Evening star., 1938-01-30
Surf Treacher0us
In South Seas

STEAMERS which call at outlying
islands Of the South Seas often
find it impossible to land passengers
through the gigantic waves which
break almost constantly on their
shores. In this case, particularly in
the Samoan group. the natives come
out in their long rowing canoes to take
ashore perhaps single passenger.
These boats, called fautais. have to
be particularly well built to withstand
the racking strain Of running the surf.
They are q cross between the now ex-
tinct Polynesian war canoe and our
own New Bedford whaleboats. OBJ
servant natives saw the latter years
back and in their building combined
the best points of both models.
In the bow Of the 50-foot boat q
brown-skinned drummer booms saw
age time on an empty 5-gallon oil
drum, while 20 rowers pull the slim
boat over the water with all the skill
of a racing crew. A huge figure.
Tulife. the village headman, to whom
you are later introduced, grasps a gi-
gantic 20-foot steering oar at the
stern and brings the boat alongside
the steamer in an easy swing. Bag
gage is lowered, you follow and soon
find yourself sitting in the stern sheets
almost between the chiefs big, brown
feet.
Surf never looks bad from seaward,
because the hollow undersides Of the
breakers are not visible. But as you
coast in toward the white sand and
see the curling tops Of the waves and
hear their thunder on the beach you
realize what the boat and crew are up
against.
These Samoens handle their boats
much the same as Hawaiians do
their surfboards In the smaller break
ers off their islands. That is, they
pick good sea, then pull like mad to
keep on the shoreward side Of its
crest. where the downhill slide Of the
boat gives greater velocity and the
water OF the wave provides added
depth to cover the jagged coral heads
which lie just beneath the surf
As the giant swell carries the racing
boat along. the inshore combers are
clearly visible. Close in. the backwash
from every wave leaves the wicked
coral bare, but next minute q 15-foot
wave thunders in and covers 1t.
The noise Of the surf Is deafening
as it booms on the beach Seabirds
scream from the high cliffs, which
seem almost overhead. Another giant
wave lifts the boat, and looking astern,
you see long. swelling sea building
up. It is ahead Of this that the boat
must be kept. or be swamped.
If we turn over" Talife shouts in
gutteral English, swim to sea. Never
to shore, or coral cut you'll"
As you sink in the hollow of the
following sea, the shout "Allo. allo,
allo!" rings out above the roar Of the
surf. But the crew needs no such
urging. Twenty pairs of broad brown
shoulders heave in the perfect unison
Of a racing stroke, and the long boat
jumps ahead.
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enormous swell astern from slowly
creeping up! It's towering crest is a
smother of white as you race for the
sand, but perfect steering keeps the
bow pointed straight ahead. Until,
with the hollow of the wave almost
over the stern. it starts to sheer on
to one side in sickening sort of way.
With gigantic effort, Tulife heaves
the heavy steering oar. As he puts
the full strength of his broad back
into it, the stout handle bends like q
bow, but the stern is lifted back to q
safe position. The crew pulls its
hardest. even In the maelstrom of n.y.
ing foam which sweeps by the sides
like soapsuds. Another second. per-
haps less, and as the hull CRATES with
a shudder on the beach, 20 men are
over the sides like dark streaks. Oars
are pitched in every direction as they
grasp the sides of the light hull and.
with q mighty heave. run it bodily up
on the sand in less time than It takes
to read this.
Wiping perspiration from your brow,