Thursday, 16 March 2023 // Joe's Hill
kamwaimwai: Toddy [sap milked from the coconut spathe, at the top of the tree] that has been distilled into a syrup, much like honey. Used as a sweetener. Very tasty.
Just now am given a bottle by next door neighbor, Angus Tiaon, 29-year-old dentist to all of the Line Islands. Wife: Tebwebweia; daughter Booto, 9; son Angus Jr (called “Son!”), age 3 and the definition of innocent misbehavior. The kid walks into my place, just walks in, puts his week old puppy on my lap, then on the sofa, where it starts to piddle. Thanks, son.
8:23 AM
London
The boat was not sailing toward a destination. No, the Ysabel May she was stationary, and instead the earth was slowly rotating to bring the island to the vessel, to her. Christmas was coming, as inevitable as that date on the calendar. The relentless waves, the relentless winds, the relentless days that pass and pass. The world turning. His world turning. Ysabel May, axis mundi. Christmas was coming for Joe, that was certain. What gifts were in store? What gifts did he deserve? He was leaving a world behind. He was hopeful.
The sun broke over the black blue ocean, beaconing a wide fan of light from the horizon, the white silver rays upon the surface indicating the weather that lay ahead.
Greig. That Scotsman would pinch a penny till it begged f’ mercy. The rich stay rich by not givin their money away.
1:05 pm
probably 85-86°
25.7 km south east of Main Camp
I found the perfect beach.
White sand as pristine as it gets, compared to the endless gray coral of the rest of the Bay of Wrecks, on the treacherous windward, eastern side of the island. A copse of a dozen Heliotrope trees provide rare shade. A thin blanket of dried leaves at their feet. The water, turquoise against a hard, reddish-brown coral bottom. Sandy enough to wade in, without breaking a foot or an ankle on the coral.
Still, the water is strong, the waves incessant, and they start to pull you back out. But there’s no one out here, and I’ve just been rained upon while riding, so I strip down and wade in. Absolute solitude.
2:26 pm
Sitting at the foot of Joe’s hill on the Windward side, as I need the breeze, because on top of the dunes it’s too hot. If you were on Cape Cod, you wouldn’t think twice about these dunes. But here they are the highest point on the island, and therefore special. Where there is not sand, the dunes are covered in thick saltbush, which one must bushwhack through. There is no path. Well, there is one, but I only discover it later, as it is further up the road.
Once crested, and on the downward slope, the sand leads to large patches of what seem to be gray stone, but in fact, it’s grayed coral the large, weathered by the sun over millennia. The hunks of dark coral are broken up by the sporadic brightness of a spent giant clam, a white-cream.
As one heads to the water’s edge, beyond the ten feet of gray, the coral is tan, beige, until the water’s edge.
There, the dry meets the wet, and the waves surge onto the beach of coral. Warm water, the sound is of 100 sets of billiards being racked and crackling and rackling, as the water tumbles the coral over and over and over for hundreds, and thousands of years.
The trade winds from the east are constant, incessant. The winds blow spray off the tops of the waves, each three, four feet tall, turquoise and teal and royal and navy and always magnificent.
I am certain Joe did as I did, picking up coral and shells, purple and brown and white, from amongst the gray and beige. And then the rare speckled shells, black and white and beautiful, and then the one lone white and yellow one. It’s beautiful. The yellow and white shell is the punctuation at the end of my shore walk and tells me it’s time to stop. Time to sit and write, and not dictate, and then to pack up and head back on my motorcycle as I see rain on the horizon and it is coming my way.
Angus Tiaon later gave me this shirt, as I made such a fuss over loving it. Washed it, actually IRONED it, and then folded it neatly. He also cleaned my teeth for free, as he’s THE dentist for the Line Island. Cost: free, because healthcare is FREE in Kiribati.
Booto Tiaon, age 9.
Angus Tiaon, Jr. (called “Son!”), age 3, and pup
Ysabel May, is seen on the postage stamp Fr. Emmanuel Rougier designed for profit, for use on “his” island. Needless to say, other governments did not endorse it.
The Ysabel May, in San Francisco, circa 1916. Built in Lunenberg, Nova Scotia, Canada, Rougier found the boat while in San Francisco, in search of a yacht for shipping and transportation. In Vancouver at the time, he traveled there, had the boat fitted out for custom bedrooms, and then had a load of redwood readied. Redwood is prized in the Pacific — and elsewhere — as it stands up to water and is all but indestructible.
Riding south along the Bay of Wrecks, miles and miles of ancient, greyed coral, the size of pie plates, hubcaps, and doorstops, I spotted the rare hillock of sand, atop of which was a copse of a dozen heliotrope trees. Such a rare sight, I rightfully imagined there would be a trail thru the thick salt bush. Once there, I discovered the Perfect Beach.
Perfect Beach. Only to my later delight did I discover my error in naming this beach, for I found other beaches — off Poland — far superior in every way (but for shade).