--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Adams, John Q. collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 25 number: 10 published: 1922-08 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'John Q. Adams, "A Day on the Reef", *Improvement Era* 25, no. 10 (August 1922): 904–910.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera25010unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera25010unse start_page: 904 end_page: 910 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1922-08) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera25010unse publication_year: 1922 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1922, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # A Day on the Reef The molten lava, as it is shown sizzling into the sea, destroyed the reef and left the black precipice for the deep sea to s\pite fully thunder against. A Day on the Reef By John Q. Adams, President Samoan Mission Half envious of some person's good fortune, we read or listen to his narrative of a wonderful day in the forest, where, with rod and gun, he roamed in solitude and freedom, glimpsing Nature at her best. Or it may have been that, as a disciple of the Great-Out-of-Doors, he wended his way alone and afoot far into the brooding and uncommunicative expanses of the prairie world, where sweep the whining winds that race over the un- dulating billows of a great grass-clad ocean of green — the plains. We might thus glibly proceed from prairie to mountain glen or any one of the other remaining number of the vast domains of nature where her hold upon one is unchallenged and un- manned by man's artificialities. For a rather indescribable mixture of what has been al- ready suggested, we shall now extend the horizon of all such experiences away out into the heart of Oceania, and garner in a single day a wealth of experiences along an entirely original line. In a corner of the world where all things are so extra- A DAY ON THE REEF 905 ordinary and different, it shall presently develop from our narrative that in this one incidental adventure there is a staging set by a Master Hand. Eight strong, one brimming August morning, we set out valiantly on foot for the beach of the Blue Pacific, a possible four miles below us at the edge of a gently sloping shelf of dense tropical wilderness. I emphasize valiantly with a very definite object in view, for in contrast do we gain proper per- spective, and our return some hours later — but what of that? We shall presently see. There were four of us elders, Sister Adams and our seven-year-old Maurine, spare physically, but with nerve and vim to spare her elders, Gapelu (our faithful Man Friday), and Elisa, a most perfect type of island maiden- hood, plump, well-featured, enormously strong and swift in travel for such a body and in such a clime. Gapelu carried an assortment of fish-spears; short and strong, long and slender, single, barbed, and otherwise, each commensurate with its ex- pected victim, from minnow to lobster. He thoughtfully flung a half dozen baked bread fruit into a coconut-leaf basket for a lunch on the reef. I came perilously near forgetting to ad- vance the information as to our final destination! Protruding from each of our pockets were a pair of golden bananas plucked without due appreciation from one of the free bunches that usually adorn our back porch. Each of us also carried a pair of tortoise-rimmed goggles, very valuable adjuncts to sea-diving, as they are water-tight, and afford an unobstructed view under water. As for Elisa, she carried a change of shoes for us, for only the most useless pair need be sacrificed to the merciless grinding of the razor-sharp coral over which we were to step gingerly in this day's avocation. One day on the reef means one less pair of shoes ! Away we went, then (valiantly, you are to bear in mind), and directly after losing sight of pretty little Mapusaga village, we plunged into the somber shade and greenery of the wilderness as literally as we were subsequently to plunge into the ocean, effectually lost to view for an hour. That was unequivocally an hour of charm and interest and pleasure — no sun, no wind, no rain, just a world of moist shade through which we made our way with a comfort that out in the open would not have been. Mostly, the trail, a narrow, winding, root-laced and rock- strewn Samoan foot-path of bygone ages, was firm and dry to the step, but occasional stretches of mud gave us a change, for by slipping and stumbling and floundering and detouring, all the muscles were treated to a spell of duty, and were to figure in later in that fateful word valiantly. Top: A victim of the Reef. A German battleship wrecked off Apia. Bottom: A Samoan fisherman ready to shoot his dugout canoe over the reef without trepidation. lAft one spot the ground was dotted with the pretty, richly- brown globes of small size which, when gathered and dried, make the mild and delicately flavored native nutmeg. At an- other place crimson skinned balls as large as orange peaches lay here and there, one of the most attractively shaped and colored tree products imaginable, yet quite useless, as are the pods and seeds and various sized and shaped seed retainers that fall by the millions in every square mile of Samoan forest, the nutmeg and chestnut excepted. Within a mile of the coast we came abreast of a great heap of lava stones on each side of the trail. In the dim ages of Samoa's past, these may have been strongholds for one of her numerous groups of dark warriors, quite sufficient to have pro- tected its occupants from the ineffectual assaults of puny spears, slings or bows and arrows. Or may it have been that they were of more peaceful significance, perhaps reared as the depository of the royal remains of some departed ancient monarch? In either event, there they stand, semi-ruins, and with forest giants growing beside and up through them, forcing the loosely laid A DAY ON THE REEF 907 stones aside in irresistible growth. One was perhaps thirty feet square, half as high and solid throughout, its sides still holding shape. The spirit of Old Samoa broods strongly over the spot and we spake low and moved quietly as though savage voices audibly bade us do so. Not long thereafter we broke from the world of shade and stillness and solitude into the brightness of a beach and breaker scene where the ear and eye were startled in the glare and life and vivacity and animation that confronted us. The ocean is ever talkative, whether in the stern, fearsome language of storm and surf, or in the gentle wooing words that are barely audible on the low-sanded shores. To us she roared a welcome in her voice of breakers that fringed the reef a mile out, and we ac- cepted the invitation. We set a stake at the water's edge to ascer- tain the ebb or flow of the tide, and learned within a few mo- ments that it was receding, in fact, we emerged upon the scene at the exactly opportune time, for with the tide still running out and part of the distant reef blackly bare, we should reach it at the proper stage of the tide to find all things at their best. Our Man Friday secured a leaky, half-battered row boat for us and borrowed a bucket to bail out the water that seeped through in numerous crevices in its opening seams. We figured that we should be able to return the ocean out over the sides as rapidly as it sought entrance through the bottom! We all united in pulling the craft twenty feet down the sandy beach to water over a series of rollers made of coconut-leaf butts, and clamboring wetly over-side, we took seats with our feet in sev- eral inches of seepage and — away to the sea and the surf and the reef, still valiantly. There was just one four-foot wide break in the lava reef not far off shore where a boat may emerge from the still water within to the semi-agitated expanse that stretches a half mile wide and several miles long between this initial lava shelf and the coral reef at the water's edge where begins the dark blue depths of the sea. One oar was used as a rudder and the other two to paddle us along in irregular and jerkily spasmodic ap- plications. Thus rowing and alternately water-fighting we pro- ceeded. In spots the black lava rock came dangerously near the surface at such low tide. Twice we bumped full steam on into such an immovable mass and were ourselves moved rather precipitately from our seats. At other places the water was deep enough to take on a delicate green tint, but not too deep to permit a wonderful view of the rich outspread of coral formation on the white-sanded bottom. Eventually we pushed the bow upon the outer reef and 908 IMPROVEMENT ERA jumped overboard into the shallow water in eagerness to begin active operations. We were after shells, and you may as well know it now as ever, for we should soon have closed without having acquainted you with that very essential fact — the reason for our day on the reef! By now it was approaching noon, the heavens remained overcast sufficiently to preclude sunstroke, yet not enough to prevent something that in the end helped erase the word valiantly from the return vocabulary, and soon bowed backs indicated our intentions. The tide by now had reached its lowest ebb and yet unexpectedly the reef retained an unusual layer of water that churned foamily as it streaked swiftly across in intermittent racing surges. At intervals it became more sweeping as its movement acquired added acceleration from the surf that broke tumultuously but a few yards away. The reason for this extraordinary condition lay not far to seaward. The reef we traversed came to an abrupt halt not fifty yards to seaward, thence descending straight down into the deep blue of the ocean for perhaps thousands of feet. Against its face the inrushing swells struck thunderously and viciously and thou- sands of tons of blue water, moving in thus towards us as if to greedily lick us up at one fell gulp, came suddenly to grief on the stony bosom of our staunch protector, the reef. It appeared as a gigantic rolling flood of sapphire that came slipping in, ever mounting higher until its very height became its own downfall, for the water beneath, through friction with the level sea, failed to keep pace with the crest, and the latter, out-trav- eling its slower foundation, finally poured over its own face like a most magnificent scroll — a veritable waterfall a mile long and many feet high, its base whipped into milky froth by the terrible upheaval and smashing it received as it was pushed rapidly and irresistibly along by the immeasurable mass of water that backed it up, eager to take a hand in the fray. The climax of noise and uproar and pandemonium and spectacle occurred at the reef's edge where the mobile liquid mountain had to spend its frenzy in one last frantic effort which succeeded in sending a small portion of itself clear across the coral rampart we clung to, at times nearly sweeping us off our feet. Maurine went down once under just such circumstances, her lightness on foot ashore proving disadvantageous here. The ocean appeared to be more than ordinarily disturbed, as we could glimpse away out over the surf-ridge a series of white caps and wildly tossing waves as far as the sight could carry. It was grand — of the awe- some grandeur that man in all his perfection never imitates in small part. With such a setting, then, we spent our day on the reef, A DAY ON THE REEF 909 the search for shells but an integral part of the whole. Away down the coast we could make out the grim old Rainmaker standing guard at the mouth of Pago Pago harbor, and to the left up the rock-bound coast between Tafuga and Vaitogi the ocean swell pounded the black lava cliffs, sending shooting columns of white foamy water high in air from perpendicular spouting holes that ran down into the rock and connected up with cave-like holes worn inland by the restless seas of the ages. Up these sea-level caves the swells rushed, and finding no other outlet, and retreat impossible, the closely confined water sizzled up from the blow holes geyser-like. The shim- mering Nuuuli Lagoon stretched inland to the base of pointedly- peaked mountains, sharp as only lava formed mountains are sharp, their sky line notched irregularly and ridiculously as it were a gigantic green card board haggled by children's hands with mischievously used shears. Realizing our opportunity to be a precarious and fleeting one, we directed our efforts in an energetic way for a couple of hours towards overturning all movable coral rocks that littered the reef, beneath some finding as many as half a dozen coveted shells adhering tenaciously to the under surface, and again we fruitlessly turned a dozen large boulders without securing a single specimen. Those more porous and honeycombed with miniature chambers appeared to yield the best returns not only in shells but in other animal life of the reef, and by the way it teems with a multi-phased life all its own. Small eels snakily coiled within or slipped through such apertures and a couple of large crabs and a big lobster were taken by our two Samoans. They also gathered from the bottom a tough, miserable looking substance called "lole," which resembled nothing more closely than petrified pollywogs! It is eaten raw. Directly the sharp coral needles began puncturing the feet of those whose shoes were not sufficiently intact to withstand such an ordeal, and the rising tide announced itself now, as breaker after breaker sent across the reef an ominous warning in the form of a foamy, swirling sheet that brought our activities to a sudden end. Losing no time, we each retraced the course to the boat, bailed out its contents, and once more we were clumsily paddling back to shore, happy in the glorious staging of the day and in the successful accomplishment of our quest, a pail of shells. Why say more — but hold! That word valiantly must be woven out of the sequence as it was woven so appropriately into the preliminary. The four miles of down-slope had doubled into a wearisome eight of up-grade for our return and we 910 IMPROVEMENT ERA were not long in ascertaining that we had forgotten to allow for what little indistinct sunshine there had been during the day reflecting in added power from the water we had so joyously rowed over and waded in during the day. Part of us had gone bareheaded and others had donned the native skirt to save dry trousers for the trip back. To shorten up, then, by midnight, as each lay a-bed much after the fashion of Job of old listening to some of the others gingerly stalking about in the darkness in search of linament and other fire extinguishers, we may in mercy drop the curtain and affectionately bid adieu to the reef and our day spent thereon. And thus disappeared the word valiantly from our vocabulary ! Apia, Samoa I am a Tiller of the Soil I am a tiller of the soil And blest of all mankind, My life is spent in useful work, And joy in all, I find. I raise the humble, lowly spud, I raise him in the dirt, My soul grows in his company Though he sometimes soils my shirt. I am an able general Who leads a mighty force, And kindly Nature gives me troops From her unbounded source. She gives me sunlight, warm and bright, She gives me trickling streams, She gives the soil so rich and deep And work fulfils my dreams. No whistle bold calls me to work, I'm guided by the sun, And when he fails to give me light I know that I am done. I owe no man for daily bread But ever as I sow, I think of all the hungering And plant another row. I would not sit in office grand, Though marble were its floors; In factory, or shop, or bank, Though golden were their doors. I'm burned by sun and tanned by wind, I'm dirty but I'm free; I'm on the square with God and man, And that's enough for me. Shelley, Idaho Agnes Just Reid