Daughter of the Reef (27 page)

In response, she climbed up on the high side and perched there, peering uncertainly at the water rushing by below. “Come up,
tiare
,” he coaxed. “It is not as terrifying as it looks.”
 

If she refused, she thought he might swamp the boat just to spite her. With a sigh, she began to climb out on the narrow balance board, clutching the bamboo poles that ran along each side as tightly as she could, and trying not to look at the boiling wake below. The board seemed to sway, and she froze, breathing hard.
 

“Now turn yourself around,” he said, “and sit with your back to me.”

She peered up at him while spray dashed against her arms and face. “I think you are enjoying this,” she answered.

“I am,” he agreed, eyes sparkling. “Better turn around before you get washed away.”

The worst part was switching hands, since both wanted to retain their panicked grip on the bamboo poles. But despite the canoe's porpoising and the sheets of spray that drenched her, she managed to plant her rump on the board.
 

Rimapoa grasped her arm, pulling her backward so that she sat between his legs. “Lean against me. That way. Now we will see how fast our bird can fly!”
 

With their combined weight on the balance board, the canoe lessened its heel and the submerged outrigger float surfaced. Freed from the drag, the canoe bounded ahead. The water below became blurred streaks of white and blue. Rimapoa put his arm around her. He was wet and sticky with salt, but his skin was warm and the muscles beneath felt strong.
 

Gradually, Tepua's fear gave way to excitement, then exhilaration. Over the stern she saw the great emerald mass of Tahiti, its shores fringed by a curving line of breakers. Over the bow lay the oncoming new island, a wondrous panorama of mountain and shadow. From its heights fell silver ribbons of waterfalls that flashed in the sunlight.
 

A surge of joy made her tip her head back and laugh as Rimapoa had done. This was not frightening! This was wonderful! Never had she skimmed across the sea in a craft as light and swift as Rimapoa's. At any instant, she thought the canoe might leave the ocean and take flight into the sky.
 

And Rimapoa was master of this boat. Suddenly she felt a new respect for him. Out here, a man's ancestry counted for nothing. What mattered was knowledge, skill, and strength.
 

The wind blew harder and spray soaked her wrap. But the chill did not bother her, pressed as she was against his warm body, with his thighs straddling her hips. Beneath the rough cloth of his
maro
, she felt something swelling.
 

“Now there are three of us.” He laughed as his erection grew harder.

“Keep your attention on the boat!” she answered.

 

Late that night, she woke and felt the warmth of Rimapoa close beside her. Under moonlight she saw that his smile of contentment still lingered. “Pearl woman, you are wonderful,” she remembered him exclaiming. “Now you are indeed a woman.
My
woman.”
 

She had felt too lazy and comfortable then to dispute his claim. Even now, when her glow of pleasure had faded, she was willing to admit he might be right. He had found her on the beach—a wreck tossed up by the sea. He had taken her in and cared for her. Why shouldn't she be his?
 

Only one reason. The Arioi.

She frowned, recalling all that he had told her. When they came back to Tahiti, the fisherman would have to find a new home. After this journey, she and Rimapoa would be forced to part. She looked up at the palm trees that leaned out over the beach and tried to count how many days and nights they would have together. Not many. She must savor every one. For a long time she did not sleep.
 

 

Huahine, Porapora. The days and islands passed quickly. One morning, before dawn, the two left Maupiti behind them, heading due west toward their final destination.
 

“There is a small
motu
along the way,” he told her. “Not a comfortable place, but we can stop there.”
 

Tepua sensed that he wanted more of a challenge than easy hopping from one island to another. “I have paddled by night,” she reminded him, though she did not wish to remember her ordeal.
 

“You would not complain of the wet and cold?”

“No!”

“Good. Then we run straight for Fenua Ura.”

The sky had not yet brightened. Over the bow, she saw a few stars setting. She stared at them, trying to fix the cluster in her mind. If the journey continued all day and into the next night, she might have to steer while he slept.
 

Later that morning, as they sped across open water, she joined Rimapoa on the balance board. They made good speed, gliding over the swells, racing the dolphins. Sometimes they glimpsed flying fish leaping across the waves.
 

Sitting on the balance board, with her back against Rimapoa's warm chest, she recalled the excitement of their crossing to Eimeo. That first night away, and every night since then, she had embraced him willingly, even eagerly. She had begun to feel that no other life could please her as much as this.
 

Her resolve had not weakened. She would not give up the Arioi, and he knew that. But part of her would always be here, sailing between the islands with Rimapoa.

Late in the afternoon, Tepua curled up for a nap in the bottom of the outrigger canoe. She woke in darkness and glanced up at the star-jeweled sky. Rimapoa sat at the steering oar, seemingly content with his course. The star patterns did not look right to her. She shook the muzziness of sleep from her mind. No. She should not question his navigation. After all, he had taken them this far without mishap.
 

She gave him an affectionate embrace, then relieved him at the steering oar so that he could eat and drink. Suddenly she remembered something he had mentioned before they set out.
 

“We should be past the little
motu
by now,” she said. “The one you told me about. Did you see it?”
 

“No. I thought my course would bring us close.” He shrugged. “It is hard to see a low island.” He was trying to sound as though it didn't matter, but a certain tension in his voice betrayed his uncertainty.
 

Her sense that the canoe was off course grew stronger. She scanned the sky, remembering the patterns she had studied as they left Maupiti. The trio of stars that had been setting then had not yet come full circle, and she found them higher up the sky. Rimapoa's course was off. If they continued in this direction, they would miss Fenua Ura, the red-feather island, and be carried beyond into the unknown western sea.
 

She opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated. After seeing Rimapoa manage the craft so well, she was reluctant to doubt his steering. But she knew that he normally stayed within sight of a high island's peaks. She had even heard Hoihoi disparage his knowledge of way-finding by the stars.
 

She tightened her hand on the steering oar. If she questioned Rimapoa's course, he might be annoyed, but better that than being lost.
 

“I know where we are,
tiare
,” he said indulgently when she told him her concern. “You are right, we have gone a little south, but soon I will make my correction.”
 

The wind hissed against the sail, and phosphorescent waves rushed by the hull. Rimapoa kept casting anxious looks at the bowl of sky overhead. Did he really know where he was going? she asked herself. He had never before sailed these waters.
 

The night wore on as the canoe climbed the swells and slid down into the troughs. Tepua became stiff and cold, both with weariness and fear.
 

He has chosen the wrong star and I know the right one
, she thought furiously.
Why do I not insist?
“Perhaps we should stop,” she suggested.
 

He laughed, but it sounded forced. “Once you are on the ocean, there is no stopping,
tiare
. Even if I cast out a sea anchor, we will drift, and then we will have no idea where we are. It is better to sail on.”
 

“By the wrong guide star?” She took a breath. “Rimapoa, we are lost and you will not admit it.”

He argued, first gently, then more heatedly. As patient a man as he was on land, at sea he obviously resented having his judgment questioned by a woman.
 

“You may have sailed between atolls on your father's canoes,” he said angrily, “but that does not make you a master of the sea. I have spent my entire life on the ocean.”
 

“But not in these waters,” she retorted. “Throw away your seafarer's pride—or it will get us drowned.”

He fell silent, and for a time she heard only the wind and the slap of waves against the canoe. Tepua felt the steering oar in her hand. One push would swing the bow over to her star. As if he could read her thoughts, he came to the stern and took the oar from her. She resisted briefly, then stopped when her struggling threatened to capsize the canoe.
 

Rimapoa's voice was low and fierce in her ear. “You try that, woman, and I will tie you up with sennit and stow you with the coconuts!”
 

“I would rather jump out and swim to Fenua Ura. At least then I might get there.”

“Tell me why you are so certain.” His voice showed no softening, but his grip on her wrist eased.

She pointed to the cluster that was now heading down toward its pit beneath the horizon, and explained how she had sighted the same stars at dawn.
 

“I do not recognize that cluster of yours,” he said. After a few moments of study, he added, “And now I see why. There is a wanderer in with the other two.”
 

“Yet those stars move down like any others. And I know that wanderers follow the sun's track.”

He hung his head and gave a deep sigh. “Ay,” he said in a low voice. “They do.” Then he moved the oar, her hand under his, so that it seemed as if he had made the choice.
 

By dawn they had spotted no sign of land. Dolefully Rimapoa stared out at the empty horizon. Tepua bit her lip. Perhaps her direction change had come too late. Perhaps she had even made things worse.
 

Rimapoa sighed. “It is never easy to find a low island that is far from others. That is one reason few people ever reach Fenua Ura.”
 

Tepua stared into the bilges of the canoe. She knew the terrors of being lost on the ocean. She gripped the outrigger's splashboard tightly, painfully, as the memories returned. “Then we have to turn back, and sail toward the dawn,” she said mournfully.
 

She felt Rimapoa's hand on her shoulder and looked up into his troubled face. “No,
tiare
,” he said. “If we are lost now, we have little hope of finding Maupiti on the way back. We may even miss Porapora.”
 

“It is better to try—”

“Yes. We must try something, but I am not giving up yet. If I fail now, there is nothing for me back in Tahiti. We must find our bird island, using every skill we have.” His voice took a humbler tone. “Your people are always sailing between atolls. If there is anything you learned from your canoe masters, I will listen.”
 

Tepua tried to remember. Once she had met a young navigator who was studying his father's art. She had chatted with him a long time, always under Bone-needle's watchful gaze. “I have heard that clouds over an atoll sometimes reflect the color of the lagoon,” Tepua said. “You may also see palm leaves and bits of bark adrift on the waves.”
 

Rimapoa, in turn, told her to watch the flight of any birds that might pass; some might be heading for land. The height and direction of waves offered other clues, he said, but those were more difficult to follow.
 

Tepua searched the sky until her eyes ached from glare. She saw nothing of interest, except perhaps a patch of low cloud that seemed faintly tinged with aquamarine. When Rimapoa thought he also saw a patch of color, he brought the outrigger about. To rest her eyes, Tepua gazed down at the dark water.
 

Soon she noticed Rimapoa also staring down, leaning out of the canoe, studying ripples in the calm morning sea. She watched his eyes widen, his brows rise. He muttered something.
 

“What is it?” she asked.

“I think we may be downwind of land,” he said. “Look how the water is so calm here. An island we cannot see must be breaking the force of the waves.” He leaned so far over the canoe's side that Tepua grabbed the back of his loincloth for fear he would tumble in. “Two sets of wave crests are crossing each other. I have only noticed that in the lee of an island.”
 

“So perhaps my steering saved us after all,” Tepua lifted her chin.

“We will know soon,” Rimapoa answered, his voice rising with hope. He took the steering oar again and asked her to handle the sail. Soon they were beating upwind into a light breeze. Tepua spotted a raft of debris in the water. It was a soggy tangle of rotting leaves and wood, but its presence meant that land might be near.
 

Then she caught sight of a distant line of breakers, plumes of white water shooting up as the sea crashed against a hidden reef. A flock of birds wheeled overhead. And finally she caught a glimpse of palm trees, crowns just visible on the horizon. A coral island!
 

She watched intently as another small
motu
came into view, land jutting darkly just above the sea. The brilliant blue of a lagoon shimmered through the opening between the two islands. She almost felt that she was coming home.