Sili

Eight hours. Lurching into the dark, a rusting mini-tanker called M.V.Sili carries passengers and cargo to Ofu. Consciousness comes and goes like the waves crashing over the railing, soaking Bobby and me, then sloshing across the floor, boxes and shoes swirling around underneath the steel bench where I attempt to sleep, cushioned by a few chipping layers of paint. Everything saran-wrapped or else. Large palettes hydroplaning. Unlatched metal gates swinging open and clanging shut. Deafening chug and choking odor of diesel engine. I get up to have a look, stumbling to my feet, slipping on wet and gyroscoping floor. Grasp for the railing, look out into blackness pierced only a few meters by floodlight. Through stinging raindrops I see swells so big they seem almost to swallow the boat and spit it back out with each pass. I bumble back to my bench, curl up as tight as I can, and wait. Am I asleep? How did Polynesians do it in canoes?

The darkness gives way ever so slightly to cloudy steel gray. I head for the bow. Seasickness, miraculously avoided until now, creeps into my belly. A hunk of land growing on the horizon. Noddies look as tiny and fragile as butterflies flitting between the swells. Boobies careening. Dolphins surfacing beneath the bow. A palm-studded cove invites us to dock. Tinny sounds of K-Ci and Jojo's All My Life beam from a teenager's pocket. Unrecognizable dawn chorus, tempered by rooster cries, wafts down from a looming slope. Home for the next 4 months.