THE southeasterly winds were blowing in, stirring whitecaps on Choiseul Bay and spraying sand across my keyboard. The team was waiting for the plane back to Honiara, which would not come for a few days. Meanwhile, we interviewed locals about any other wrecks they knew of, cultivated friendships, and explored the town. We found a hotel that looked nicer than ours, so if we come back we may stay there instead. Just off the coast, an old shipwreck lies piled against the reef. As we passed it, we noticed blue tarps set up along the deck with figures under them. Several dozen people have made the vessel their home, an apartment building out of an old shipwreck.
Ewan made the most of his time by fishing. He paired with a local man to catch some baitfish, then used one to haul in a massive GT, sixteen pounds he reckons. He fileted the fish, gave half to the other man and brought half back to us at the hotel. As is typical here, the hotel has a common kitchen and dining area for all the guests and employees to use. Once that fish hit the frying pan, people and cats came running.
At lunchtime, Ewan prepared his fish to fry and since there was more than we could handle, we offered some to Stella and saved over half of it for dinner. Stella showed her appreciation by making coconut rice to accompany the fish during dinner and we enjoyed the best meal of the trip so far. Ewan returned to the scene of his triumph and caught another monster. Two large fish in two days, and now he is a legend in the village, the Great White Fisherman.
On Saturday morning our Solomon Airlines flight was canceled. They said it was because of the weather but it was partly cloudy outside. Perhaps it was raining heavily in Honiara but not here. There were no Sunday flights so they said we might be able to get a flight on Monday or Tuesday. Might: the most powerful word in the English language here. It allows a person to say whatever they want and not stick to it. Promises and assurances mean nothing. Because of the cancelation were not able to dive another wreck we had scheduled the following day. We had to go shopping again because we timed our food to run out. We had to book our hotel rooms for two, maybe three more nights. We did laundry again because we timed our clean clothes to run out today, and we were out of cash because there were no ATMs there and no one takes credit card. We needed to get back to Honiara to replenish our cash supplies. The next few days were touch and go as we estimated we had enough cash for our rooms or food, but not both.
One of the New Zealanders working on the airfield was scheduled on our flight. He had big vacation plans to see his family. This cancelation threw all his other flights into chaos, so he paid a villager to take him ninety miles across the Slot by canoe to the island of Gizo, where he hoped to catch another flight to Honiara. It was extremely risky, the sea was showing whitecaps. We hope he made it.
Taro village was quiet on Sunday morning. After the previous night’s parties, the community awoke morose and slowed to get up. A baby named Gerald woke first, his parents next; he was the alarm clock for the hotel. The kiwi camp at the airport stood motionless. In the distance a shower turned on while an old woman tended her clothesline, checking each item for dryness before pulling them down. I heard the laughter of adolescents coming from the lagoon but could not see them. They must have been swimming. The weather was postcard perfect as a light breeze blew in from the lagoon and the sun peeked over the hills. Optimal flying weather, only it was as Jimmy Buffett said: there are no planes on Sunday.
We went to the airport at first light on Monday and waited for them to open. We followed the ticket man in and got our names on the passenger manifest, numbers six, seven, and eight. How the five others got ahead of us is another mystery of the Solomons. Fearing getting bumped, we camped out in the Departures room and when word came that the plane had taken off from Honiara, our hopes grew. When the purr of the engines could be heard in the distance, our anticipation rose ever higher. When the plane landed and passengers disembarked, we thought we just might make it off Choiseul, but our hopes had been dashed so many times over the past two weeks, we did not believe we were going home until the plane lifted off the runway. The look Ewan gave Matt and me said it all: relief. After two brief touchdowns at Gizo and Munda, we flew on to Honiara and back to the King Solomon Hotel.
BC Cook, PhD lived on Saipan and taught history for 20 years. He currently resides on the mainland U.S.
BC Cook
