THE WEDDING PRESENTS

Nicholas Lowes

(Nicholas Lowes has been a member of the OCC since the late 1960s -- long before the days of satnav or GPS, as the following tale makes clear.)

Polynesia. The word itself sounds beautiful. It conjures up, in anyone with a sense of romance, islands of never-ending sunshine, cool tropical breezes and famous adventurers. Captain Cook found the islands fascinating, Paul Gauguin found them beautiful subjects for his paintings and most of Captain Blyth's crew found their women irresistible.

The voyage these days, as we made our way leisurely across the lonely stretches of the South Pacific from Panama to Tahiti, can have changed little from those early adventurers. Gauguin died in the islands of the Marquesas -- some 2900 miles from Panama -- idyllic surroundings for the painter to leave this life, and an equally wonderful place for the four of us on board to begin our visit in what is known as `Islomanes Paradise'. After 29 days at sea with fair winds, schools of flying fish and porpoise as companions, we had nothing to complain about.

With some reluctance at leaving these beautiful islands, we sailed on to Tahiti and (finally) Bora Bora, the most western island in French Polynesia. It was on Bora Bora that I met Fred Ford, a native of Penrhyn, one of the Cook Islands.

Fred -- whose English names were undoubtedly a result of the mutiny on the Bounty -- was waiting for a trading vessel to take him back home to Penrhyn. Such a vessel, I understood, only visited the outlying islands in this remote part of the world about once every six months. Fred had just missed the last vessel -- it had left the week before -- and so, having sold his pearls and beautifully made hats in Tahiti, would have had to wait another six months before being able to return `home'.

Time, in Polynesian terms, meant little or nothing to Fred and he did not seem in the least concerned about waiting for the next trading vessel. However, rather than travel direct to Samoa and Tonga, Fiji and then New Zealand, we decided it might be more interesting to make a dog-leg north in our voyage across the South Pacific and visit what I was assured would be a proper coral atoll and an unforgettable experience. In the event we were not disappointed.

Charts of the remote islands in this part of the world are, understandably, not as accurate as those covering more populated islands such as Tahiti or the Marquesas. In addition, both of these groups have islands standing some 6000 feet or more above sea level and can be seen from a great distance -- Tahiti is visible from some 60 miles -- so are not a problem for a sailing boat making good some 6 knots. On the other hand, a coral atoll with palm trees growing to a height of only 50 feet or so and discreet little notes at the foot of the chart advising: `This island was last reported 12'N and 45'W of its charted position. A strong westerly current, of unknown strength, has also been observed', does nothing to make navigation easier. (Having visited Penrhyn many times since, I found the only safe method of approach in practical terms was to `fix' a position within 30 nautical miles the day before, and wait for daylight the following day before making a final approach. Even then, on one occasion, I found myself a good few miles north of the island!).

However, having made the promise to take Fred Ford back to Penrhyn we did just that. With four of us already on board there was not much room for Fred to sleep -- in any case, our bunks would never have accommodated his size. So Fred slept on the floor of the saloon and for some five days the rest of us found our way around his bulk when we went on watch, guided by the loudest snoring I have ever heard in my life.

The night before I thought we would see Penrhyn I misguidedly told Fred he would be home around lunch time next day. I had heard and read -- as of course we all have -- what wonderful navigators the Polynesians had proved themselves to be but I do not believe any of them were amongst Fred's ancestors. "Nick", said Fred at around 0200, in a stage whisper loud enough to wake the rest of the ship's company, "You're miles off course. Pluto should be on our right -- not our left!"

I looked up at Jupiter and shrugged my shoulders. "Not to worry -- let's see what happens in the daylight", I replied. (No point in trying to explain to Fred that Pluto was invisible to the naked eye without the aid of a telescope, I thought). Daylight came. We sailed about 25 miles and, as I had hoped, there was Penrhyn, more or less where it should have been.

Our arrival was not exactly welcome, since we had not been given permission from Rarotonga, the Port of Entry into the Cook Islands, to visit Penrhyn, but having Fred on board gave us the necessary lever to enter the lagoon. We were entertained thereafter as visiting royalty, but I had some trouble in explaining to Fred that we had to continue our voyage so that we could undertake routine maintenance on the yacht in New Zealand. None of the islanders could see reason in our arguments but it was Fred himself who had the last word of advice:

"Nick, stay here. Keep the yacht in the lagoon. No need to go to New Zealand. I give you two of my daughters as wedding present -- and six chooks!"

POSTSCRIPT

Whilst the movements of Fletcher Christian, leader of the mutiny on the Bounty, and his co-conspirators are well documented, other members of the crew spread themselves across an enormous expanse of the South Pacific with the great majority of them settling in the Cook Islands. (Not too difficult a task when these fifteen islands cover some 30,000 square miles of that region). This, of course, explains the number of English names in such a remote part of the world.

The following story, told to me on both Penrhyn and Rarotonga, 1000 miles apart, tends to bear out the efforts made by the crew of the Bounty to evade the unenviable fate which resulted in the subsequent and very thorough search for the mutineers:

Palmerston, the most westerly of the Cook Islands, lies some 700 miles west and a good number of miles south of Penrhyn. Shortly after they were married our present Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh made an official visit there. As a Navy man himself Prince Philip recalled having met a certain Bill Masters, also in the Navy, who came from this remote island. Having made the request to speak to Bill Masters the courteous reply was: "Which Bill Masters did you with to speak to particularly, Sir? We have twenty men on the island with that name".