It rained while we were at lunch, and it leaked.
The headman looked up and shook his head. “Since the army left, it's pretty hard to get Standard Oil cans.”
His daughter grinned. “That's the trouble with a civilized war. They build you up to expect solid comforts like Kleenex and canned pork and beans and cold cream and girdles, and then they finish their old war and leave us here to go back to banana-leaf underwear and fish bones in our hair.”
The headman shook his head. “Just because you've been educated, don't mock our ways.”
We ate what they call fish sticks, or i'a. The fish are cleaned and then wrapped in cornhusks and tied up tightly with string. They are first peppered and salted. A large pot of water is brought to a boil, the fish are suspended over the water without touching it, the pot is covered, and there they steam and cook for half an hour. When done, the husks are full of well-cooked fish and sauce and to this are added yams dipped in the fish sauce. Mike ate three packages and had to be stopped from eating the husks.
We spent the evening listening to Ali play his record collection and lament his stock of Rodgers and Hammerstein.
In the morning we were back at the diving ground, and Mike got the idea of going down in an old diving suit left on the island and letting me take pictures of him spearing fish.
I didn't like the looks of the diving suit, but Mike was game, and as I was happy not to be asked to take the dive, I agreed.
We got Mike into the patched canvas suit and explained to the boys how to keep the air pump going. Mike opened the little glass window in the battered brass head of the suit.
“Let's get the signals right. One pull, okay. Two pulls, more air. Three pulls haul, get me the hell up.”
“Understand?” I said to the native who owned the suit.
“Sure, kid.”
Mike asked, “What's two pulls?”
“Ding dong,” said the native.
“The trolley song,” said Mike. “No, two pulls means more air. Got it?”
“Free air, you said it, boy,” said the native.
I asked, “Where did you learn English?”
“P. G. Wodehouse book, headman's daughter she lend him, hot stuff, oh you kid.”
“You bet,” said Mike. “Keep an eye on me, chum. I have an idea this character thinks human life is some lark.”
Mike closed his little window, the air bubbled in and out, and he sank slowly, a fish spear in his hand. It took him a long time to reach bottom, then he waved and did a slow walk, like a ballet step, and lunged at a fish. He missed, and the natives laughed, and I had to poke them to get them pumping air again.
A big fish passed; Mike sideswiped it, and it pulled him off his feet. He took a head-over-heels fall, very slow, and went over and over.
When he got up again, I could see him gesturing with a closed fist and stamping around, but the fish and spear were gone for good.
I gave the signal to pull him in, and he came up slowly—I didn' want a case of bends on my hands. I didn't know a damn thing you could do for bends in the middle of an ocean island. We got Mike's little window open in the brass head. He had turned a nice shade of blue and was breathing bard. The suit had leaked and water was dripping over his face.
“How'd I do?” he asked.
“Well, we didn't get any shorts of you spearing a fish.”
“Did you see the one that got away? Musta been twenty feet long.”
The native who owned the suit shook his head. “Three feet most like, maybe.”
“Pulled like a wild bull.”
“You owe ten dollars for spear.”
“Ten bucks!”
“Sure, that no native spear. I order him from Sears Roebuck … steel shaft, tempered head. Best.”
Mike scowled. “You can say what you want, but there ain't no simple children of nature, and maybe never was. Ten bucks!”
“Ten dollars,” the native repeated.
We got to Ali's, and he said a steamer was standing off the next island and would pick us up, the radio had said, if we got there before morning.
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