Red Beard and the Bag of Pearls

Log entry, the catch-scalet queen, Philip Connie Master. Position, 4 degrees 12 minutes south, 171 degrees 35 minutes west. Wind light, sky fair. Remarks, left-hall island, Phoenix group after involvement in tribal beliefs. Reason for involvement, red beard and the bag of pearls.

It was a brilliant sun-washed afternoon that the puff of cumulus on the horizon ahead slowly raised to show beneath it an indistinct smudge. It darkened as we moved toward it, took on a definite palm-toughed outline, and finally materialized as the four-mile length of Hull Island.

It's flat silhouette is broken at its western end by a grove of 80-foot palms, and it's set against a backdrop of water and sky and never-ending summer. Gallagher approached me at the wheel as we stood in toward our passage.

It was resplendent in a newly grown burning red beard that shone in the sunlight. Hey, Boba Rosa! Huh? If you can make yourself hurt through that eight-bell shadow, douse the sails. We'll go in on to power.

Oh, yeah, sir. And your jealousy does not throw me. Hey, buddy, take it in for a little sake! We slipped through the passage into the quiet lagoon water, and headed toward the small pier that served the copra station of Harris Fenrich, The man who was to receive the cargo of supplies we had aboard.

The Scarlet Queen had company in the un-kempt scooner ransomed from Honolulu that was anchored just off the pier. We dropped our hook next to her, and in the quiet after we were secure, I heard for the first time the muffled drop of drums from the island.

And I noticed that the man who walked down the pier taught us tried to rifle. I'm glad you finally got here, Captain Tarny. Are you Fenric? No. He's over the cottage. I'm really proud of Captain of the Scuny.