A Treasured Weight - David
On our arrival here in Namalata Bay, at the township of Vunisea, as we settled to our anchor and tidied the boat, we both remarked on a feeling that a weight had lifted. That, while we already missed our Kavala friends we felt also a relief from the associated social pressures. We talked that evening and again this morning of the comfort of anonymity. Here we are just another yacht arrived in the bay, a regular occurrence of no great moment. Anonymity we are used to. Being recognized by our names everywhere, we are not.
In Kavala, where we had spent so much time in and around the village, we had become an entity. Each time we pulled into the sea wall fronting the village we were greeted by a cloud of children, all eager to guide us to the best place to secure the dinghy, to carry our bags, but especially to greet us. They quickly learned how we managed the dinghy. When the tide was out and the water too shallow we would hoist the outboard and row to shore. They have no oars and rowlocks on their fibres. Their favoured shallow water method is to pole the boat along like a gondolier, a method I discovered required some skill. Yet the children quickly learned how to place our oars.
We have a small folding anchor that we drop out the back of the dinghy as we near our landing spot. With this holding the boat out and the bowline attached to shore our little dinghy is safe from damage on the concrete sea wall. The local method is the same but for the folding anchor. Theirs is usually a heavy piece of rusting steel or a concrete block. In no time the children figured out how the anchor could be made to open and close and were setting and retrieving it for us.
They showed remarkable forbearance and patience as we struggled with unfamiliar names, regularly forgetting a name or applying it to the wrong person. They would gently correct us. “He Limi. Wami,” pointing to himself and smiling. They learned that spelling words helped. They were great teachers and much of what we learned was through the younger members of the community.
These children, Josateka, Lusia, Esala and the others, often knew our business.
“Where you going?”
“We’ve come to see…” I’m fishing for a name.
“Jali.”
“Yes. We’ve come to see Jali.” How did Esala know that?
And they would then direct us through the village to Jali’s place, showing us the best route to avoid the mud on the paths. Without our noticing, one of the children had gone ahead and Jali knew that Janet and David were coming.
If, as happened twice, we were invited for a meal after church, the whole village knew where and with whom we were to lunch. And after the meal, returning to the dinghy we would find the anchor already lifted, the painter untied and several pairs of hands holding it close to but not touching the concrete steps. We discerned a temptation to lower the outboard if there was sufficient water and possibly have it started. These are boat people. They either walk or go by boat. There are two vehicles and one tractor and about one kilometer of road in Kavala Bay. All the boys will graduate to run the fibres. Kunes had already made the transition and could be seen powering his father’s fibre around the bay. As Janet remarked, “he had the keys to the family car.” Our dinghy was their size with a small engine to suit. The children had watched a thousand times, an outboard being started. They knew how it was done and here was one they could manage. They were itching to try it out.
On one occasion I was returning from the village to Navire, accompanied, as always, by Esala and Josateka. It transpired that they were on their way to the store, on the other side of the headland, not far beyond Navire.
“Want a ride there in the dinghy.” I offered.
“Is the Pope Catholic?” may well have been their reply as they enthusiastically helped ready the dinghy and leapt in.
I started the outboard but before slipping it into gear Josateka got out, indicating he would walk instead.I hesitated and asked Esala if he was happy to stay with the boat.
“Yes. Go.” He said pointing into the bay. I engaged the outboard. “No, no. Wait.” I slipped into neutral and waited. “No. Go. Go.”
“Are you sure?”
“No wait.” Esala squirmed in the bow, looked to Josateka on the shore and pondered his choice.
“Ok. Go. Go.” And we motored around the headland in the brief dusk, over the coral shelf toward Navire.
“Why did Josateka get out of the boat?”
“Rere.”
“Afraid?”
“Yes, afraid.” Esala replied, distracted and looking intently at the outboard. “I do.” Esala indicated he would steer and moved to the back of the boat, taking the throttle from me. For a time he steered a course for the shop but soon began experimenting with swerving the boat left and right and indicating that he wanted to do loops around the anchored yachts. I had no idea of his skill and feared he would turn too suddenly and capsize the dinghy or run too close to another boat and collide. He paid scant heed to my cautioning. He had his hands on a hotrod and was not going to give up the opportunity. Still, he kept safe distances and his turns were not too steep so I let him have his head. His play was generally in the direction of the shop. As we approached the landing I wanted the boat slowed and to carefully check the depth of water but Esala maintained full throttle and made out that all was fine. He’s been in here hundreds of times and knows the tides like others his age know a cellphone, I tried reassuring myself as the concrete steps loomed close. He slowed in time, taxied to the landing and hopped out, pushing me away with his foot.
“Sotatale, sotatale” we chorused to each other as I motored away, wondering if we’d been lucky not to strike the propeller on the rocks or if young Esala knew the depth with confidence.
I think the weight that we feel has lifted is that of being surrounded by so many people, of struggling to remember one from the other, of answering a myriad of questions, of being chaperoned wherever we go, of being aware that our movements and activities were common knowledge throughout the bay. At the same time, of course, we loved it.