It suffices to say that because this is one novel in a series, there may be things not understood unless one knows what has taken place in previous novels from this series. Here is a link to the first novel in the series: The Big Gamble in Paradise, paperback or Kindle.
Kuki In Palmerston
Trace saw no reason for a night watch, given the rain's intensity. They slept amid the storm; abating at times but returning as if timed to prevent a deep sleep. Eventually, he became accustomed to it and slept soundly.
Morning arrived. Trace woke to the sound of the rain on the roof and deck and Makani prepping breakfast. He looked out the porthole, and even the gloomy, rain-saturated day could not hide the beauty of Palmerston Island.
The rain was steady enough for nature's shower. Trace grabbed a bar of soap, a washcloth, and a towel. He climbed to the pilothouse. He stripped naked and walked out on the aft deck. After showering in the rain, he dried off and dressed. As he was about to go down the companionway, Sage came up. He had a bar of soap, a washcloth, and a towel.
“Last night, Makani told me I was beginning to ripen,” Trace said. “Ripen’s my word. I’m not sure what he said, but he had a terrible look on his face when he said it.”
“He told me the same thing. I didn’t want to ask him what the word was,” Sage said. “Kinda makes ya wonder who’s in charge.”
Later, they sat at the mess table and talked about the sleepless night as they ate.
“Is there really any need for us to go ashore?” Trace said.
“I can’t see any,” Sage said.
“Me too,” Makani said.
“We just need a couple of days to recharge our batteries,” Trace said. “It would be good to have at least one good night of sleep. You want to stay another night?”
Sage’s and Makani’s mouths were full of food, so they bobbed their heads affirmatively.
By noon, the rain came lighter. Trace lay on the bench in the pilothouse with his back propped against the back wall. He was reading a crime novel purchased for a nickel from a discount table at a bookstore in Suva. He laid it on his lap when he heard Makani come up the companionway.
“Good book?” Makani asked.
“Not really,” Trace said.
“Why read?” Makani asked.
“Well,” Trace said, “I’d kind of like to find out who killed Dame Winslow and made off with the family jewels.”
“Just go to last page,” Makani said. “It seem so simple.”
“Do you like fishing?” Trace asked.
“Oh yeah,” Makani said.
“Why?” Trace said.
“Like to eat fish, good,” Makani said.
“It takes time, right?” Trace asked.
“Sometimes much time,” Makani said.
“Why not just buy the fish?” Trace said. “You sometimes fish for hours before you catch a fish, right?”
“But fishing is good,” Makani said, “Good to look and follow. Toss spear is good. More than just catching fish. You sometimes in water, feel good. You look around, feel good. Sometime with friends, you talk, feel good.”
“That’s the way it is with a book,” Trace said. “It’s more than the ending—eating the fish; it’s hunting it down. Reading is like that.”
“But you say not good book,” Makani said.
“Did you come up here to spoil my reading,” Trace said, “or was there something important?”
“Now I don’t remember,” Makani said. “Very bad book.”
Trace dropped his head and slowly shook it from side to side.
“I make joke,” Makani said. “That book so bad, you no laugh anymore. I look out porthole see man come in camakau. Fat man, maybe head man.”
Trace tossed the book to his feet and stood. From the port side, a shirtless heavy man approached, paddling a camakau.
“Fetch a towel,” Trace said. “And you better make it a big one.”
Trace exited the pilot house and walked to the foredeck. He tossed a line to the man in the camakau.
Trace reached out to help the man.
“No, no,” he said. I’m a big man; I’ll pull you in.”
Although round, the man sprang on deck with the dexterity of someone younger and trimmer.
When on deck, Trace extended his hand. “My name is Trace Troy. This boat is The Tramp Islander. You are welcome aboard. I am the captain.”
The man’s meaty hand grasped Trace’s hand. “My name is Moe. I live here.”
“Moe, step inside,” Trace said and showed him the way to the pilothouse.
Makani came from below with a towel. He handed it to Trace and he handed it to Moe. He dried off.
“Appreciate that, very much,” Moe said.
“Let’s go below and have something to warm you up,” Trace said. “Whiskey?”
“Do you have beer?” Moe said.
“Plenty,” Trace said.
They climbed below and sat in the cushioned chairs on the opposite side of the mess. Makani brought two bottles of beer.
“Foster’s,” Moe said, “my favorite.”
They both took a swig.
“So,” Trace said, “you want to know what we are doing here. I have no problem with that. Somebody decides to park in front of my house and stay for a couple of days, I’d like to know too.”
“We get people all the time,” Moe said. “We don’t mind. We like visitors. Just don’t leave anything behind.”
“What about beer?” Trace smiled.
“There are exceptions,” Moe said.
Sage walked in holding a bottle of beer.
“Sage, this is Moe,” Trace said. “He’s the investigative welcoming committee, right?”
“I guess you’re right,” Moe said.
“Moe, this is Sage,” Trace said, “the best friend any man could have.”
Sage shook Moe’s hand and sat in a chair.
“Makani,” Trace said, “grab a beer and join us.”
Makani removed a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and sat in the salon. He was introduced to Moe, and a conversation between the four continued.
There was a second round along with much laughter.
Moe heaved the last swallow of beer from his bottle. “This has been good. I’m glad you stopped here. They rain will stop soon. Tomorrow, near sundown the island will have a kuki—we all eat together. Our children will dance for you, and the older ones will sing. Please come.”
“I will be there,” Trace said.
Sage and Makani accepted the invitation too.
The rain did stop. And the kuki was held. Children danced. Adults sang. Everyone laughed and ate. Near midnight, the crew of The Tramp Islander returned. They were tired. None undressed to go to bed. So tired, they spent another day anchored offshore.
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