The show began with newsreels, all of which had long since been withdrawn from regular circulation. Scenes of the fighting in Korea were succeeded by a documentary of ancient vintage about the armistice negotiations—a development which obviously pleased the audience immensely. The sound track, which was in French, alternately bellowed or broke down altogether but it hardly mattered as no one was listening. Action was what these people liked and when there was no action, they called back and forth, made comments at top voice, or bounced the babies. Every horse that failed to clear a barrier, every bomb that blasted a house into splinters, every soldier who fell in battle was greeted with much clapping and with screams of delight and appreciation.
The feature itself had enough action to please even the most critical, but the dialogue was unintelligible, having been dubbed in in French. This was of no consequence, however, as the sound track was considerately turned down to a murmur so that a running translation and commentary on the development could be shouted out in Tahitian by the manager as the movie progressed.
At the end of the feature it was announced that it would be run again immediately, at no extra charge. This was our cue and, bowing politely, we turned our seats—and the babies—over to the women and made our way outside.
Here we discovered that not all the village had been inside after all. In the dooryard of packed earth a number of vendors had set up tables and were selling food and drink. A circle of men played cards around a lantern in one corner while a group of women in another part of the yard gossiped, nursed their babies, or gave casual comfort or an absentminded slap to various little ones who romped about them in the dirt. Every once in a while a young couple would come out of the theater, hand in hand, and stroll off into the shadows, or someone would leave the movie long enough to shove a fussy baby into the arms of someone outside. Although it was after eleven when we walked back to the boat, no one else in Haapu seemed in the least prepared to call it a night.
The next morning we left Haapu, stopping at Fare only long enough to pick up a few loaves of bread and say hello to Buz and June Champion, fellow yachtsmen who had just arrived on Little Bear. Then we took our departure for Raïatéa, the next island to the west, which beckoned to us across some 20 miles of intervening ocean.
It was an easy half-day trip and by early afternoon we were tied up at the main dock of Uturoa, capital of the “Islands Under the Wind.” It didn’t take long for word of our arrival to get around and, as he has done for yachts before us and, no doubt, since, Charles Brotherson turned up promptly to take us in tow and make our brief stay in Raïatéa a pleasant one. His cordial friendliness lengthened our one-day stopover into four, climaxed by an evening of mutual cordiality during which we gave a showing of our slides and a large and appreciative crowd in Uturoa reciprocated with a program of dances and ended by presenting us with a slit drum belonging to the official Uturoa band, as evidenced by the initial “U” carved on it. Another souvenir that money couldn’t buy!
We did not take the Phoenix to Tahaa, the other island enclosed with Raïatéa in a single fringing reef, but we did spend an entire day going around Tahaa on the weekly “mail” boat, an eye-opening experience. In addition to a few letters, the launch carried meat (which dangled in bloody chunks from the overhead beams during transit), sacks of kapok, inner-spring mattresses, cases of canned goods, people—and for a good part of the trip—two horses. The horses were got aboard after much difficulty and tethered in the cabin with the passengers. When their port of debarkation was reached they were off-loaded by being goaded over the side and left to swim ashore, where they were promptly lassoed.
The last island on our passage through the Societies was Bora Bora, another half-day’s sail from Raïatéa. Throughout the islands we had heard much of Bora Bora—and little of it good. The natives, we were told, had been spoiled by the Americans during the war. They were greedy and insolent, out for all they could get. Moreover, many warned us that we would not even be able to get bread on Bora Bora—or fresh water!
We were already learning that it is not wise or fair to form judgments in advance so, in spite of Charles Brotherson’s dire predictions—and his tempting offers of expeditions to fabulous marae on the far side of Raïatéa if we would only remain a few more days—we decided we must push on.
With Jessica very proudly manning the tiller, we edged cautiously out Paipai Pass through the Tahaa reef. Bora Bora, its distinctive rocky pinnacles rising through the early-morning mists, could be seen to the west, its distinctive profile like a giant molar making a sharp break in the horizon. As we sailed nearer we began to understand why many have called this island the loveliest in the South Pacific. Green, precipitous, cloud-capped, it beckons the seafarer from afar and its beauty only increases as one draws closer to where the tumbling line of crashing surf on the reef divides the deep-sea indigo from the clear turquoise of the shallower lagoon. Along the shore, eternal symbol of the tropic isle, we could see a fringe of coconut palms.