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UPON ARRIVAL AT NADI
AIRPORT I SUDDENLY REALISED just how
much I love the Fijian Islands, and just
how strong was my anticipation and
excitement at the prospect of a boat
trip through the island chain as part of
the Quiksilver Crossing. As soon as I
entered the airport and felt the close
embrace of tropical air and smell of
moist, fertile earth, I knew that
finally irreversibly this adventure had
become a reality. While reflecting on
this, I realised I had dreamed of and
waited for just such an adventure my
whole surfing life of 36 years. What
would make this trip even more
interesting and exciting was the fact
that I was to be in the company of a
group of people deeply experienced in
the life of surfing, sailing and diving.
I felt such a combination of people,
place and time could only be possible
once in a lifetime. This group was to
include Titus Kinimaka, Bruce Raymond,
Dave Kalama, Ricky Grigg, Marshal Crum,
Jeff Hornbaker and of course, the
captain and crew, all very experienced
seaman and veterans of the Indies
Trader, a beautiful and tough, steel
ex-salvaged boat of 75’ overall
length.
It’s probably just about impossible to
embark on journeys such as this without
developing strong expectations and
preconceptions of beautiful islands
bathed in golden sunlight, set like
jewels amidst a deep turquoise-blue sea
and surrounded by coral reefs, with
perfect uncrowded waves just waiting to
be discovered. For me, what was
remarkable about this trip was the fact
that even though all this was true of
these Pacific islands, nothing unfolded,
proceeded, or resulted in anyway as I
originally had expected or hoped for.
Even so, it’s partly for this reason
that our adventure remains for me such a
memorable one. |
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We in the West sometimes seem to expect
so much, we demand that our yearnings,
plans and ambitions should proceed to
our will and desires. It often seems to
be this facet of our modern 20th century
mentality that causes so much anxiety,
anger, and emotional turmoil. Yet, so
often a deeper purpose of life, despite
our demands and rational thought
structures, conspires to fulfil its own
purpose. Something more spontaneous can
often shatter our preconceptions and
expectations and deliver us into areas
and experiences of our inner selves and
external environment that is so much
richer and fulfilling, and so much more
creative, if only we have the humility
and trust to let it happen.
Life at sea in any boat is nearly always
something unique in itself. You can
either love it or hate it, and quite
often even be ambivalent about it, but
certainly almost never is a person
apathetic in response to its demands. It
can bring out the absolute best or worst
in people. I’ve seen both, and if and
when it swings into the negative, it’s
extremely ugly. Once you’re out to
sea, you have no real choice but to
confront the reality or your
predicament. There’s absolutely no
avenue of escape, unless, of course, you
jump overboard, and that’s obviously a
little drastic. (I’ve known of a few
that were nearly pushed overboard!) And
when wind and sea conspire to create
large, confused seas, with howling winds
and driving rain, you know you’re
about to go through a very intense
experience, particularly in regard to
the personalities on board. Fortunately,
as just about all the above weather
conditions unfolded on our trip, I was
blessed to be in the company with a crew
and group of individuals, who by their
maturity and inner strength were able to
sustain in the face of considerable
adversity and disappointment, a
harmonious and enjoyable atmosphere on
board through it all. It’s for no
other reason that this adventure was so
successful and memorable. If someone had
cracked under pressure, it would have
been a disaster.
Within the first few hours of leaving
Namotu Island, the wind began to freshen
from the southeast (the tradewinds in
these latitudes). We anchored close by
on the first day, and surfed a 3’ left
just to get in to the groove things.
After some consultation, it was decided
to spend our first night there, in the
protection of swell and chop. We could
make an early start and hopefully beat
the wind if it came up strong again
during the day. We settled into what
would become the pattern throughout the
trip of fabulous dinners and lively
conversation. We managed to get under
way early, but unfortunately we were
heading directly into wind and seas,
consequently our passage was as
difficult as could be in those
conditions, even though, as yet, the
wind and seas were not overly strong or
rough and our first landfall was reached
in not too uncomfortable a passage. This
island had quite tall cliffs,
reminiscent of Uluwatu in Bali, very
light sandy coloured and a very
protected but shallow lagoon. As I
expected, it was an incredibly beautiful
setting with white sand beaches,
pristine coves and lush deep green
vegetation, and what appeared to be a
very surfable reef not far from shore.
Unfortunately, there was only a one-foot
swell running, so we couldn’t really
tell just how good a surf break it would
be. Even though the potential wave was
very smooth, due to it being reasonably
close to shore and the cliffs, the
anchorage wasn’t that secure as we had
to remain on the outside of the reef and
the lagoon. It was decided that we would
continue on to the east and northeast
and gain some considerable distance to
windward. The logic was that in case the
weather deteriorated, or the swell
increased overnight, we could be
anchored at a known surf break and,
being so far to eastward, our next
passage would be to the south, possibly
not having to beat so hard to winward
and also being able to gain the lee of
that island. The conditions, hopefully,
wouldn’t be to rough.
After a reasonably rough four-hour
crossing, we arrived just before sunset.
The anchorage that night was a long way
out to sea from the actual islands
because these reefs were so far out. The
wind was really affecting any swell that
was in the ocean. Even so, the swell did
not appear to be stronger, which gave us
some hope for the next day. As we
entered the channel in the reef, two
large fish were caught - big powerful
fish – one a trevally and the other a
tuna. We couldn’t make out much of the
geography of the island at that
distance, and in the fading light it was
merely a multiple mountain peaks; the
tallest we had so far encountered.
The light was very hazy and the sky a
blanket of grey cloud cover with
occasional squalls of rain. The scene
looked more like my home at Victoria at
37 degrees south than the tropical South
Pacific. It was a dismal evening and the
wind didn’t seem to be abating. Dinner
was spent dodging rain squalls and wind
gusts.
Early the next morning, motoring back
out through the channel entrance we all
could immediately tell that the ocean
had changed even where we were. Far down
the reef, away from the open sea, there
was more surge and movement. The day
didn’t look promising from the weather
point of view. The sunrise had been
coloured with deep reds and purples,
certainly not a good omen, and it was
still a grey clouded sky with occasional
spitting rain. Worst of all, the wind
appeared not to have abated at all.
However, as we motored along the coast
and approached the outer reefs and the
supposed location of a known surfing
break, we were suddenly confronted and
surprised to see an extremely strong,
straight swell. The reef we had hoped to
surf was surging, doubling and tripling
up into steps and drawing all the water
off the reef, then breaking onto
virtually bare coral. The place was
absolute suicide: not one of us even
thought for a moment to surf out there,
and that included Dave Kalama, a man who
regularly tows into 30’ waves at Jaws
on Maui. This swell was one of those
deep southern ocean ground swells that
travelled from a long way off, and was a
straight, defined and powerful 10’.
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It was a magical sight; it lifted our
spirits and gave us hope and enthusiasm
for what this day might reveal. Our only
option now was to head for our next
island destination and just hope that we
could locate a reef that would
accommodate this swell and wind. As we
nudged out past protection of the most
outlying reefs, we came to realise that
the wind had actually increased from the
day before. Certainly, this was to be
our most difficult crossing so far, and
as it turned out, for the whole trip. |
The wind now was really howling,
registering 35 knots steady. Officially
that’s just on “gale force”. The
swell was no problem, bit the
wind-driven seas, while not huge, were
significant and breaking constantly. We
now had to head up into both wind and
waves because of their intensity and so
forfeit the easy passage we had planned
and hoped for. This was to be a long
difficult day – eight hours or so of
relentless pounding. When conditions
deteriorate like this, everything on
board must be tied and battened down
securely. All potential problems have to
be attended to before they can happen,
and it takes enormous concentration and
skill from the captain to make sure the
boat meets every oncoming sea correctly,
hour after hour.
This is what real seamanship is about,
being prepared ahead of time and going
about your tasks quietly and with total
concentration and commitment to detail.
Fortunately for us, the captain showed
their professionalism during these
difficult conditions. It’s remarkable
how every action or movement around the
boat demands maximum physical effort. If
you don’t hold onto something and take
extreme care, you can so easily be flung
wildly across the deck or cabins and end
up with severe bruising, a cracked head,
or much worse. It’s also the time that
if ever you’re going to be seasick you
will be. It pays not to eat or to eat
sparingly, and if feeling unwell to just
lie down and try to sleep.
So on it went, with the boat
relentlessly pitching and rolling with
waves crashing on board and the bottom
deck constantly awash. Occasionally the
wheelhouse and top deck would even be
splattered with spray and foam. This was
the only time during the entire trip
that Titus wasn’t playing his
beautiful slack key Hawaiian songs, you
needed both hands to hang on, and even
lying in bed was difficult as it felt
like you would be tossed from the bunk
as the boat lurched suddenly way over on
its beam ends.
I couldn’t keep thinking about the
Polynesians and just how skilled those
ancient sailors and navigators really
must have been. This thought occurred to
me many times out there amongst those
islands. I often pondered the fate of
those courageous early mariners when
they entered the north Pacific... how
many must have missed Hawaii before its
whereabouts were known and simply
perished sailing on into the vastness of
the far north Pacific? And what of those
blown off course by the wild fury of
those Pacific storms? I know Titus,
naturally, often thought of this
heritage, as he often asked about the
Southern Hemisphere star constellation
known to us as the Southern Cross. This
was one of those ancient navigators most
important guides, a constellation
visible low down on the horizon even
from Hawaii. It was also during this
most difficult period that Bruce Raymond’s
consummate joke and storytelling
abilities became invaluable. Someone
only had to think of a joke and repeat
it, then you could see his face light up
with a grin as he thought of some of the
endless tales he knows. There we were,
in the heart of the storm, the boat
rolling and pounding, waves constantly
exploding against the boat, spray flying
everywhere and us howling with laughter
like maniacs. I know it must sound
masochistic, but I loved every minute
and resolved that in years to come I
would never forget these moments.
Eventually, to our great relief, we came
into the lee of our island destination.
It appeared ever so gradually from
beneath the dense, oppressive, grey
swirl of cloud, rain and mist. It came
in to sight without any real definition….more
as an indistinct, dark grey mass. At
last the seas began to calm, if not the
wind, and we were able now to run off on
a southwest heading, toward the complete
protection of the islands western
shores. In a short while, as we rounded
this western corner, the sky began to
suddenly clear. The thick cover began
breaking up and, for the first time in
days, the sun began to shine. Because
the changes in the sky and sea were so
sudden as we cruised into the calm of
the lagoon, the adversity of our passage
seemed to melt away almost
instantaneously. I sat on the foredeck
mesmerised by the extraordinary beauty
of this Island. This extreme westernmost
end was a huge volcanic peak, massive
and dignified. It thrust upward and
appeared to pierce the roof of the sky,
for its peak was invisible within the
cloud mass that clung swirling around
the tip and then went trailing off
downwind like smoke. The sheer sides of
the mountains upper third slowly began
to broaden out below, supporting
abundant rich and incredibly varied
plant life, greens of every hue. Further
down, within the gentler folds of the
mountain base, small dwellings of the
local people, dotted here and there,
could just be seen, un-imposingly
nestled, sheltered for inclement weather
and obvious view. From here down, the
trees grew varied and large, some
looking as if they belonged to Africa
until they too gave way to the
ubiquitous coconut palms swaying gently
and rhythmically in what was now a
gentle breeze.
To our right and some 300 to 400 yards
to the south was a very small island
with three dwellings. Much to our
surprise, we discovered that they were
built as a small surfing resort. The
coral reefs stretching between this
island and the main lagoon, and on it
the surf was huge, at least 10’, and
pounding relentlessly with no apparent
surfable sections.
It was a stunning scene: right in front
of us at the mountain’s base there
were dark, rock cliff faces separating
idyllic coves base and beaches. The deep
blue water of the lagoons and bays was
shimmering in the afternoon light, the
sweeping curves of the tiny bays,
contrasted with their brilliant white
sand beaches, made them appear as if
strung with pearl necklaces. In one of
these small bays there appear to be a
very tiny surfable wave, a perfectly
peeling left and right peak. Even though
it was very small and weak, as it had to
wrap almost 180 degrees to enter this
delightful cove, the wave was picture
perfect. Hastily, boards were pulled out
as some of us went in to surf, while
others decided to swim and dive. I chose
to dive near the surf, and I was
impressed how well Marshal Crum was
surfing these tiny waves on his very
wide little board. He and Dave Kalama
were having a blast.
At one point, I could hear this unusual
noise, even under-water, and when I
stuck my head up to investigate, I
realised that a group of Fijians were
sitting on the beach-men, women and
children – and they were screaming,
laughing and cheering at Dave and
Marshal’s surfing. It was a fantastic
sight and moment; those people were
really loving it. The water here was
crystal clear and the corals abundantly
diverse in species. In truth, this was
to be my first introduction to and
experience of healthy coral reef, and
from that moment on I was totally
inspired and fascinated. Never had I
really understood the magnificence of
these underwater gardens. Halfway along
this reef I met up with Rick and Bruce,
and together we explored every nook and
cranny. It was here that Rick began to
teach us about the species, their names,
interactive functions, and
idiosyncrasies. This was the beginning
of a whole new understanding.
In the late evening back on board the
boat, many of us sat watching the scene,
the serene land and its natural beauty.
The level, golden sunlight seemed to
have established such a close, delicate,
and warm communion with us. The silk of
evening cast across the purpling
mountains, whilst to the west, behind
us, the sunset exploded in
multi-coloured brilliance. For the first
time in what seemed an age, the evening
star (Venus) sat there, shimmering in
plain view, delicately poised between
night and day, bathed in the pastels of
twilight. |
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I couldn’t help but think that this
was one of the most beautiful scenes I’d
ever experienced. Perhaps this
assessment was to some degree, enhanced
due to the severity and prolonged
pounding we encountered during the storm
earlier that day. This afternoon and
evening had restored, by way of balance,
a most soothing and revitalising
influence on us all. After dinner, as we
began to drift off to bed, everyone
seemed to feel grateful and even
positive that here we might get some
quality surf.
Next morning, at first light, we all
stood on a deck, staring seaward in
stunned disbelief-the swell had
virtually gone, the ocean surface was
glassy, confused wash, and the waves
were a weak, broken and disjointed 3’
or 4’. We couldn’t believe that such
a powerful swell could have disappeared
like that, and not one so straight and
from the deep latitudes of the southern
ocean. (I later learned that this swell
had lasted for a week at my home in
Victoria, Australia, and that it was one
of the best swells in many years.) We
wasted no time getting underway. After a
very brief investigation around the back
of the reefs and down the coast, it was
decided that due to the lack of swell
and steadily increasing wind to make for
the opposite northeast end of the Island
by heading back around the western
corner and motoring along the coast in
the lee of the island. Fortunately, the
barrier reefs ran parallel to the shore
along the island’s entire length. The
sky now was cloudless and the strong,
tropical sun poured down enhancing the
ocean colour and turning the boat’s
wake into piercing white trails. It felt
so good to be out of the rain and grey
mists. Titus was again playing his
guitar and remarked ironically how much
practice he was getting on this trip.
Now with the sun shining and the sea
flat, everyone felt very relaxed. It was
still disconcerting that the wing was
blowing so strong. Without the
protection of the island and reefs it
would have been, yet again, a real
flogging. Because the cloud cover had
broken up and dispersed, it seemed
logical that the storm was passing and
soon the wind would begin to drop. In
spite of this logic, I felt considerable
apprehension, as by now the wind’s
strength should have begun, even
slightly, to abate, and I had a distinct
feeling that it wasn’t over yet.
Unfortunately, that turned out to be
all-true.
The reef ran parallel to the shoreline,
but was some two or three kilometres
seaward. We observed from this distance
quite substantial Fijian villages-they
were spread at regular intervals the
entire length of the island. They were,
as always, nestled in a valley between
the beach and the rising steepness of
mountain foothills behind. These
villages, although surrounded by coconut
palms, sat below tall, softly curving
mountains that, for the most part, were
completely denuded of trees or large
plant vegetation. We were quite
surprised and dismayed at this stark
bareness; it was such a contrast from
the southwestern end of the island. The
captain thought it had possibly been
cleared for sandalwood last century;
certainly, it was for some particular
timber that this devastation had
occurred. I thought it to be vandalism,
a senseless and insensitive plundering
of an extraordinarily beautiful and
unique island. There had been nothing
selective in their approach and
obviously no replanting. It reminded me
of some of the similar areas in
Australia.
To me, it’s symptomatic of something
deep within the being of humans. It
seems more a reflection of a bareness
within the deepest recess of mankind’s
psyche, the incomplete awareness of
himself, the split within, that
encompasses the whole outward
devastation in this split sub-atomic
age. It’s possibly the elevation of
only part of ourselves at the expense of
the whole, out of this dark gorge
within, the one that we have allowed to
open up between the two halves of
ourselves. This division rises between
men and all life on earth, between all
peoples: The paranoid, destructive “us
and them” mentality. The tide of this
unreality seems manifest everywhere, and
possibly as never before, the human
being, the natural person has had so
little honour from life and from
himself. We are petrified in moralistic
religions, imprisoned by theories and
trampled under the weight of lack of
self-awareness. The murder we commit is
in our own hearts long before we plunder
the earth or murder others. My judgement
on those acts of desecration here, in
all places, the islands of the South
Pacific, hopefully are not without
effort at understanding. I wish not to
condemn but to develop ideas and
hopefully bring some awareness to the
situation we are all in. I’m certainly
in no position too be judge and jury for
others, for I sense that humbleness
before the mystery of our own being
brings awareness and a movement toward
wholeness. People reading this may feel
that these thoughts are overly weighty,
triggered as they were by the bareness
of some mountains in the distance. I
think it’s important to create
dialogue and not to deny such thoughts
their right to expression and
acknowledgment, for that would be to
commit, in part, the murder I speak of.
Ricky Grigg had confided to us earlier
in the trip that the area and reefs we
were now approaching were of great
significance and that they’re among
some of the most important and
spectacular to be found anywhere in the
world. Having by now completely involved
ourselves in one of the most important
and spectacular to be found anywhere in
the world. Having by now completely
abandoned any hope of surfing, we were
prepared to completely involve ourselves
in one of the most important projects to
be undertaken on this trip. One of the
principal objectives of the Quiksilver
Crossing is to, whenever possible and
appropriate, study in detailed a
systemised procedure the health or
otherwise of the coral reefs encountered
throughout the Pacific. It’s a
wonderful idea and this project has the
enthusiastic support of the United
Nations. All the relevant information
will be collected and documented then
passed on to the U.N. for their own
study and use. The reef checks are to be
conducted under supervision by trained
oceanographers; this is a serious
undertaking and needs the support and
involvement of professionals.
It was for these reasons that Ricky
Grigg was included on this trip (and
many others in the future). It certainly
was our good fortune to have Rick on
board, as he is a man of vast experience
and knowledge. Not only is he a trained
professor in oceanography but, as most
of us know a pioneer of big-wave surfing
in Hawaii as well as an experienced
sailor. He introduced us to a dimension
of understanding gained throughout the
oceans of the world. He is deeply
passionate about his work. This passion
is combined with a powerful desire to
communicate and so pass on this
knowledge to anyone who may be
interested. One of the main priorities
of these reef checks is to observe, if
present, a condition known as “bleaching”.
This term refers to when the corals lose
all their natural colouring, turning
white. If this condition is severe, then
they will usually die. It’s caused by
ozone depletion, and I suppose a simple
comparison is severe skin burn in
humans. Mostly it occurs (and I suppose
logically) in shallow waters where the
corals are most susceptible to the suns
ultra-violet rays. While we didn’t
find evidence of this condition in this
area, we did see it in other locations.
All up, I think we did about seven or
more “official” checks, and Rick
seemed to think that the overall
situation was quite positive, something
that we felt was encouraging amidst an
ever-deteriorating worldwide problem. I
found the coral reefs absolutely
fascinating. Even though I’d seen
documentaries and read books, I still
never understood just how complex,
diverse, and beautiful they really are.
The shapes, colours, and sizes seemed
intricate and infinite beyond
imagination and the fish and sea life
the reefs harboured were of similar
proportions. The more you investigated,
the more there was to discover. It was
profoundly memorable experience, one I
could never forget. It was humbling to
be in the presence of such a magnificent
display of life’s creative processes
and possibilities.
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We were anchored up against a small,
beautiful, uninhabited island, one of
many in the immediate area, all part of
the enormous complex of reef here. We
were able to lay very close in to the
beach, where the bottom was mostly sand
with occasional clumps of coral
outcrops. It was an absolutely idyllic
location, pristine and protected from
the wind. As we were only 60 yards from
the shore, we had easy access to the
island and all the reefs surrounding us.
We all spent hours and hours swimming,
diving, and exploring beaches and
jungles. This was to be our last truly
“magical” anchorage in these
outlying islands. Early next morning, we
set off to the northeast to check a
couple of islands in the |
hope of finding
surf. There’s not much to distinguish
this next passage from too many of the
others and its unnecessary to go into
any detail, except to say that it was
long, and is it hadn’t been for our
thrashing a few days earlier, one might
be tempted to call it rough. When we
finally reach our destination, the sky
again clouded over, the intermittent
rain returned and the ever-present wind
continued to blow without respite. The
reefs surrounding these islands were far
from shore, consequently the wind chop
built up considerably in the enormous
lagoons and decimated the tiny 2’
swells. The area looked to have some
real potential, but without swell and
smooth-surface conditions, it was
impossible to really know. We did some
more diving and reef checks, then next
day begun our return to Tavarua and
Namotu Islands.
Now, finally, after days and days of
pounding to windward, we were motoring
along with the wind and sea behind. Not
only did this make our passage
noticeably more comfortable, but it also
increased our speed and shortened the
time it took to reach our destined
landfall, which was to be near Suva, the
capital of Fiji. We arrived late that
day and motored up into a vast complex
of river-mouth estuary and coral reef
lagoons. We could see very little in the
distance because now, incredibly, the
wind had increased and the rain was
pelting down in almost monsoonal
fashion. It spattered like hail against
the cabin windows. The water here was a
mixture of mud and, to some degree,
pollution from city storm-water
outfalls. The surface almost shined with
a murky, unhealthy colour and texture,
more like oil than water. The scene was
remarkable because it was almost without
colour; we saw instead, in varying
shades of grey, no distinction between
the sea, horizon, and sky, while the
lights of Suva shined dimly and vaguely
through the veil of torrential rain and
mist. Our anchorage was fortunately in a
very protected haven. A tiny island lay
directly in front of us, connected to
reefs and atolls that, apart from the
channel we entered, lay everywhere to
seaward, and the main island of Fiji lay
not too distant on our other side. It
looked and felt more like a scene
somewhere in the latitudes of my home
country of Victoria, Australia, during
the depths of its severe winters than in
the tropical South Pacific. It was
interesting to observe how everyone
seemed to be so accepting of our
predicament, no matter how incursive the
weather had become, it was now just part
of our life and was barely even
commented upon. To some degree, this was
possible because we were now entering
the last leg of the trip and would be
back on dry land very soon. It’s also
possible that the circumstances, the
testing conditions, were beginning to
reshape everyone’s mental structures,
toughening up our resolve and changing
our ability to appreciate deeply small
things like our evening dinners, always
cooked to perfection, and not only
giving us superb nourishment, but
lifting everyone’s spirits at the end
of long and sometimes tiring days.
Our final day at sea dawned, to our
great relief and considerable surprise,
to a clearing sky, calm sea, and wind.
We now motored along at first light,
inside the protective outlying reefs and
in close proximity to the shore and city
of Suva. We could see many buildings
from Fiji’s colonial past, large white
buildings with gleaming
flagpoles-obviously for official
government use. The backdrop to this
city was an extraordinarily beautiful
and complex mountain range. Ridge after
ridge was layered and stacked steeply,
higher and higher far back into the
island’s interior. The air was now,
after the rains, vitally fresh and the
light, crystal clear. This helped to
define the outline and texture of every
peak and ridge, including the
far-distant peaks, appearing in stark
contrast, illuminated against the
deepening blue of the morning sky. This
was one of those magical mornings, when
every single molecule and particle seems
to be electrically charged with new
life, you can feel it inside you as much
as all around you. The sunrise came
marching over the horizon filling the
day with a potency and promise of some
unknown meaning of its own. I’ve never
really understood what this particular
experience really is. I’ve only ever
felt these moments when far away from
civilisation, usually out in the
vastness of the central Australian
deserts, or the wild untamed gorge
country of Australia’s tropical
northwest, or even in the rugged coastal
cliff areas in the most southern areas
of that country. It’s something I’ve
experienced always far from human
habitation and interference where native
and the land remain primal and intact.
If you can spend considerable time in an
area like this, you seem to become
attuned intuitively to the land or o the
rhythm of a particular place. I think it’s
some integration of consciousness that
simply can’t be rationalised. It’s
as if from within you there rises a
memory of some even more ancient memory
that lingers mostly unrecognised at the
edges of your unconscious, or perhaps it’s
more memory of something half-forgotten.
I know it’s indefinable, and for me at
present beyond my conscious
understanding. The land seems to hone
you like tuning a musical instrument to
its pitch and so alters your perceptions
and relationship with life. I sat there
on this beautiful morning, inspired,
partly absorbed in the surrounds, and at
the same time wondering about these
experiences and ideas and their
subjective and deeply paradoxical
nature, I found myself being surprised
at even thinking like this at that
particular moment. Just then, we motored
out from these side lagoons and entered
into and crossed the main channel that
runs up into the Suva Harbour. As this
happened, my thoughts were interrupted
when someone shouted that there was
swell on the edges of this channel.
Turning to look, I was incredulous,
after we had given up all hope and
expectation of surf. Here it was,
glassy, solid five-foot right-handers.
Needless to say, we wasted no time at
all in jumping overboard and stroking
somewhat feverishly into the line-up.
Marshal and Dave were out first and
seemed to be having great fun, they were
turning and carving all over the face of
these steep bowling little wedges. Dave
Kalama, who was riding a longboard, came
in later on in the session because the
swell had increased to change boards. He
went back out on a hot-dog board with
foot straps attached.
I was absolutely blown away by his
surfing. It was a revelation to me to
see what he could do on those waves with
the strap setup. It was both at once
astounding and inspiring and I couldn’t
help thinking that I was seeing a
glimpse into the future of surfing. One
day I suspect that not just
tow-in-surfers, but almost everyone
attaining a certain level of competence
will use footstraps. Just as legropes
are now standard equipment, possible so,
too, will be footstraps.
The surf was extremely good fun and well
stayed out for hours, making some
recompense for the lack of physical
activity during our surf drought.
Eventually, the tide dropped, exposing
the reef, and slowly the sea breeze
helped to make the waves unsurfable. The
satisfaction of surfing good waves after
so long, and so unexpectantly, put
everyone in the best possible frame of
mind. And now, happily, we set off
motoring along the coast heading for
Tavarua and even daring to hope for a
surf at Cloud Break the following day.
We cruised along close to shore,
observing the beautiful coastal scenery
and reefs. It was a wonderfully relaxing
and easy passage, the wind never
regaining any real strength. To make it
all even more delightful and true to
form, the cook served up steaming bowls
of rice and curried vegetables, freshly
caught fish, and smoothies. We ate meals
fit for a king. The further westward we
steamed, the softer the wind became,
until, eventually, even with the sun low
down near the horizon, the familiar
warmth and humidity of tropical Fijian
air returned. So welcome was this change
of temperature and ensuing colour that
we felt as if we were returning home
having participated in some great
battle, and now we were emerging out of
the swirling bleakness and fury of the
dark tempest, that lived out there
permanately, far to the east.
This was to be undoubtedly our most
comfortable and exotic evening and night
during the whole trip. The sky, now
without even a solitary cloud, blazed
with the reds, pinks, and oranges at
sunset, and as night approached, the new
moon and evening star stood out in stark
contrast above the pastel colours of the
western horizon. The deepening night
brought in to life star after star
shining with incredible brilliance,
illuminated as they were and appearing
so close that it looked more like an
Australian desert sky than the usual
slightly hazy night that the tropical
humidity seems to create. As the
opaqueness of night increased, it seemed
more a deep shade of blue not black at
all, with the stars reflecting and
distorting on the glassy ocean surface.
The whole scene took on a surreal
ambience. |
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Everyone seemed to be appreciating this
last evening. The effect was palpable in
the soft tone of the voices, almost as
if anything loud or harsh would be
travesty and admonition upon such
delicate beauty. We spoke now of the
trip, our lives and families, all in a
manner natural and relaxed in the way
people do when they have spent some
considerable time in each other’s
company. While listening to the
conversation, it occurred to me that the
Quiksilver Crossing was not only about
crossing oceans, investigating reefs,
exploring surf breaks, and the recording
of these events and activities, but that
it’s also about many different people’s
lives and humanity. The “Crossing”
is undoubtedly a sociological experiment
as much as it is anything else. We
motored on late into the night. Now the
boat’s motion was gentle and
predictable, it rose and fell
rhythmically with the swell passing
underneath. The consistency of the swell
seemed to be an omen for some quality
and sizeable surf next morning. After
our previous disappointments with the
surf, I felt almost too sceptical to be
that hopeful. Yet it was to be a
reality. On this, our very last possible
day and chance of surfing, we were
blessed with solid, six-to seven-foot
barrelling lefts at Cloud Break. It was
the perfect ending to our adventure and
we all felt it as a panacea and were
gracious that it was so. It was
immensely enjoyable, not only to be
surfing such quality waves, but also to
be able to watch the others surf in some
size and power. It’s remarkable how
deeply ingrained and individually
expressive of a person’s character
surfing becomes when one has done it for
nearly one’s whole life. It seems to
flow with such a natural, dignified
grace and rhythm.
It had been in many ways a difficult and
testing journey, yet I felt it as a
privilege to have been able to
participate in this adventure. And now,
as it drew to it’s inevitable
conclusion, and reflecting on everything
that had happened, I felt if I had any
regrets at all it was only that I wished
to have been able to venture farther out
to the east and to explore extensively
those outlying islands. I felt it not so
much regret, but as an inherent desire
to explore further and with the time to
do it slowly. If there was any other
disappointment it might have been that
in the area we visited we were unable to
have any real interaction other than
brief meetings with the local people.
The reason for this was that the Fijian
Government, when granting permits to
visit these islands, requested us not to
go into any of the villages because our
trip was coinciding with their
elections, the first in 30 years. I
never really quite understood the
rationale of the request or its
political ramifications. The minister
had been so agreeable and affable in
granting permission, we intended in no
way to betray his trust. Bruce asked the
minister if there was anything else he
didn’t want us to do. He chucked
good-naturedly and flashed a big Fijian
grin and said, “yeah, don’t shoot
the natives.”
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