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nydus/Sailing Alone Around the WorldPublic

A sailor gives his account how he completed the first solo sailing voyage around the world.

Page 114 of 211
Table of Contents

XII

The novelist’s stepson, Mr. Lloyd Osbourne, walked through the Vailima mansion with me and bade me write my letters at the old desk. I thought it would be presumptuous to do that; it was sufficient for me to enter the hall on the floor of which the “Writer of Tales,” according to the Samoan custom, was wont to sit.

Coming through the main street of Apia one day, with my hosts, all bound for the Spray , Mrs. Stevenson on horseback, I walking by her side, and Mr. and Mrs. Osbourne close in our wake on bicycles, at a sudden turn in the road we found ourselves mixed with a remarkable native procession, with a somewhat primitive band of music, in front of us, while behind was a festival or a funeral, we could not tell which. Several of the stoutest men carried bales and bundles on poles. Some were evidently bales of tapa-cloth. The burden of one set of poles, heavier than the rest, however, was not so easily made out. My curiosity was whetted to know whether it was a roast pig or something of a gruesome nature, and I inquired about it. “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Stevenson, “whether this is a wedding or a funeral. Whatever it is, though, captain, our place seems to be at the head of it.”

The Spray being in the stream, we boarded her from the beach abreast, in the little razeed Gloucester dory, which had been painted a smart green. Our combined weight loaded it gunwale to the water, and I was obliged to steer with great care to avoid swamping. The adventure pleased Mrs. Stevenson greatly, and as we paddled along she sang, “They went to sea in a pea-green boat.” I could understand her saying of her husband and herself, “Our tastes were similar.”

As I sailed farther from the center of civilization I heard less and less of what would and what would not pay. Mrs. Stevenson, in speaking of my voyage, did not once ask me what I would make out of it. When I came to a Samoan village, the chief did not ask the price of gin, or say, “How much will you pay for roast pig?” but, “Dollar, dollar,” said he; “white man know only dollar.”

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