PoraBora

Chapter Eight

The first storm found the fleet as a wave of humidity. The clouds and turbulent seas followed a few hours later, tossing the ship around as Akoni stayed still in his hammock. Only when the bow dove or the stern was tossed did he bounce around like the last bean in a can and his shoulder strike the metal shelf that was supposed to be a desk.

That was all his cabin was afforded.

It was just as well anything with a pointed end would have been taken from him, because he might not have survived the storm.

Overall, the fleets handled it well. Warriors went below deck. Chief Makaia maintained the tiller. The fins went up and nothing went overboard. Water splashed down the hatch and metal steps, but before it could pool, buckets had it out the windows. The rain made more of a chore of it, but Akoni and his men avoided the work in their rooms.

The second storm was worse. A whitetip's propeller was damaged. One man went over. A line was thrown after him, but no one grabbed it. Instructions were flashed and repeated on every height of every swell, to be sure they were seen.

Any response was lost behind the waves.

Akoni did not take pleasure in thinking that a man had perished when he learned it was not Makaia. Apparently, he had been the one to throw the line, send the message, and be pulled by his ankles to prevent him from diving off to help. How much of it had actually happened was the secret of the crew.

When Akoni surfaced again, the mood aboard the deck hadn't changed. A reminder that a heroic chief counted for more than a fallen comrade. The warriors chanted, slamming their spears rhythmically onto the deck. It was what drew Akoni out of his hammock and onto the surface. Fiendish noise. The deck might have been laid with cocowood boards, but the hulls were echo chambers of steel.

Akoni followed the rail to the bow, to avoid Makaia at the stern, mostly, and to smell the roasting pig. When Akoni had been in the navy, his ships had put their kitchens in the hulls so that the birds weren't attracted by the wafting scent of crinkling taro leaves and the sizzling oils of fish. Birds seemed to follow anyway.

Makaia's fleet had a flock along for the ride, perhaps mistaking them for fishing vessels or hoping another man would be tossed overboard to be shredded into pieces small enough to swallow for mako sharks. Or maybe they thought they would lead them to a frenzy of food where the seas boiled and enormous tuna balled at the surface.

Truthfully, it was all they had seen of living things in the last couple of days. A sheen of oil peeled on the surface of the ocean, reflecting seven colors from one. It meant they had a ways to go to catch up if it had spread so thinly. Brown would have been a better sign. Black, and they would see the god breach.

Akoni saw nothing of fish schools or dolphins through it as he peered over the railing. Nothing floated by, which probably meant it was all floating onto nearby beaches, taken by currents and winds. An unfathomable waste of oil. Your great gift has cost us both, Keasau, he thought.

Usually leaving the rig meant fresh air. His lungs had no such respite now.

"It is hard to believe how much there is," said Tua, joining him. They both wore their rig jackets, thick and dark and more a part of their identity than functional off the rig. It hid tattoos and would have hidden their weapons now that they were dry.

"The soak ships made it through the storm," Tua almost had to shout as the chant drilled steadily into Akoni's headache. "And will soon head back to unload."

"Have them head forward," Akoni said. "Sell it directly at the nearest ports. We'll want them to stick close."

"I'll send the message along."