A Dolphins Dream (12 page)

Moses cut a chunk of meat out of the coconut and pensively bit off a piece.

“That seems unfair,” Compton sympathized. “Besides, who’s there to stop you?”

“It is watched over by the Fiji fisherman. I can fish the reefs for myself, spearing them and using the line is okay. But no commercial, no nets. The free swimmers are the only fish they let me catch.

“That seems like a hard way to go. Can’t you get permission to fish the reefs? There are so many of them.”

Moses looked out to sea again, jaw muscle flexing in his brown cheeks. “The village can give permission,” he answered finally. “I ask for it once but no one ever say yes or no.”

“How far off the reefs must you fish?”

“Jes’ the reefs that can be walked on. The deep water reefs and all the blue water is okay.” Moses bit off another piece of coconut.  “Don’t worry about me, Michael. Soon they take all the fish from the reefs and have no skill in the deep water. I have the skill in the blue water, eh. It is what I live for.”

Moses chewed the coconut with the intensity of a hungry animal, rocking ever so slightly on the bench. The affront by the village was obviously painful and Compton put his hand on his shoulder.

“I think it’s wrong, Moses. The waters should be free for everyone to use.”

“No, they are Fiji waters,” responded Moses with a passion. “They belong to Fijians! In my heart I am all Fijian but who can see my heart and ask it to understand rules and laws.”

Moses blinked and searched for the red-hulled boat that had vanished into the sea. He spoke in a gentle voice so soft Compton could scarcely hear it.

“I’m not angry at my father for being white. He was a good man until drink took him away. He was wise and knew the world. When he was dying he say to me, ‘Give twice what you get. People are good.  Don’t be afraid of strangers.’” Moses paused as if seeing his father on his deathbed, listening to his voice. ”Also, he say, ‘Stay strong in your territory and help your friends when they are in need.’”

“That’s the sort of advice a father should give to a son,” said Compton.

“My father was very wise,“ continued Moses. “I think maybe that is why he was always drunk.”

“Did that make your life hard?”

“When I was very young my life was good. I lived with eight brothers and sisters. We lived apart from the other Fijians. I learned to speak English before Fijian. We had napkins and silverware. It was a proper life. But when I was nine my father became a drunk and after a time it broke the family. I was sent away to live with an uncle who was a Methodist minister. He mistreated me and made me into his slave. I cooked and cleaned and he beat me with a strap. Once he tied me to a tree for a night because I was late getting back from a chore.” Moses shook his head. “I was scared and screamed all night so he couldn’t sleep. I remember those nights I wished to be sleeping on my mother’s belly with my sisters and brother. The beatings made me crazy. When I was thirteen I run away and came back to live with my mother. I went to school but was far behind. In two years I passed ‘em. When my father sold our land at the beach I went to the city and my sisters left home and my brother went into the army. My father died after that. There was no one to take the farm. I was living in Suva when Esther came for me.”

Moses cut a chunk of meat from the coconut and split it in two, giving half to Compton.

“These days I don’t worry much. Jes’ enough to fish everyday without worry.”    

“That sounds like someone who’s retired.”

“Yes, that’s it. I want to retire.” A laugh burst from Moses’ chest and he rose from the table, sprinted down the beach and jumped into his boat without another word, leaving Compton dumfounded at the table.

Near dusk, Compton was preparing dinner when a dark-hulled skiff trudged by the edge of the coral. The lone occupant waved and Compton returned the greeting. The boat proceeded another ten yards then abruptly swung back into the beach. Compton instantly regretted his gesture and stood frozen at the stove until the fellow had dragged his heavy boat up onto the sand. Only then did he make his way down to the beach. The man was very dark and his chiseled features were all but obscured by a fearsome and wild countenance that had Compton take a backward step when he came upon him.  “Bula,” he said, smiling through gaps of msing teeth and shook Compton’s hand with awkward formality. “I am Peter.” His black hair was long and unkempt and his clothes were ragged and scarcely covered him. Over them he wore a yellow, weather-beaten slicker that was so tattered it could not have possibly kept him even remotely dry. He was barefoot and both his feet and hands were so gnarled and scarred as to look of mutant cast. Compton offered him tea, which he accepted with childlike gratitude. In broken English, Peter explained that he was a fisherman from Taveuni. In the course of their crude exchange Compton asked where he fished and he carefully drew a chart on the sand indicating the best reef to fish at night when the moon and tide were right.         Compton asked where the big mackerel could be found and the fisherman indicated a reef, far out to sea, on the other side of the island. “Veddy dangerous, beg sea brak da bot.”

“Have you been there?”

“One time. We catch mackal sebenty, abe kilo. Also, beg jack and tune.”

“Where’s this reef at?”

“Foteen mile, da wey,” and he pointed across the jungle to the southeast.

“On the other side of the island? How come it’s so dangerous?”

The fisherman shook his head. “Beg sea, beg curren. Tek men, neber see gen. Sea God der.”

“Sea God?” asked Compton, glancing toward the sky.

“No, Sea God.” The fisherman shook his head and pointed to the ocean. There was an awkward silence as if the fisherman had spoken of something that he now regretted. Compton asked if he knew Moses and his yellow brown boat.

“I know da bot.

“Are there many other fishermen in these waters?”

“No too meny.”

“Why is that when there are so many fish in the sea?”

The fisherman smiled revealing oily teeth and raised a gnarled hand. “Sea har on men.”

“Then why do you fish?”

The fisherman sipped his tea and held the cup low to his knee, as if the question carried weight beyond his words. Then thumping his chest hard, he said in a near whisper, “It is en my hard. Good dey, I wan more. Bad dey I don” quit. Alwey deffron, alwey da same. Sontim beg fish, sontim small. My hard neber hev enoh fish.”

“Do you remember the biggest fish you ever caught?”

“Yeah, yeah. A sark. Ret by dis beach. He hook up tree in mouning. I fight ’em til after da sun come. Him twel foot and aff.” The fisherman spread his arms to full extension twice and then made a splitting gesture down his face and stomach with the side of his hand.  “My bot twel foot. Sark too beg. I cut ‘em wit small kneff. Tak hour to cut. ’Em live after I cut in aff. Sole ‘em for twenty dollar.”

The fisherman offered Compton his last cigarette and when it was refused he smoked it down to the filter, taking huge inhales that would have felled a horse. Flipping the butt into the sea, he looked up at the sky.  “Seben o’cock, I go.”

Compton helped him launch the heavy skiff. After clearing the coral and setting out for the straits, the fisherman waved just before disappearing into the coal black sea.

Dinner was late and the mosquitoes came. Compton turned out the lantern, hurriedly finished his meal and crept under the netting. The image of Peter the fisherman, by now far out on that sable hump of rolling swell, would not leave him. He saw himself, alone on that vast and perilous water, a boy, who thought he was a man.

The morning sea winked its glitter through the cracks in the bamboo walls and the sounds of the soft shore break temporarily washed away the self doubts of his manhood though they lingered, as doubts do, on the peripheries of a fear filled mind.

After breakfast Compton collected his gear from a large boulder that lay in front of the sleeping hut. In his preoccupation he did not see Aprosa pole his way in from the reef. Suddenly he just appeared, standing on the beach next to his boat. Compton went down to greet him with dive gear in hand.

“Bula,” said Compton, which caused Aprosa to smile and return the greeting.

“You have been in the water looking for the red shells, getting the body ready for the sea?”

“Yeah, but it gets a little boring after a while just laying there in the water. ”

“Only the mind is bored, the rest of you is learning much, eh.”

“I suppose,” said Compton rather dismissively. “I think I’m ready for the big water.”

Aprosa grinned shyly. “We see about thet, eh.” He then instructed Compton to put on his gear, while he put on his own. When they were ready he motioned with his hand to follow. “We get into a bit of deeper water. Can you dive to ten feet?”

Ten feet was to the bottom of the average swimming pool and Compton reassured him that, “Yes, I can dive to ten feet.”

“Good.”

They followed the stretch of sand out to where the coral gardens were in full bloom, no more than twenty-five feet from shore. On the ten foot bottom lay a single coral head where danced a multitude of colorful tropical fish. Aprosa instructed Compton to dive down to the coral head without disturbing the fish. Compton inhaled a deep breath, bent at the waist and as he began to slightly sink, kicked his way towards the bottom and the coral head. Not more than five feet into his dive the fish exploded away in all directions leaving the coral head barren of any leaving creature. Compton pulled out of the short-lived dive and returned to the surface.

“The fish, they run off,” said Aprosa.

“Well, yeah. They always take off when a diver comes near.”

Aprosa did not reply but put his face into the water and laid upon its surface. The tropical’s had returned to the coral head and picked up their dance where they left off, when Aprosa took a breath and bent into his dive. He glided downward after a small kick on the surface, then remained as still as a post in his descent. His glide down was not unlike the sinking of a single feather from a swan at altitude, effortlessly and without intrusion. If the fish knew he was present, they gave no evidence of it. It was almost as if Aprosa did not exist at all. He settled to the bottom in a sitting position, arms resting on crossed legs like a boy-size Buddha in meditation. The fish did not bolt off as Compton had expected but instead drifted over to Aprosa and began to flutter about his stilled form until he was almost obscured by the fish that enveloped him. Compton was struck by what appeared to be nothing short of some mystical power this man had over the fish and then he was similarly awed by the length of his breath-hold, which now stood at several minutes, and he gave no indication of ascending. More fish flashed to him until he was completely surrounded and could not be seen at all. When finally he began to rise from the bottom, it was with such deliberateness and in such ultra-slow motion that it seemed he did not so much unfold himself from the sitting position as he simply morphed into a fluid form that defied description. When he reached the surface he pointed back to the beach and they both swam to it. Compton, mesmerized by what he had seen, followed like an obedient dog.

They took off their gear and sat on the beach. “That was an amazing display, Aprosa. What sort of magic enabled you to achieve that?”

Aprosa smiled innocently and shrugged his shoulders. “No magic. Every Fiji spear fisherman can do that. It is nothing. It is an understanding of the sea, eh. The sea knows two things, sound and movement. If you are quiet and do not move then the sea will let you into it. The coral head and the fish are the teachers, eh. They will tell you when you move. They say when you make a sound.”

“Wait a minute. How can you move without moving?”

“You go very slow. You start a small kick and then you glide. It is the control of the body, eh. When you dive thesh see you. In the slow movement they see you get bigger but because nothing else moves they forget. They let you into their village because they know that they cannot be harmed by something that moves without moving.”

Aprosa rose and laid his gear into the boat. “I will come back when you can dive the coral head and the fish invite you into their village for some tea.” He giggled at his small joke and left Compton sitting mute on the beach.

For the remainder of the morning he sat listening to the shore break, falling in and out of its sounds. Within the sounds Aprosa’s words filtered through and he would attempt to decipher them as if they were some kind of code, the message of which presumed to lead him out of the emptiness of his existence. There was no denying he felt something vaguely come to life in him when in the water but he could not put a name to it. Had he not the time to ponder it there on the beach. It would have vanished as another unrealized thing. But it was the feeling of aliveness that made for the awareness of his deadness. How or when that occurred he had no idea because his life had become some sort of abstract idea of itself, barren of any real feeling. There was no real life to it. “The sea is real,” he said aloud as if to punctuate its reality. It feels to be the only real thing around me. 

Mid-afternoon and the sun hung over Taveuni heavily veiled with leaded clouds whose silvered appendages glowed of freshly minted coin.

There is nothing remotely abstract here, he went on to himself.  This scene is more real than any possession or any city or any nation.

He lay back on the sand until the sun had set, as if seeing it for the first time, vowing as he did that he would try and grasp the gift that was, by some miracle, being handed to him. 

After breakfast and feeling oddly confident, Compton slipped into his “shorty” wet suit, which left his arms below the elbow and his legs below the knee exposed. With a weight belt, mask, fins and snorkel, he entered the water directly in front of the beach and followed the sand path out into the maze of coral. After two wrong turns he found clear passage to the edge of the barrier reef and deep water. He swam parallel to a finger reef that jutted directly out to sea. The water was as clear as liquid glass and the coral reefs fairly shook with sea life. They appeared as if Poseidon himself had toppled from a great height and shattered into ten million pieces. Polyp covered kidneys and worm-ridden rib cages lay white and ancient, vented arteries leading to stone aortas protruded through smooth, perforated stomach linings. Alabaster spleens, soft and delicately textured, rested comfortably in the abdomen, membranes turned rigid and fixed to rock and reef filtering the sea-blood of its impurities. Clawed, bony fingers stretched hairless at odd angles to oversized skulls and brains, eyes and teeth.