fact delighted to see a new face. "Let's go down to your boat."

"Okay," he agreed, adding tactfully after one look at my loincloth, "Maybe you'd care to put a few more clothes on. There's a couple of ladies down on the beach." I hurried inside the shack and for the first time in nearly a year donned a pair of shorts. Dressed in my respectable attire I was delighted to meet Ed Vessey's wife, a jolly, chain-smoking Samoan, and their daughter, Sileia, a delightful child of thirteen or fourteen. Behind them in the lagoon lay their beautiful yacht.

"She's called the Tiburon," said Vessey. "She's a forty-footer, sleeps six and had a good auxiliary engine."

"She's a real beauty," I exclaimed, not without a trace of envy. 

Three nights later she was a wreck and I had three castaways on my hands.

It happened without warning. The day had been fine and I had spent the afternoon on the Tiburon with the family, Mrs. Vessey entertaining us with songs which she played on her guitar. We had a drink or two and then I rowed ashore.

Just before I turned in, I happened to look out to the veranda. Some tea-towels hanging out to dry were swaying and flapping in a breeze, but I did not give the matter a second thought. Sudden short and vicious squalls were nothing new on Suvarov, and the Tiburon was anchored well inside the lagoon.

 

I couldn't believe it. This was no real storm, it hadn't even started to hum through my guy ropes. I could find nothing to reply but, "What?" while I lit my hurricane lamp. As I walked out to the veranda Ed cried again, "No more Tiburon!". And there on the veranda stood Ed, his wife and their daughter. I held up the lamp to see them better, for dark, swiftly scudding clouds had hidden the moon. They were standing huddled together, dripping wet, their life-jackets still around their necks. "For God's sake come in!" I said and hustled them into my bedroom where I collected some blankets. "Here, wrap these round you. Don't bother right now telling me what's happened. Let me get you some tea." I piled a few chips on my smouldering tauhunu and soon had a kettle going. Only after they had taken off their wet clothes and had had a hot drink did I ask what had happened. "We'd just turned in," Ed said flatly, "It was blowing like hell, but I wasn't worried - then without warning the cable parted. I felt the Tiburon move - she seemed to slew round - I was out of my bunk like a flash. I didn't even have time to get my false teeth. I'd taken them out because they were hurting. As soon as I got on deck I shouted to the others to get up while AI started the motor. Sileia and her mother came up at once and started to free the dinghy - just in case. But I still wasn't that scared." He sipped some more tea, and I can remember that scene in my bedroom as vividly as though it had happened yesterday. There they were - all three of them wrapped in blankets, reminding me in the dim light of my hurricane lamp of pictures I had seen as a child of a huddled group of Red Indians engaged in some momentous pow-wow.

"You haven't got a cigarette?" wailed Mrs. Vessey. I shook my head. As Ed went on with his story, I gathered that he had tried to swing the Tiburon round with the idea of getting farther into the lagoon, but evidently the length of cable hanging from her bows made her sluggish in answering the helm. Nor was there any light on the island to give him some sense of direction.

"Before I could do a thing," he said miserably, "she went straight into a coral head. It must have ripped a hell of a hole up near the bows - I think it was on the starboard side, but it was all over so quickly, I couldn't take everything in. Tom-" he was almost in tears -" she sank in a matter of minutes. The girls just had time to free the dinghy. We jumped in as she actually went under. We didn't have a second to grab anything - except that." He jerked his head towards his wife's guitar which she must have picked up at the last moment. It was the one and only thing they had brought with them.  

After sighting the island in a brief moment of moonlight, they had managed to row ashore. Landing near the north tip, they had stumbled along the beach and the shallows until they came to the pier. From that night the four of us shared my bedroom. From that night onward my entire life was transformed. No longer was I the solitary inhabitant of an island occasionally unbending to welcome guests. I had become of four people - three of whom I hardly knew. Moreover, my castaways might well have to endure their exile in my company for months, even years. They possessed virtually no clothes, no provisions - in fact nothing but a guitar and the garments in which they stood. And though by now I was accustomed, even delighted, to welcome the occasional stranger from a visiting yacht, I had inevitably become so set in my ways that the very prospect of sharing my life with these benighted strangers appalled me. There and then I made a vow that however long they stayed I would let no woman into my kitchen! I was so proud of my culinary arrangements, my new stove, my painfully acquired mastery over fires, that the idea of any woman setting foot in my preserves filled me with a sense of horror. So the next morning I was careful to nip into the kitchen quickly where I cooked breakfasts of coffee and eggs for the lot of us. After that Ed and I went to take a look at the wreck. We found her resting on the bottom alongside the coral head, with her bows submerged under the high tide, so that only the forepart of her cabin top and her mast were visible above water. Since she was resting at an angle, jammed against the coral head, I said to Ed, "I think we'd better wait for the ebbing tide. Then we might be able to climb aboard." Within an hour or so we were back on the Tiburon. As the tide fell, her bows stuck out of the water and only the stern remained submerged. She was awash fore and aft of course, even at low tide, so the hull was obviously filled with water, but now we were able to clamber over the bows and wade across the decks. All at once an exciting new prospect opened up before us.

"Why can't we salvage her?" I asked Ed. "You're a castaway - just like Robinson Crusoe - remember how much stuff he got off the wreck." "But the cabin, Tom?" Ed seemed dubious. "How could either of us hold our breath long enough to pick up anything worthwhile when we dive in there?" "It's not holding my breath that worries me," I said, thinking of my diving days in Tahiti and how only a short time ago I had dived time and again to save my boat when she had capsized. "It's what happens when you get there. It's easy enough to keep your eyes open when you're swimming underwater but it's going to be more difficult groping about for small things in a water-filled cabin. How do we find your teeth for instance?" "What I wouldn't give to get them back!" sighted Ed and then added, "I'll tell you what I do have - a mask. It's not a snorkel - you can't breathe with it - but it's got a big watertight glass that covers your face." This was exactly what I needed. Ed swore he knew just where it was in the main cabin, so the next day at low tide found us climbing aboard again. Since the mask was all-important, we had decided that Ed should make the first "dive" - or rather "venture" - into the submerged cabin, since he knew exactly where it was located. After that we would each dive in turn. We sloshed our way through the water on the deck until we reached the top of the companionway leading down to the main saloon, where Ed and his wife had been sleeping just before she sank. Getting in did not prove half as difficult as we had imagined. Ed climbed gingerly down the companionway, his head still above water until he had reached the bottom rung. Then he took a deep breath and went under whilst I waited, standing with the water around my knees. Although he could hardly have been down there for more than a minute, it seemed an age until Ed reappeared gasping below me on the steps. Standing on the bottom rung, his head just above water, he drew a deep breath and triumphantly held the mask aloft. He had found it at first go. This was the beginning of a fortnight of diving for "hidden treasure" - which included everything from toothpaste to binoculars.

We soon formed a fairly regular schedule. I would start the day with breakfast, then the ladies would wash up, clean the shack and gather firewood while Ed and I went down to the yacht at low tide. Ed was still desperate to regain his teeth, but his wife seemed heartlessly obsessed with the need for us to dredge up some cartons of cigarettes. She explained their exact location to me in the minutest detail. "I put them in a locker just above my bunk," she kept insisting until I found it difficult to refrain from retorting, "And a fat lot of good they're going to be after a week in salt water." Poor girl - she really was a compulsive smoker. As soon as we had set off on our diving expeditions, she would leave Sileia - who was a quiet unobtrusive girl, not exactly pretty but very pleasant and kind - and hasten off into the bush to collect young banana leaves. These she rolled with expert speed and dexterity. She was seldom without one in her mouth. Although Ed and I made between thirty and forty dives a day, each lasting a minute or so, her cartons of cigarettes still remained unsalvaged. Indeed there was no question of our being able to look for specific objects. All we could do was to go under and grab whatever was nearest. It was an eerie sensation down in the cabin. Though the place was completely filled with water the Tiburon was only just below the water line and light came streaming in through the portholes, so that I was able to see quite clearly through my mask. I experienced a feeling of levitation, for the water through which I waded, holding my breath, was filled with strange objects that seemed to defy gravity - torn books, papers, charts, odds and ends of clothing all floated about me weightlessly as I flailed around.

Unfortunately, after a week or so these papers and books began to disintegrate, so that diving became more difficult, for one had to move through water so thick with minute particles of paper that it was almost impossible to see. Amongst the first things we salvaged were the Vesseys' clothes and bedding. Between us we heaved out all their clothes, three mattresses, their blankets, sheets and even towels. These we loaded into my boat, and soon had them laid out on the beach to dry - after which Mrs. Vessey began the task of washing out the encrusted salt. On our next trip we pushed through to the galley and brought out seven bottles of liquor and all the tinned food we could find - some bully beef, several kinds of fruit, some tinned butter and even cream. Once we had carried the food ashore, we washed the tins four or five times in fresh water to get rid of every particle of salt, then dried them all thoroughly before storing them away. Towards the beginning of the second week I finally did discover Mrs. Vessey's cigarettes - two very soggy red and white cartons of Pall Mall - and I will never forget her expression as I handed them over to her. "It's not the end of the world," I said consolingly. "You'll have to unwrap them, then put the tobacco in fresh water to wash away the salt. After that, dry it, and I'll give you some of my cigarette papers so you can roll new cigarettes." Poor Mrs. Vessey! The haunting vision of a good smoke now her precious cigarettes were actually in front of her was strong enough to overcome any temporary dismay. Hoping for a miracle, she grabbed the dripping cartons and tore them open. And, do you know, incredible though it was, there were some dry cigarettes. Five packets in individual Cellophane covers had managed to escape the general soaking and were dry enough for us to smoke right away. Indeed, a cigarette had appeared in the corner of Mrs. Vessey's mouth before I had recovered from the shock. Of all the unusual occurrences on Suvarov, this was surely one of the most astonishing. Those cigarettes had been in salt water for a week. She was so delighted she gave me two of the dry packets - but I wasn't going to light up immediately! I broke one open and rolled half the tobacco in one of my own papers.  

My next triumph was the day I discovered Ed's teeth. Ever since the water in the cabin had become thick and foul, I had despaired of ever locating such a small (though precious) prize. By this time there was very little of value left to salvage, but one morning I was holding myself down with one hand and scraping the other along the floor through the sodden mass of papers when my fist closed on a hard, curiously shaped object. These indeed proved to be his snappers, and how we celebrated that night! I remember I had prepared a fowl that morning and for the first time since the wreck of the Tiburon, Ed was able to get his teeth into something solid! We opened a tin of preaches and a bottle of rum, both salvaged from the yacht, and as supper ended, Ed toasted me and cried, "Thanks, Tom! And I'll never complain again if they hurt me. From now on these teeth are staying right where they are." Our celebration kept us up much later than usual that night. We killed most of the bottle of rum whilst Mrs. Vessey played her guitar by the light of the hurricane lamp. Towards midnight I made a remark which was to produce astonishing results. "Time to turn in," I said. "Kerosene's precious in this part of the world." "Hell, Tom," Ed apologised, immediately full of contrition, "I hate to think of us using all that stuff of yours just for a sing-sing." The next morning he returned from a walk on the beach looking very thoughtful. Soon he cornered me in the shed at the bottom of the yard where I was stacking firewood. "This may sound crazy," he began hesitantly, "but I think if you can help me, I can fix us up with electric light."  I looked at him stupefied. "Yeah, I mean it. I've got a generator, an engine, plenty of electrical fittings - and fuel. All we've got to do is bring 'em ashore. Once we've dried it out there's no reason why we shouldn't be able to start up the motor."

As soon as it was low tide we rowed out to the wreck. The engine that drove the generator was bolted down at each of its four corners to the deck aft of the wheel. I must have weighed at least three hundred pounds. Since the bottom half was permanently submerged, the only way we could get at the bolts was to kneel on the afterdeck armed with a big spanner, lean forward with the water almost washing our faces and try to unscrew the nuts on the bolts. It proved a painstaking job. It took us almost a day to unscrew three of the nuts, but when we came to the fourth we just couldn't get a spanner round it. We tried for another whole day but, constantly forced to work with our hands underwater all the time, it was impossible to shift it. "We just can't give up now," exclaimed Ed in a frenzy of frustration. "Let's cut through the bolt with a hacksaw." In theory this sounded fine, but when we came to try, we found we couldn't manoeuvre the hacksaw itself close enough to let us get at the bolt. In the end we were forced to remove the blade from the hacksaw and eventually we cut through that bolt like two prisoners painfully whittling away at the bars of a cell window. Working alternately, always underwater, this laborious job took us another day before we finally freed the motor. Even then it was too heavy to lift between us. Fortunately, however, the masts were still standing, so, wading knee-deep in water, we rigged up a home-made block and tackle, hoisted the engine off the deck and then lowered it gently into the stern of my boat. Then we dropped overboard two rubber emergency tanks of diesel fuel which Ed carried on deck, and which we hadn't bothered to salvage before, and towed them back to the island. Once we had the engine on the beach we started to take it to pieces and wash each section thoroughly with oil to free it from salt water. It was a backbreaking job working on the beach under the hot glare of the sun; and after nearly a month under the water every nut and bolt seemed to be jammed and encrusted with salt.

For four days we worked on it, often becoming so absorbed in our task we even forget about meals until Sileia came running down to the beach to announce that supper was ready. The entire motor was covered with a thick scum which soon dirtied all my precious tools. Once we had uncovered the cylinder the procedure was fairly simple, but until that moment we had not dared to cut our way through any of the bolts as we had not spare parts. However, we did risk a few sharp oblique taps with a hammer and chisel to loosen the most obstinate before we got down to the pistons and valves. After we had washed each part in kerosene and dried it out, we re-assembled the motor and filled her with fuel. I stood watching - hardly able to believe it would work. Ed gave the flywheel a pull. Nothing happened. Another turn, another heave. Still nothing. "But I can feel her - she's almost starting," grunted Ed. He gave one more huge turn to the flywheel and this time the pistons moved. She spluttered, hesitated and then throbbed into life. Triumphantly Ed leaned over and switched it off and we changed the oil again.

We did this four times - running the engine for only half a minute - before Ed was satisfied. While Ed worked on one of his two spare generators, I cut down four branches of tahuna to serve as rollers so that we could transport the motor from the beach to the shack. After peeling off the bark they functioned well enough, though once we were ready for the journey, it took us the best part of another day to roll the engine to a level spot near the shack, where the coast-watchers had made a concrete base for their generator years before. The engine should have been bolted down, of course, but as we had no means of doing this we built a wooden frame and drove in wedges designed to hold the motor secure enough to prevent any  undue vibration. By this time we had salvaged all the lighting fixtures we could from the boat, and by the next afternoon Ed had festooned the bedroom, kai room, even the cook-house with wire. In all, we were the proud possessors of four light bulbs, and on that memorable day, just as dusk was approaching, Ed started up the engine. I remember I was standing on the veranda with Mrs. Vessey - who, by now, had smoked all her cigarettes and was back, to rolled banana leaves - when Ed shouted, "Now for it, Tom!" He gave the flywheel a couple of turns and within a few seconds Suvarov was ablaze - well nearly! - with electric light. As I wrote in my journal that night my electric light, "None of those people down in Raro would believe me if I told them I'd got electric light on Suvarov." Then for some reason I added, "It's all very nice - if only it didn't remind me of the civilization from which I've always wanted to escape." Looking back on the months my castaways stayed with me, I am still astonished not only that a harsh word never passed between us, but also at the remarkable way they all seemed to settle down and develop a philosophy which saw them through with never a hint of complaint or discontent. It was different for me - I had chosen this existence. And, in a way, too, Mrs. Vessey's Samoan attitude to life probably helped her to accept what had happened. But for Ed the loss of the Tiburon must have been heartbreaking, and the prospect of facing months without any sort of contact with civilisation must have been desperately worrying and frustrating. But Ed was a remarkable man. He never grumbled, he never ever gave the appearance of being worried. And it was only when they were rescued and he was no longer able to contain his excitement, that I began to realise that all this time he had been concealing his anxieties in order not to disturb his wife and daughter.

His release was not to be granted for over two months, during which time we had settled down to a pleasant routine. Then, one morning at eight o'clock, as I was walking along the beach I spotted the grey outline of a vessel five miles or so out to sea. She was north of the island and travelling eastwards. Even at that distance, I felt sure she must be a navy ship. running back along the path, I shouted, "Ed, come down here quick and bring your binoculars!" Instinctively he knew what had happened. "Coming!" he yelled excitedly, and within a minute or so had reached me on the pier, only to see the ship disappearing behind the north point of the island. "My God!" he gasped, lowering the binoculars. "We've got to stop her - we've got to."

"I'm afraid it's too late," I muttered. Ed's wife and daughter came running up as Ed cried, "Let's go to the other side of the island." It was only three hundred yards across Suvarov from the pier to Pylades Bay, but never had it seemed to take so long. Ed charged ahead, oblivious of the low branches and undergrowth, panting with the sudden exertion, while his wife trailed behind crying, "Wait for me!" as though she were going to be lost. "We might still see it, grunted Ed. "Tom - we've got to stop her." We broke out of the jungle into the sunlight of the beach - and there she was, right ahead of us. "She's a naval vessel all right," Ed said from behind the binoculars, adding in a strangled, choked voice, "but I don't think she's going to stop." I had not the heart to tell him that from my own experience he was entirely right. But Ed was not to be beaten. Tuning to Sileia, he cried, "Run quickly and get your mother's mirror from the bedroom," He looked at me anxiously as she raced away. "Maybe we can flash a message, There's still time." In less than two minutes Sileia was back. Ed grabbed the mirror from her, and began to use it as a heliograph. "You keep an eye on her, Tom," he said as he kept on signalling by catching the rays of the sun. I took the binoculars, raised them to my eyes and saw that she was steaming steadily on course. And then suddenly it seemed to me that she was not - and that she had stopped moving. "Anything happened?" asked Ed. It looked as though the vessel had stopped, but I couldn't be sure. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks and I dared not bring myself to hold out any false hopes. "Keep signalling," I grunted. Within two minutes, however, I was quite certain. "She's spotted your signals!" I shouted excitedly. On  hearing my words he dropped the mirror, forgetting I was there, and lifting Sileia up in his arms, cried, "We're saved, darling - do you realise it? - we're saved!"

Through the binoculars I could now see clearly that the vessel had already changed course. In a few minutes she was heading straight for the island. Within the hour she was anchored in the lagoon, and Ed and I rowed out to board her. She was a New Zealand frigate, the Pukaki. We climbed aboard and the captain, after telling us how he had seen the signals, obligingly agreed to wait for Ed to pack his stuff and even sent a shore party to help load up the heavier items like the generator and motor - for Ed wanted to take everything he had salvaged from his yacht; these were all he possessed in the world. "But you'll have to get a move on," said the skipper sternly. "I can't afford to wait all day." I stayed on board a little longer talking to the young New Zealanders amongst the crew, who reminded me vividly of the eagerness and enthusiasm with which I had started out on a similar life. I didn't want to be with the Vesseys who were ashore packing up their things, for their imminent departure was already affecting me more deeply than my previous leave-taking I had known. As I lingered on board I was dreading to see them leave. We had been through so much together, lived as close as most human beings can get, with never a cross word between us, and in my own fatherly way I had become very fond of Sileia. With something of a shock, I realised that I had been secretly hoping that maybe they would never be rescued. Fortunately, naval procedure seldom permits one time for protracted farewells. I was grateful for this. We had our good-byes in the small cabin which the captain had allotted them. Ed shook my hand, I gave Sileia a hug, and then Mrs. Vessey - jolly banana-smoking. Mrs. Vessey - started weeping, threw her arms around my neck and kissed me fervently. "God bless you, Tom," was all she said, "for what you've done."

I vanished over the side into my boat pretty smartly because the prickly feeling of my eyes was threatening to betray me. As I started rowing for the shore, I remember saying almost savagely to myself, "Dammit, Neale - you've chosen your life - don't spoil it." Long before I beached the boat, the Pukaki was on her way. I have never seen Ed and his family again.

POSTSCRIPT

Well, that is the end of my story, for I left Suvarov on December 27, 1963, barely two months after the castaways had been rescued, and a variety of circumstances contributed to my decision. The predominant reason was a very simple one. I realised I was getting on, and the prospect of a lonely death did not particularly appeal to me. I wasn't being sentimental about it, but the time had come to wake up from an exquisite dream before it turned into a nightmare. I might have lingered on the island for a few more years, but soon after the Vesseys left, a party of eleven pearl divers descended on Suvarov - and, frankly, turned my heaven into hell. They were happy-go-lucky Manihiki natives, and I didn't dislike them, but their untidiness, noise, and close proximity were enough to dispel any wavering doubts I might have had. Then, when I heard that more natives might be coming to dive for a couple of months each year in the lagoon, I resolved to leave with the divers. I did so - and I have not regretted the decision. I am back in Raro now, and you know, having proved my point - that I could make a go of it on a desert island and be happy alone - store-keeping doesn't after all seem such a monotonous job as it did in the years before 1952. I have a wealth of memories that no man can take away from me and which I have enjoyed recalling in these pages. I hope you have enjoyed them too.    

 

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 (E-mail: jane@janeresture.com  -- Rev. 27th June 2009)