Land ho! After a week of hard work, at last we put back into port for a rest and refit. Beresby looked like an exciting metropolis by now, with shops and supplies. “Soppy” shed her oilskins in record time and went looking for a fresh water bath. She was gone all afternoon, and claimed she had to cross over to the reservoirs on the far side of the watershed to find somewhere suitable. I had Words with her about that, as I doubt the inhabitants of Main Island will be too thrilled at brackish, squirrel-flavoured drinking water – at which Soppy told me to mind my own business in no uncertain terms.  True, she never voted me in as spokesperson for her dorm, but one would expect some more consideration for others from a Quaker.

            Still, we used our time to get ourselves traditional “lava lava” cloths for Costume, and some more traditional straw hats.  The fishers have to manage without fresh costumes at sea, but Pateeta and Paloma reappeared in traditional flower garlands before we set sail again.

            I seem to have picked up rather more Spontoonie language than our hosts suspect – while of course not trying to eavesdrop, I spotted Tihan and Ropapi looking at us four from Songmark distinctly worriedly – and on a small boat one cannot help but overhear conversations.  I might not have known the words “council” and “orders” and “espionage” except that I had had a try at translating the Spontoonie edition of the “Daily Elele” into English last month, and those words had cropped up in a tricky story about the Vostok Trade Delegation.  The new Vostok Ambassador had arrived to replace his predecessor who had been under investigation for espionage - prior to his accidental death by a cluster of coconuts falling from a tree he was walking under.

            I could be quite wrong about this – but what I thought the conversation was about, was something involving a leak of secrets, and various very firm instructions that had been passed on concerning it.  Oh dear! I had hoped we had been “cleared” of all that last holiday – and took the chance to quietly tell Helen about it. She was quite upset, and suggested we incorporate life-jackets into our Costume. The Pacific Ocean is a decidedly large place to “accidentally” fall overboard into.

            Our little flotilla has picked up an extra member – a grey-furred gentleman of the ferret persuasion, who the other Natives seem to defer to. Quite possibly he is a senior fisherman – at any rate, after he pointed towards the Eastern end of the island, the boats all headed that way without the usual argument.  Whatever else he might be, he is a quite masterly performer on the Hawaiian guitar, and is sending haunting tunes across the waters.  Molly is quite enthralled – but then, she is normally to be found before lights-out with radio headphones securely on, and has been suffering severely from entertainment deficiency.

April 20th, 1935

Well! It came as something of a relief, that we were to leave our fishing grounds and attend a Native sports gala – Helen has been looking over her shoulder so much she must be developing a crick in her neck, expecting every trip out to sea to be our last.  True, having the four of us isolated from each other and outnumbered by loyal Spontoonies could be worrying – but as I  know for a fact we are innocent, I refuse to worry about it.

            The sports gala was an interesting event, various boating races and swimming races held in the bay of Main Village and the straits outside. There were rowing and sailing boats competing, and even an event for motor-boats. I wondered what our support ship the Ice Queen would do, being hardly built for speed, with half a dozen other trawlers to compete against. It was a very unusual race indeed – all the trawlers “raced” out of port at their best speed, their decks loaded with big lobster-pots.  I had wondered what the rail track on the deck was for, and I found out. Every trawler was equipped with a drop-down area of railing at the stern,  which must make loading fish and supplies much easier – and they each dropped a string of lobster-pots completely across the strait, each pot rolling smoothly out on rails and over the stern.

            A definitely odd race, but one supposes fishermen spend a lot of time thinking about new things to do with their boats.  I cheered, of course, when the Ice Queen won!

Soppy Forsythe seemed quite interested in the event, and spent the afternoon watching through her field-glasses. I hoped she would find something to distract her, as she has been complaining non-stop about the food, accommodation and company all this trip.  Sports are certainly a great builder of character, and I was glad to hear her asking quite a few Natives whether the lobster-pot race was a new innovation or descended from older Tradition.

Thinking of Traditions, Helen has adopted a daring but wholly authentic Native costume again, and Molly has followed suit, though not without  a few blushes.  She had complained that there was nobody out here to appreciate them – and indeed, her boat is crewed with lizards, who may have well-polished scales but very few other visible physical charms.  Honestly - Molly complains that nobody would appreciate her costume far out at sea, but is too embarrassed to wear it anywhere except in Native company!

April 21st,  1935

A decidedly bright, hot day, with quite dazzling sun shining off the waters. At least, Soppy is looking happier, as she has been scandalised by Helen and Molly’s costume and can say, “I told you so.” A rather indelicate matter, but – not having such all-covering fur as the Noenokes, my friends are suffering sunburn in rather delicate places not generally accustomed to hours of exposure. Rather painful, I should think!  Soppy is still steaming inside her oilskins, but seems to mind it less. My own costume is something of a compromise, being one that I might wear without embarrassment on Casino Island, not that we are likely to visit there much on this trip.

            Pateeta has mentioned that the fleet usually sails with her younger relatives, several boats of aunts, uncles and spare cousins. A decidedly large family, the Noenokes – as indeed is Jirry’s.  Helen murmurs something alarmist about sending the children out of the way of any dirty work, but she is always saying things like that.  I suppose being brought up travelling to oil wells that were always blowing up or already on fire would tend to pessimism, as one always sees the worst side of things.

            Molly is certainly learning some new words, today she learned the Spontoonie for Moray Eel (“Polaw’tihi”) as well as to stay clear of one caught in a net. There is a bright side to most things; at least I took the chance to practice my field First Aid, and the sort of thing we are sure to be asked about when we return to Songmark.

            Thinking of languages, today we learned a few words of something more exotic. Although there is little traffic to and from the Northern coast of Main Island, this evening we were hailed by a small steamer towing a very substantial barge piled with lumber. Its flag was that of Vostok, that fine island where the best of the Russians escaped to exile – and we managed to sell them some fish, a busy ship’s crew rarely having the time to tow nets. Their Captain had quite a conversation with Mr. Sapohatan, though it seemed the only language they had in common was that of the Tillamook coast.  I jotted some of it down, which I later tried to translate using Soppy’s book:

            Vostok Captain:  “Tikiloahata-ma rantopaha pitikutliva po na ki-nahapupetu pi-topapetel stolataha-ma nafapacolotahipo na pa lo-popayaha”

            (Literally: “Water-house in the direction from the Northern star in the means of going with that which is from the great forest-spirits of the land of mountains ruled by the great Chief of the East”

            (Or, more compactly: “We’re carrying timber from Vostok.”)

            One never sees a “chatty” Red Indian in the films or newsreels – whenever asked a question, they always are shown as thinking it over for five minutes before answering. According to Soppy’s book, Chippewa has more than 3 thousand irregular verbs – and I thought that French was hard enough to learn. With such a language as that, it is hardly surprising - surely it takes half one’s time to work out how to say “Good morning!”

            At any rate, one mystery is solved. On the Northern coast I had noticed the Red Indian type houses had great cedar roof beams, and some villages had totem poles twenty or thirty feet high. Although there are some fine trees on Spontoon, I had wondered where the cedars and redwoods came from. One lives and learns.

            In the past few days, the Noenokes have decidedly “dried up”, in terms of talking to us, and indeed there seems a definite coolness – they have almost stopped making jokes, which is a pity. Our latest arrival is called Mr. Sapohatan, a decidedly sharp-eyed individual. A good thing too, as he spotted that Molly had tied the net the wrong way round today – we would have lost it overboard if we had tried to catch anything with it tied that way.

            Molly seems quite impressed by Mr. Sapohatan, and is often to be found in the evenings raptly listening as he plays sad songs on his slide guitar. Slide guitars seem awfully hard to play – like ukuleles, most players one hears would be better advised to give up and take up something more musical (such as hacksawing sheet metal or demolishing buildings). Mr. Sapohatan, happily, is the exception to the rule.

April 22nd, 1935

A most curious event this morning – I was the first one awake in our boat, moored off our main fishing reef some eight or nine miles from shore.  It was a decidedly misty dawn; one could see scarcely four boat-lengths ahead. Although there was no sound of engines or sailing craft rigging, I definitely heard voices from out of the fog, certainly no voices I recognised from our party.  There was a quiet splashing, and they vanished.

            Not ten minutes later, the fog was clearing a little, with “lanes” of clearer air appearing – and I saw a disturbed area of water, perhaps two hundred yards away. Only Soppy was up, and I pointed that way – just as something broke the surface. Soppy has her binoculars permanently ready around her neck, to not waste a chance at spotting a rare sea bird, she says, and she got what must have been a good view with them for a few seconds.

            Soppy’s expression was very strange indeed – she stared into the mist, long after the clear lane had closed up. When I asked her what was out there, she said “Shark”, very abruptly, and refused to elaborate.

            Very strange, indeed – I would have asked the Noenokes, but they seem to be avoiding us, as much as one can do so in such close quarters. I hope we have not offended them somehow – and I fear that asking pointed questions about the “Natives of no island” would be sure to alarm them, if nothing else has already.

April 23rd, 1935

A wet day!  Not a glimpse of the sun from dawn to dusk, with rain lashing down in blankets (one would have said sheets, but these were far heavier.) Just like home in dear old Barsetshire.  At least Molly gets up early for a change, courtesy of a leaking roof dripping right over her hammock.

            A decidedly dismal breakfast of cold roasted fish left over from last night, and then we were hard at work all day, as one might as well be wet and productive fishing as wet and idle trying to shelter inside the boats.  At least the Noenokes cook their fish – we were quite shocked to see the reptilian folk eating it raw, in what one is informed is the Japanese style. Though I have learned to appreciate some of the local culture – I am sure that is one tradition that will never be fashionable amongst the restaurants of Europe! Soppy was chittering most discontentedly, even in her arctic-weight oilskins. Not surprising, as I have seen the state of her fur when she takes them off, and few drowned rats would envy it.

            One interesting encounter – when we docked with our supply ship the Ice Queen, Mr. Sapohatan swarmed up the side in response to some signal given by one of the crew. He returned only after we had quite finished swapping fish for supplies half an hour later, with some unexpected news.  We are to try and meet some new customers, as a fleet will be traversing Spontoonian waters in the next few days!  Exactly which fleet it might be, he declined to say, except that they should appreciate some fresh supplies.  According to Jane’s Naval Review, there are quite a few minor powers who patrol these waters, though few of them have anything like a fleet. Vostok has only the ageing craft that carried its better citizens over from Russia to escape the Bolsheviks – and though New China has a navy, I have heard it referred to as a collection of junk.

            Helen had some very odd ideas, I must say – true, we are as “incognito” as we can get; wearing these costumes, our best friends back home would be hard-pressed to recognise us.  But she seems very keen to see how we will “measure up” to an unsuspecting audience, of whichever fleet it might be. I will keep my own costume at its current coverage, I think.

April 24th, 1935

Hurrah! In the mid-morning, we noticed a smudge of smoke on the horizon, heading our direction.  In an hour, it had resolved itself to be three vessels of capital ship size and a covering formation of smaller ones. Soppy was most excited, and spent half a precarious hour clinging to the top of the mast before announcing it was our very own Royal Navy, the biggest vessel being the new carrier the Lord Moseley. One wonders how Quakers become so familiar with current military forces, as they passionately dislike the whole idea? Possibly they memorise Jane’s Naval Yearbook at their meetings, to give themselves some real facts and figures to criticise.

            Quite a sight indeed – as we watched, a squadron of Handley-Page Heyfords touched down on the deck, coming in from patrolling somewhere off to the Northwards.  One of the smaller vessels, a Destroyer I believe, headed our way as the Noenokes raised signal flags indicating we had provisions for sale.  The fleet passed by, heading towards the French Sandwich Islands,  while we had ten minutes of  rapid haggling as the purser and some very Able-looking Seamen jumped down to our decks to buy up our morning’s catch.

            I must say, Molly and Helen put on a good show, and were quite convincing as mysterious Island ladies. (Had they opened their snouts, Helen’s immediately recognisable West Texas drawl and Molly’s Chicago accent would have quite spoiled the whole effect.) We left the talking to the Noenokes and Mr. Sapohatan, while Soppy looked on with an oddly frustrated expression.  Waving farewell, the destroyer surged off at full throttle to rejoin the fleet, leaving us all rocking in the wake.

One hopes they enjoy the fresh fish, as I confess to being a little tired of it meal after meal myself – something I would never have believed possible back at Saint Winifred’s. Especially since back there, the fish was not all it might be – my dear friend Mabel being a Vicar’s daughter, once wrote an essay on “The Piece of Cod, which passeth all Understanding.”

(Later). Mr. Sapohatan mentioned to us that the fleet will be returning in a few day’s time,  where we will be ready and waiting.  Quite lucrative, one supposes – our Navy paying for official purchases in universally acceptable gold Sovereigns,  which avoids fussing with local currencies.  We will certainly do our best for them! 

April 25th, 1935

Another decidedly hard day, but with one very strange thing to report. Just towards dusk, we were far out from land, twenty miles and more, when we spotted some aircraft picked out by the setting sun.  Although they must have been two miles away and at four or five thousand feet, we could follow their aerobatics quite clearly.  Whatever these were, they were either stunt aircraft or fighters – they were throwing themselves around all over the sky, sometimes in manoeuvres that I could scarcely put a name to. It must have been a trick of perspective, but I would have sworn that some of the aerobatics was impossible. I know there were triplanes in the Great War that could do a flat turn without banking, but – these looked as if they could have flown rings round any ace.

            Very odd indeed. I begged a look through Soppy Forsythe’s binoculars, but she was most ungenerous with them, and kept them glued to her face the whole time. Of course, we see the local Air Force every time we go across to Moon Island – and we have all studied the “Osprey” flying boats very thoroughly.  But they are definitely not what one would call “hot ships”, being far more dangerous to shipping and submarines that to other dedicated fighters.

            Helen thinks they must be something the carrier is testing in secret, far from prying eyes on land.  But unless they have halted or turned back, a quick look at the chart puts the carrier three hundred miles away by now, and dogfighting generates a notorious thirst for fuel.  So I hardly think they would have flown all the way back here,  when there are much emptier pieces of the Pacific to test any secret inventions. Very odd indeed.

April 26th, 1935

Helen’s birthday, hurrah! We made her a cake (fishcake) and Molly handed over a tin of her family product, PAMS as a present. Helen seemed to enjoy the prospect of eating it for a change, and indeed anything would be a welcome break from fish by now. Except poi.

            Indeed, something we have noticed in the past week, we are all ravenously hungry with working flat out in the open air all hours – I mentioned at breakfast that I must be eating enough for a family. Paloma congratulated me, though I can’t think why.

            We have been over a week at sea, hardly coming closer than three miles from land. Soppy is still sealed up to her muzzle in her oilskins, and both Molly and Helen have relented and produced more modest costumes that cover all eventualities.  Still, tomorrow we will be heading back to visit Chiklooha, which will feel quite like a city by the time we get there. Molly is drooping slightly, missing bright lights and company. The Noenoke gentlemen are quite a sight to watch, but must be already engaged or some such. At any rate, Helen says they show no … interest in her or Molly.

            Thinking of which, I miss Jirry quite achingly. We could hardly take our radios out to sea, as they are naked wires and batteries that would survive about two minutes in the spray of our open boats. At least I could keep in touch even from within the guarded compound of Songmark, and find out what is happening! With all these film crews and the first tourist boats arriving, very likely Jirry and his brothers will be hiring out as Guides and porters again for the season. So even if we get any “shore leave”, he may be otherwise engaged by the time we arrive, alas.

            Helen says that next time she meets with Marti, it will be a meeting he will remember even when his fur turns grey. It would be unladylike to record the rest of her description, but it seems that a life of fresh air and fresh fish every day certainly builds up … an awful lot of energy.

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