Graphics of tropic splendor were easy to bypass. It was the menu that grabbed me. Up until then, I'd been able to resist Noel's online invitation to return and stay awhile. I could virtually taste the Kokoda /kokonda/. A vision of fresh raw fish marinated in lemon juice and coconut milk brought back memories not quite so elegant but no less delectable considering the circumstances. Then again perhaps you had to have been there.
Before dawn,we'd hooked a tuna. The moment we managed to skid the sixty pounder over the stern, Noel snicked off a few filets, snug up to the dorsal fin. Both of our guests, one a New York banker and the other a retired diplomat, accepted. At the time, Noel Douglas was managing Laucala Island, for Malcolm Forbes and was doing his best to anticipate the desires of Malcolm's guests.
Our mission, on behalf of Malcolm, Editor-in- Chief, was to cater to the New York banker and the retired diplomat and their wives.
"Give them a vacation, they'll never forget." Laucala
Our initial encounter, the previous afternoon, had contained all the ear-markings of disaster writ large. As the appointed hour drew near, Noel and I innocently set off for Matei at the northern tip of Taveuni eight miles away. We were a bit miffed because our party could have flown directly into Laucala /lauthala /. Malcolm had not long before spent a bundle putting in an airstrip. It wasn't going to be that simple. It never is.
At the halfway mark, we chugged past Matangi. "My island's unique and that's the type of resort, I'm going to build there," said Noel, "just as soon as certain family matters are settled."
Don't go there,I admonished myself, remembering an occasion when Noel had wisely suggested that we go for "a stroll on the beach until the air has cleared." It had something to do with an article I'd written on Fiji, which got better publicity than I had anticipated and Noel had wished for.
"Whatever!" said I, not giving the matter another thought.
Witnessing a Britten Norman Islander turning final, we hove to and were about to set anchor about fifty yards off the Taveuni shore when a capricious swell rolled ashore washing palm fronds and other detritus from the sea up onto up onto Colonel Kolb's pristine beach. In haste we revised our plans.
Noel elected to stay with the boat lest she drag anchor. My job was to pole the punt ashore. Our guests, accompanied by six huge well-matched pieces of Vuitton luggage, and a struggling taxi driver, straggled down to the beach. They had chosen an inopportune moment to show up. By coincidence, I had chosen the same moment to inelegantly enter the water. The punt pole broke.
| Here's the follow-up discussion on this article: | View all related messages |
For a complete listing of article comments, questions, and other discussions related to Larry Low's South Pacific Islands topic, please visit the Discussions page.