The Voyage of Yacht Zulu: Arriving in Vava’u, Kingdom of Tonga

June 3 to June 14, 2010

Arrival in Neiafu, Café Aquarium, Walk about in Neiafu, Saturday market, Going to church, Sisia my treasure island, Flashback to 1980 pictures.

Vava'u

It is as if the Island gods were at play one day long, long, long ago when coral formation was at hand. I imagine the gods having a pick of shapes and sizes of tilted platforms and coralline rock and reefs, and scattered 61 small islands in the manner of throwing a fishing net into the warm Pacific Ocean. So they fell.

Helter skelter the northern group of Vava’u, Kingdom of Tonga took form. Little mounds of green, some wooded, some with heads of Palms, some with rings of the most pristine white coral sands, some like mushrooms, some like loaves of bread, some tilted see-saws; and to the west the stealth-like volcano of Late lies not quite dormant as it vents its steam, and to the south west of the Ha’apai group the volcanoes Tofua and Kao rise up and mark where ill natured Captain Bligh was relieved of his command of the Bounty.

Islands of blue-gray—a scattering of the 61 that make up the Vava’u Group.

Rose-coloured clouds drift over some of the 61 Vava’u’s islands.

The volcano Late, stealth like on the distant horizon.

The Kingdom of Tonga has borders unequalled in the common vein. The 30,000 ft Tongan Trench digs deep to the east and the area marks a major plate boundary and subduction zone. Under the calm cover of greens and blues there is great tectonic instability and volcanism--enormous violent energy potential stored in the ocean depths.

Vava’u is not dramatic in its beauty. It has subtle and hidden beauty and lends an ambience that quietly unfolds. This quiet beauty reflects the nature of its people whose roots are Polynesian with a sprinkle of Melanesian. Mostly they cater to the tourist trade—weaving baskets, making tapa cloth from the Mulberry trees, carving pendants from cow or ox bone, wood carvings, and putting on Tongan ‘feasts’ with young people dancing. They hold administrative or small business positions--there are now 26 restaurants in Neiafu mainly owned by Palangis (white people) providing jobs for locals, and they make do with family subsistence based on their ancient culture.

At 16 years of age, each male Tongan is entitled to rent 8.25 acres of bush land and a village space of three-eighths of an acre for his home for life, per Earl Hinz’ Landfalls of Paradise. However, I can only imagine how population growth now might impact the practicality of this entitlement. Where do the young Tongans go from now with little development and not much job opportunity on the islands?

The Tongans do look to protect their future generations and have created five national marine parks and preserves in the southern group of Tongatapu. These parks protect their valuable resource and food supply, fish.

Yet what is troublesome is seeing how the reefs are pillaged to provide, for instance sea cucumbers to the Chinese. It is an agonizing sight to see whole families combing the reefs in grid formation day after day after day.

I cannot grasp slippery time, but understand that evidence shows these Tongan islands have been settled since 2500 BC. And Kings in the thirteenth century reached out with reign as far as Hawaii. Still, now the King reigns on, unmarried and without a son, however his brother’s son waits in the wings.

For now, our reality is that we are here for a whisper of time, our second time. We will only have time to brush by the Tongan culture and concentrate on sailing between the uninhabited outlying islands. It all waits us.

Arrival in Neiafu: Lat 18 Degrees.39 S, Long 173 Degrees.58’W

I have the usual butterflies coming alongside a dock with boats ahead of us. Remember Port Morelle in New Caledonia when reverse did not work? Well stay cool, reverse works now.

The wharf is high and buoys, sans two lost on the way due to my sloppy knot tying, are tied high too. Squelch, squeeze, the buoys roll up and an inevitable scrape to Zulu’s sides is like chalk on the board. Ahhhhhhhh.

A fellow sailor girl stands to catch my too-short spring (mid-ship) line. “Where should I tie it she asks?” “Anywhere!” I call back. I jump off with the stern line and tie a bowline quickly. Too quickly and get my thumb caught in the action. Throw it over the large cleat. Russ is off and getting the bow line tied.

Hallelujah. The drama is over. Now the pain of going through immigration is next.

Clomp clomp. Here come the Tongans. They discard their shoes on deck. Big flat bare feet emerge and I see them smile as I greet them in their native language.
“Malo e lelei.”

“Malo e lelei.” They greet me back--Customs and Agriculture.

The Customs man wears a royal blue lava lava (traditional skirt) and a slightly stained short-sleeved blue shirt with a name tag. The Agricultural woman has a royal blue calf-length skirt on and a white short-sleeve shirt with name tag. They sit down in the cockpit and begin filling out the forms.

The Tongans are as quiet as their islands, in general, and friendly. Their emotions are tucked way down in the depths of their being. They are not animated. Their feelings are not written on their sleeves. Their smiles are wide though, and brown eyes seem to search through you, and they raise their eye brows to show recognition or agreement. They are polite. And when they laugh it is infectious.

The first two lots of paper work are complete. Progress made.

“Av you got some Kabage?” The agricultural woman asks.

“Yes I have some cabbage, and a few New Zealand potatoes.” I respond, happy to give them the sacrificial vegetables on the fringe.

I see a cloud of question come across her face as I hand her the paltry half a cabbage.

“No, I mean Kaabage!” She emphasizes.

“Oh! Garbage!” I laugh and she laughs too and hands me back the pathetic half a cabbage and floury NZ potatoes way past their prime. And I give her my bag of garbage, but not the gazillion beer bottles as they say they do not have recycle on the island. I would pay her TOP38.00 (US$19.00) for her trouble later, for one bag of garbage. That was the charge.

Once paid I read this paragraph on her form following the paragraph--Instructions: “Please take note its very strickley (sic) prohibited to carry any Quarantine items a shored (sic). Eg fruits, veg, meat, eggs.”

Smile. I won’t take my cabbage ashore for sure.

That settled, they saunter off and the Health and Immigration representatives arrive. The Immigration man asks to come down below.

The Health man has a crisp royal blue calf-length lava lava on and a cheery yellow and green checkered shirt. He is tall, and sports a mustache. It looks like he might have some blue blood overflow in his veins. He utters few words, and when he does he sounds understated and his voice is barely audible. He is embarrassed to charge us TOP100.00 (US$50) for filling out three lines: Name of vessel, name of passengers, passport numbers. Zero information on health gets recorded. He gives a twitch of shoulder when we ask why so much, when we hear a year ago it was TOP30.00 (US$15).

“The Government decided to triple the fee.” The Immigration gentleman, who had an air of authority, backed him up. “Yes a group of Government men got together and talked and decided to raise the fee.” He confirms.

Just like that. No sweat. As the Kiwis say, Fair enough, even though it may be questionable.

The Health man disembarks and stands on the wharf waiting for Russ to come back with the money and I am left alone with Mr. Immigration.

I hear someone calling Zulu. It is SV Vittoria from NZ passing by to tell us where they will be. They preceded us to Tonga by three weeks. We knew them through Christian in Bay of Islands.

I notice Mr. Immigration has gotten up off the bunk down below while I was in the cockpit and is scoping things out around the galley and goodie cabinet. He is like Mr. Eagle eyes or a kid in a candy store. I come back down and make small talk, then suggest we come and sit in the cockpit where it is cooler.

“Can I have a cold drink he asks?” I was waiting for that request. Yachties one after another tell tales of Tongan Immigration asking them for liquor. We were asked for liquor thirty years ago by Immigration. He said he wanted some spirits to celebrate his daughter’s coming of age party.

Well this time he got tank water with a splash of Roses Lime. Once on deck he sips the drink and sighs, and then like a preacher man goes on to explain—

“My son likes to come with me on the boats on weekends. Then you know the people they like to give him sweets or chips or something. Do you have some sweets or chips or something for him?”

Ahh the Tongan way comes to life--that not-so-subtle psychology at work.

My precious cheese Doritos are at large next to the fruit hammock and bitter sweet chocolate jumps into view through the Goodie cabinet glass door. I get a slab of Russ’ Trader Joe bitter sweet chocolate, a gift to him from his sweet sister Bev, and give it to Mr. Immigration somewhat begrudgingly.

“Thank you for this.” He smacks his lips at his prize as I hand it to him and smiles. He puts it in his top pocket and checks to see if it is visible or not, perhaps so his colleague who has not asked for a single thing does not see.

Russ returns and climbs on board. Right off he spies his present from his sweet sister in Mr. Immigration’s pocket.

Hands up! I have to chuckle at his expression. He swallows casually in a bitter-sweet way. Hey what’s Mr. Immigration doing with my chocolate in his pocket? I read his thoughts between the lines.

Relieved of some cash, we cast the lines off and head into the protected bay filled with bobbing boats on moorings, happy to be through the Immigration gauntlet. Here comes the first Tongan row boat—a man rowing with one oar with all his might to reach us.

“You want a Tongan flag he calls out? I got one! TOP40.” Now here is an entrepreneur. We are too tired to deal with him or flags and motor on by. It is time to drop the anchor and sleep. Russ finds our old spot from long ago at the base of the Paradise Hotel, away from the madding crowds in 40 ft of clear water.

Yet another row boat pulls up alongside. I have already hit the bunk. I hear the Tongan voice: “Do you have a coffee for me?” “Do you want to buy some baskets, or a conch shell?” He queries and starts blowing on the shell. “Do you have some line for me?”

“Negative to all Russ comes back.” And soon down below he hits the bunk as well. We succumb to sweet sleep.

Awake the next morning to a beach hibiscus floating by the boat, with the sky reflected. There were hundreds of floating flowers floating with the current close to the shore.

Café Aquarium

Creative sign for Palangi-owned Aquarium Café.

Russ, Dave off SV Vittoria and I enjoying refreshment at the Café Aquarium.

Refreshed we meet up with Dave and Lynn off SV Vittoria at the Café Aquarium. Dave fits the scientist-professor bill—wispy white hair and beard on end and bright blue eyes bespectacled, and red-head high-energy Lynn seems more a head master than the teacher.

The deck overlooks the harbor with rally boats of all shapes and sizes at the moorings. Flying flags from the Around-the-World, and Windflower’s rally from NZ en route to Tonga, Fiji, Vanuatu etc, also make for a show. An international flotilla at large.

We order a tropical smoothie and exchange passage experiences. There is a breeze so pleasant it calls for us to stay for dinner. First we take a little walk to stretch our legs. Then return for a curry night as the sun sets. Sounds appetizing and the friendly island waitresses treat us like their long lost family.

We drink it all in until the brilliant stars come out-- tropical heaven.

Walk about in Neiafu

I take my camera and we go for a walk about into town. We are in a Third World, no matter how you slice this Kingdom. Garbage is strewn all over. It is even tucked into beautiful old trees on the waterfront. There are few to no visible garbage cans. Have a soda and toss the can. Have a cheap packet of Chinese chips and toss the packet. Really sad that pride is so lacking or rather garbage cans and education. Where’s the King when we need him?

Garbage tucked into the trees in Neiafu. I did not have heart to show you the worst.

The town center is small. Two or so shops have small selections of canned goods etc., on the shelves and sell and white nutritious-free bread. There are three banks, a Backpacker’s accommodation, Tourist Center, lots of signs for activities like Whale Watching, Diving etc., and other small businesses.

Neiafu harbour is lined with Palangi (white man) businesses: silk-screen T- shirts (Tropical Tease) with beautiful island designs of whales, manta rays, sharks, swordfish, mermaids, butterflies; The Mermaid Vava'u Yacht Club and Restaurant; Mango Restaurant; Giggling Whale restaurant and handicrafts; Moorings and Sailing Safari charter boats; Baluga Diving; Aquarium Café, my favourite, to name a few. There are 26 restaurants altogether tucked away in nooks and crannie, to include a wonderful wood-fired pizza place behind the Paradise Hotel. Yum.

Sign for the Mermaid Restaurant and Vava’u Yacht Club.

The Mermaid or Vava’u Yacht Club right on the waterfront.

Giggling Whale outside seating. They sport a panoramic view of the harbor.

View of Neiafu Harbour from most of the waterfront establishments.

Relics of dream establishments remain, burned down or out of business. They stand empty, some hit by cyclone Isaac of 1983 or others more recent. The old Vava'u Club overlooking the harbour got hit by the cyclone of 2005? It sits high on the hill, derelict. Ghosts of customers enjoying sundowners haunt the place without grace.

The Vava’u Club hit by the cyclone of 2005?

Ghosts of customers enjoying sundowners haunt the place without grace. The Vavau club was destroyed by a cyclone.

What is left of an untold story.

In other instances of burnt down businesses: some children tried to use firebrands to smoke out bees in the bottom of multiple water front concerns--the Bounty Bar and other shops--and the fire took over and all that stands is an empty concrete shell. Gas bottles exploded in the kitchen of the Paradise Hotel and caught fire burning to cinders. Luckily there was no-one there at the time.There is now no kitchen, no restaurant, no bar and only one guest inhabits a room. The past remains silent.

Sign showing Puataukanave International Hotel.

The Puataukanave International Hotel—beyond a white elephant. Long live the King.

There is a Tongan-owned hotel right in town on the water front. The sign reads Long Live the King Gv’t Puataukanave International Hotel. It is the most horrendous white elephant in elephant land. Furnishings are nouveau riche garish and the rooms are emptied of guests. Boxes still remain unopened inside and newspapers are pasted up on some windows. Ja, long live the king? What about long live the people with all due respect? But you cannot knock the dream and the effort.

The Tongans seem to have accepted that The Kingdom rules, good or bad. They seem subservient in an underlying way. The protest for Democracy in Nuku’alofa to replace The Kingdom hit the wall real quick in 1992.

There are the gem images of Neiafu too. Little homes with lace or pale blue curtains blowing in the breeze; flower gardens; pigs and piglets roaming the yards; dogs resting in the shade; children laughing as they go to school in various and sundry uniforms; little girl friends with hair in plaits with ribbons walk by holding hands and smiling, a cluster of youth in soccer outfits are proud they belong to the team; an old man sits in the shade of a shop front holding onto a stick for a walking cane; an old woman in black with a grass mat wrapped around her skirt waits for someone to buy her wares and unccountable more images exist to capture.

A sweet little home in Neiafu with pale blue curtains tied back and louver windows open to let the breeze in.

A house tucked behind a beautiful flower hedge.

Four little piggies went to market.

A hot dog seeking shade.

Neiafu laundry drying in the sun.

A group of Tongans sit under this huge Banyan tree in Neiafu.

The Tourist Information Center.

The Vava’u library.

Some kind of messages are being communicated over loudspeakers, and these men listen in.

Blurry sample of a woven mat the Tongans wear around their waist. They walk toward the ANZ bank of NZ.

Look who is guarding the bank on Sunday.

A sweet lady selling her taro leaves at the market.

Saturday market

Saturday is the big market day. All the Tongans are out and about in the morning. Going to the bank, to the grocery stores, and to the Utukalongalu market. The market pickings are slim at best: watermelons, small expensive pineapples—TOP8 each-- and piles of tomatoes, a few bunches of long green beans, onions, potatoes, taro, sweet potatoes, bananas, papayas, one or two bread fruit, taro leaves bound by string, small cabbages, tender lettuce and sweet basil and cilantro. Good enough for our needs. I carefully select my produce and stretch my mind for ingredients to create sunset dinners at anchorages fit for a King or just two salty dog sailors that we are.

There is an older lady—kind of like me, smile—with grey-blue eyes. She has a black shirt on with notes of green money printed on the front. She sells small, borderline acceptable tomatoes. “These are just the beginning, she says. Better ones will come later in the season.” She smiles.

My friend, Dawn, picks the best tomatoes from the piles to make her own pile. “How much for this pile?” she asks.

“They were already in piles LADY!” the gray-eyed Tongan in black emphasizes in an unusually frustrated way. “TOP3!”(US$1.50).

“I like your shirt.” I said smiling at her to break the ice.

“I don’t!” She said. “I wear it to remember my son.” Her expression softens. I ask her to elaborate.

“My son graduated with a Bachelors Degree in accounting from a university in Fiji. She smiles a proud smile. He did not want to work. I can understand that. He said to me: ”Mom, why should I work when I can get TOP30K for nothing? No one will know where the money went.”

“He built himself a house and planted a vegetable and fruit garden with the money. He was 29 and not married. Then he died. That is why I wear this shirt. It is to remember him by.”

Her gray-blue eyes fill with pools of tears, and she can barely contain her sorrow. I do not ask how he died, but surmise he might have taken his life after being caught for fraud. But I do not know.

I look at her a long, long time in empathy. “I am sorry for your great loss. So very sorry.” I say quietly and slowly pick up my package of tomatoes and walk away. I walk up the stairs into down town, past a few men over indulging in drink. Lives in an island paradise shattered.

Tema sells tender lettuce at the Saturday Utukalongalu market. She tells me my name, Marilyn, is Melalini in Tongan.

Dawn off SV Kudana making her market picks.

Going to church

The London Missionary Society succeeded in spreading Christianity throughout the islands in 1830. Tongans are conservative. They dress that way and every Sunday you can hear a pin drop as they all dress up and go to church. Smoke from the umu ovens (earth ovens) spiral silently into the skies slowly cooking their Sunday meals as they sing their hearts out in worship in church: Catholic, Methodist, Church of England etc.

Dave and Lynn say the Methodist church is their choice to go to listen to the Tongan’s sing. So Sunday I tog up with my hat and skirt, and Russ dons long trousers and a smart shirt.

We walk to the church, a little way from the town center. It is a huge yellow building with heavy wooden pews and doors and windows open wide to let the breeze in. Everyone is dressed in their best. Most Tongan men, and some women, wear woven mats tied around their waists—over their lava lavas and skirts. Even some little boys and girls wear woven mats. Little girls are priceless dressed in gorgeous ballerina calf-length chiffon or organza dresses, hair in French braids.

The singing begins—absolutely amazing in 6-part harmony. The Tongans sing from the heart with voices loud and strong, voices that open up the heavens, like the Samoans who they resemble. Who should conduct the choir, but the Customs man.

He is dressed in a smart lava with a woven mat, a blue shirt and collar with mauve tie and black blazer. His face has beads of perspiration and after each set of hymns he sits down and wipes his face with a crisp, clean white handkerchief.

Then the preacher gets up and in a laborious monotone voice reads from the bible accentuating parts with a tone of warning and admonition.

A little boy, whose mom is not keeping an eye on him climbs over pew after pew—about five in a row—back and forth with a big smile on his mischievous face. He wears a long-sleeved blue shirt with collar and a cute little navy blue lava lava. Eventually one of the youth boys drags him from the front row to where his Mom is sitting and she gives him a good smack. I have to chuckle. That sure put the cherry on the top, or rather a damper on his little game!

Russ barely makes it through the first hymn. He whispers in my ear: “I’m going to try the Catholic church out.” He leaves through the side door.

There is more monotone preaching and now some ‘Big Church Men’ line the sides and give some authoritarian bottom-line messages. Another sits down below the preacher man at a little desk and opens what seems like a record-keeping book. A few of the congregation walk toward the man dressed in black with envelopes in their hands. Tithes? He has a pen in his hand and seems to check names off, I suspect. Can’t slither out of paying up here!

I take opportunity to slip out the side door before communion begins. The birds are singing. The sun is shining. Butterflies are flying around me. This is my church. I am too weary to go and find Russ at the huge ostentatious Catholic church so walk on to the Aquarium Café overlooking the Neiafu harbor. I’ll have a cold tonic water with lime and ice I think, to quench my thirst.

Voila! There is Russ in the Aquarium Café church, reading a Diving magazine and sipping on a cup of coffee--so much for his conversion. Our church is in nature, where we have a direct line to a personal God. Plus it is free. We relax, looking out on waters blue. Faintly in the distant background we hear voices in song--in 6-part harmony.

One of the largest buildings in Tonga is the Catholic church.

The Catholic convent in Neiafu.

After escaping the Methodist church, Russ finds solitude at the Aqurium café.

Sisia my treasure island: Lat 18 degrees.43’S ,Long 174 degrees03’W

Sisia my treasure island.

Where is it? It is a mere dot of an island in the south west of the Northern Vava'u group. It is somewhat oblong with a dense medley of trees: Palms, Banana, Pandana, and other gnarled, tall, old wide-spreading, leafy trees that provide a great amount of shade.

On the west side a swath of white coral beach graces its shore, stretching about ¾ of its length. On the east side its limestone edges dip down vertically and are undermined and etched away into razor sharp overhangs as they drop the last few feet into crystal clear waters. Holes in the limestone are sometimes formed by erosion and roots of trees dangle through them. The waves eat into the base relentlessly as they break across the ring of reef that surrounds Sisia and crash against the islet for time eternity.

We cannot wait to go ashore. Since being here on our previous voyage we see the coral has virtually grown across the little channel we used to swim through. Still, we find a way in through a sliver of an opening. I don my snorkel and fins and by the colour of the water—turquoise versus yellowish brown--I swim through the narrowest of narrows with small waves breaking on the reef.

Russ has managed to navigate the dinghy across somehow and he now guides me in the rest of the way as he stands waist deep in the water.

Once ashore I stand awhile in disbelief that I have, indeed, returned to my treasure island. Treasures of memories flood back through the gates of time. Zulu lies anchored in the exact place our previous boat, Toti, was anchored all those years gone by. Toti is derived from Amanzimtoti: Amanzi means waters and Toti means sweet-- Sweet Waters in Zulu. Amanzimtoti is the town I grew up in on the South Coast of Natal, South Africa.

Bastian, my late younger brother was on board Toti at the time, along with Ian my toddler son and young ye olde captain Russ. We had just finished a spaghetti lunch and were lazing in the cool of the awning to get relief from the heat.

I often thought how I would rescue Ian if he happened to fall over board. Should I do the breast stroke, backstroke, crawl, or dog paddle? Should I put him on my back or on my breast?

Then in my half-dream state I heard a splash and looking up saw Ian face down in the water. Adrenalin took over and with n’ere a thought of swimming stroke I was in the water and grabbed him, and before I could blink an eye I had Ian back on board with the help of Russ. I never underestimate the state of consciousness even in a half-sleep.

I used to swim ashore through the small channel in the reefs with Ian on my back and we would walk the little beach. We’d find a spot of shade and pick up shells we guessed might house hermit crabs. Ian had learned a trick from me. He would hold the shell up close and make a whistling sound as best he could and the hermit crab would peak out of its door. We would then laugh with glee.

One day, after just having arrived and hurriedly anchoring Toti we all four snorkeled on the northern side of Sisia over the coral heads. We had rounded the corner with Toti out of sight. Ian was on my back. A gentle rain came down after some time and I turned to swim back to the boat alone with him.

There was no boat! I screamed for Russ. He came swimming like a Barracuda. There far away was Toti. The anchor line somehow swparated. In Russ’ hurry to get in the water though, he had left a fishing line with a decent sized hook on it hanging over Toti’s sides. This hook had caught on some coral and held Toti fast. The angels were with us. A huge lesson learned. Check the anchor before leaving the boat.

It was here off Sisia that we stayed a whole month. Russ built a dinghy from plywood by hand. Our Metzler rubber dinghy was in a sad, perished state. Day after day he worked under the shade of a huge tree, while Ian and I whistled for hermit crabs and swam in pristine waters. We napped in the shade of the awning after nutritious meals. We whiled away our days here in Nirvana.

Tongans would come ashore in open boats and await the tide to recede. The women would then walk the reefs with long sticks in hand searching for octopus. These they hung on a makeshift rack in the sun to dry. They always worked in slow, quiet motion. The men would lie down with heads on a coconut for a cushion close to where Russ was building our dinghy and sleep and snore.

One day when a boat full of Tongans returned for their dried octopus they scooped Ian up with all their little children into the open boat. The children laughed at having a little blonde, blue-eyed Palangi aboard, and Ian was in his element. The sun began to make its journey low to the west and skies were apricot with palms on distant islets silhouetted.

They were about to leave, and pushed the boat out into the water. I went to fetch Ian and he did not want to come. He wanted to go with the Tongans to wherever they were going. I had to pry him loose with many tears spilling. My little island boy.

With Bananas completed and tested A-1 for rowing, we left for Ha’apai, the Central Tongan group, with two Peace Corps guys who were growing vanilla for the King. We towed Bananas behind Toti and after a long day’s sail dropped anchor.

That first late afternoon after spear fishing, one of the chaps tied Bananas to the stanchion. The next day Bananas was gone. He had not mastered the bowline knot and neither Russ nor I saw fit to check the knot. Gone--drifted away in the moonlight night. All that work. All those days under that tree and Russ’ masterpiece drifted away to sea.

A storm came up and the wind was pushing us onshore. The Peace Corps guys stayed below with Ian and Russ and I raised the sails, pulled up the anchor, and with no engine to help get us out of the maze of reefs, we sailed out of Ha’apai.

“I see breaking waves!” I kept telling Russ. No reply. I looked over the side and screamed out “I see the bottom!”

“Come about.” Russ called and we navigated our way through riddled reefs out to sea by the light of the moon! We did what we had to do. And we succeeded much to the relief of all.

The last flashback gets framed. Returning to Vava'u from Ha’apai those long years ago, we sailed past Sisia to pay respect to the place Bananas was built. The sun was setting. Tongan children were running the length of the uninhabited island, children of the octopus ‘fishermen’, waving firebrands into figure eights or zig zag patterns--free spirits at play dancing with the elements. Toti glided by, a silhouette.

All those memories are imprinted forever. I snap out of my reverie now and walk the narrow short beach from end to end. The sea breeze cools my face and blows my hair. I pick up hermit crab shells and whistle, and watch them come to their door, legs first. It startles me and I drop the shell. Some hermit crabs hear my footsteps and they would roll their little shell houses over and play dead, or insinuate a ‘not-at-home sign’. Smile. I pick up broken shells with a mind to make a necklace and then walk toward the entrance of an overgrown path.

A natural beach shrine: a coconut, two beach morning glories, and a shell.

There is a rudimentary lean to of palm leaves and a natural shrine: beach morning glories abloom besides a coconut. And naturally placed by the tide in front of these flowers is a shell. I walk on, looking for Russ. There he is with his wide-brimmed straw hat on and cut-off T-shirt, his signature look.

He looks up toward the blue skies, through the banana leaves and up toward the swaying palms at birds circling overhead. I cannot see anything so walk on. Then there in front of me is a burst of flickering butterfly wings. There are butterflies in yellow and white and orange and black with periwinkle dots. A whole island of them! I’m enchanted and stand dead still in my own world of butterflies. Vanessa, my daughter graduates today. Her name means butterfly. I feel her presence and love.

The shade trees as they stand today, under which Russ built our dinghy, Bananas, in 1980.

I draw myself away and walk the length of the beach again and find the big tree under which Russ built Bananas. I can hear the saw going and smell the glue and see the Tongans asleep on pillows of coconuts in my mind’s eye. I sit awhile looking back. I can hear leaves rustling now. Russ has returned to the shade of the tree.

“Let’s get going back to Zulu.” He says.

Yes it is time. The tide is in and waves are crashing ashore. Into our dinghy we get, find that narrow bridge of reef, slither over it as the waves crest and make for Zulu.

Once on board and down below, a single white butterfly awaits us. It circles my head and alights on a shell mobile. Is it a good omen for Vanessa—transformation, purity? Loved ones far removed from our paradise.

Facing west from Sisia, skies turn a fire apricot over Langito’o, and palms turn inky black like they did 30 years ago.

We sit now just the two of us having a sundowner, letting all those flashbacks of yesteryears wash over us as again the skies turn apricot and the islet, Langito’o, to the west becomes drenched in the firelight of yet another sun set, palms turning inky black.

The volcano, Late, stands still in the distance with Vaka’eitu and Ovaka its sentries. It seems to call reverie to order. The waters turn black. The sky turns indigo blue with shafts of red rose.

Venus comes on stage bringing us back to the present moment, and slowly the southern cross comes to light with the aid of the two pointer stars. The night is upon us. Sisia, my treasure island, sleeps silently on in time.

Enjoy the pictures of Sisia, along with more Flashbacks from 1980.

Pictures from our current visit to Sisisa--

An end piece of Sisia with the island of Euakafa in the background.

The reef in front of Sisia with Euakafa in the background.

The clear water, reefs, and white coral beach fringing Sisia, my treasure island.

Gorgeous clear water at the north west base of Sisia. See the limestone etched and eroded away by the waters of time.

Another shot of the northwest point of Sisia with reefs in pristine waters.

Waves breaking criss-cross off Sisia’s reef with scattered islets on the horizon, each with their own natural ‘boutique’ beaches and reefs that lurk below.

Russ maneuvers the dinghy ashore after coming over the reefs with it.

The beautiful beach of Sisia--quiet and desolate in its own sense.

Russ enters the path to the interior of the island, where I find the butterflies.

The edge of the shade tree where Russ built Bananas, our dinghy that floated away.

Banana and palm trees in Sisia’s interior.

Another shot of the ever setting son over Langito’o, from our anchorage off Sisia.

The sky turns indigo blue with shafts of red rose, from our anchorage off Sisia. We bid adieu to another day.

Flashbacks from 1980 when we visited Tonga on our boat Toti