The PT-109 is an open-air affair attached to a two-story home that operates as a lodge for divers. Danny’s dive boats moor just outside, and his shop is just across the street. If you want to eat there, you need to call ahead — it is open only when there are customers, and since the coup, that’s rare.
In general, Gizo is unspoiled by the trappings of capitalism. As a tourist spot, it would have probably dropped off the map save for a few important items. The first is the water — it is a wonderland of undersea beauty. Corals of all types, fish of so many colors that you’d need a prism to duplicate the beauty, temperatures that are perfect.
The second is the people — the Solomon Islanders are some of the friendliest you could ever encounter. Eternally patient, always smiling, they make you feel welcome. With the economy on the skids, the locals make their way as best they can, but times are tough right now. I can only hope it improves soon. The island has a lot going for it.
Gizo Island and these people would be our home for the next two weeks.
Dirk and I had decided that our best course of action was to see if we could first locate the wreckage that had been reported by Reg Evans on the reef off Nauru Island. Our vessel for the search would be one of Danny’s dive boats. The boats are narrow-beam affairs with a PVC tube canopy over the top and twin benches along each side, with holes to place tanks. Approximately twenty feet in length and powered by single or twin outboard motors, they are perfect for small diving groups but a little too exposed to the weather for search operations. Danny supplied a folding wooden chair that fit amidships, and we sat the large plastic tub in front. On the tub we placed the gradiometer, which we took turns operating. For navigation we had a handheld GPS.
The setup was as far removed from the extravagant search boats you see on the Discovery Channel as we were from a Hard Rock Cafe. This search was on the low end of the high-tech scale. The first few days, the winds and currents were favorable, and we were able to work along the surf line just off the ledge of coral off Nauru Island. Other than a single target of promise, the area under the water was bare of magnetics. The operation went like this: In the morning we would eat breakfast at the Gizo Hotel. This consisted of toast, a few slices of mango or pineapple, and maybe some cold cereal. Then we would carry our tub of equipment the half-mile to Danny’s shop. Sometimes the restaurant would make us lunch — egg-salad sandwiches — but usually we would stop at the Wing-Sun store for cans of tuna, crackers, and bottles of fresh water. Lunch in hand, we’d continue on to the shop. Then we’d load the equipment in the boat. Once we were situated, one of Danny’s boat drivers would join us and we would set out to search.
Once clear of the dock, we would lower the gradiometer probe into the water and allow it to calibrate itself, a process that usually took a half hour or so. For weight on the probe itself, we used a rock attached to a thin line designed to break away if we struck the bottom — something that happened at least a dozen times — and to keep the cable clear of the propellers, we propped it off the side, using an old oar that stuck from the starboard side.
It was all jury-rigged, but it seemed to do the job.
Once the gradiometer was calibrated, we would pull it back in, then set out for the search area. That usually required a half hour or so in transit. Once on-site we would begin to drag, using the GPS to make straight lines. Then we would drive back and forth, seeking a target. Around noon we would pull over to the closest island and climb off the boat. After a quick bite to eat and a few moments spent watering the palm trees, we’d climb back in the boat and start another line. Afternoons usually brought rain — since we were basically out in the open, we’d try to shelter the gradiometer as best we could. If the rain was prolonged or heavy, we’d head back to Gizo and wait it out.
By the end of every day, we were exhausted. The constant noise from the outboard motor a few feet from our heads, the rocking of the small boat, and the relentless humidity took their toll. After returning to Gizo, usually around 5 P.M., we’d walk the half-mile back to the hotel, take a quick shower, and change clothes. Then, if it was Monday, Wednesday, or Friday, we could read the Solomon Islands paper, which was six to eight pages in length and chock-full of interesting misspellings. A typical headline read “Pregnant Snake Found Under House,” with a picture of the finders holding it in their hands. The paper was a constant source of amusement.
Dinner was served starting at 6:30. Waiting to eat was usually passed by playing endless hands of gin rummy or blackjack. The menu for dinner rarely changed. Kingfish with rice and a tiny salad, or chili crab with rice and a tiny salad. There were also a few mock Chinese dishes.
A few divers showed up the two weeks we were in town. Five or six Australians arrived on the plane with us and stayed a few days. They had come to dive the wreck of the Japanese transport Toa Maru, a pristine wreck still full of cargo that draws people to Gizo.
Then, a few days after we arrived, more tourists showed up. We’d asked Danny not to mention to anyone what we were doing, as over the years we had found that this just complicates things, but the town was so small and the tourists so few that within hours of arriving, I think everyone knew the score.
A few days a week, Danny has a picnic over on Plum Pudding Island (now called Kennedy Island by everyone) where his workers cook fresh fish and rice over a campfire. The fish is usually eaten as a sandwich with fresh bread, and it is served on a leaf hacked from a nearby tree. Primitive but fun. A week after we arrived, we headed over to the island at lunchtime to hook up with the divers. Along with a group of fifteen to twenty teenagers on a discovery trip of the South Pacific were three new divers. Danny mentioned they were from Arizona, so I walked over to say hello to some fellow Americans. After introducing myself, I said:
“Danny says you live in Arizona.”
“Yes,” said the man.
Dirk was approaching.
“What city?”
“Phoenix area,” said one of the two women.
“Small world,” I said. “Dirk’s from there.”
“Actually, Paradise Valley,” the other woman said, with a trace of haughtiness.
Dirk nodded. Paradise Valley is a tony area where Clive, the late Erma Bombeck, and rocker Alice Cooper reside, along with a host of other celebrities. So do some smart people who bought their homes years ago.
“Where in Paradise?” Dirk asked.
“Do you know the area?”
“Yeah,” Dirk said, with perfect timing, “I live there.”
It turns out they were neighbors and lived only a few miles away. Halfway around the world in the middle of nowhere, and we meet someone from Dirk’s hometown. The trio turned out to be a gas. Ted and Sally Guenther were husband and wife. Ted’s sister, Chris, was along for the ride. The three were taking a month off from the Arizona summer heat and were traveling through the South Pacific, diving up a storm. For most of the rest of our time in Gizo, they would be our dinner companions and would prove to be good friends.
Near the end of the trip, we also met an Australian couple, Catherine and George Ziedan, whom we would see again in Australia on our way home. Nicer people are hard to find. Upon hearing we were stopping in Surfer’s Paradise, they located us at our hotel, then came and picked us up and drove us to their home in the hills above town for an old-fashioned Australian barbecue. The steaks were a size that would shame a Texan, and the shrimp were the size of sausages. I would return to Australia just to visit George, Catherine, and their two teenage children, Georgie and Toby. George is a character straight from a gonzo novel. He attacks life with a zest I’ve rarely seen. He designed and built the beautiful house where his family resides — clearing the brush with a tractor, digging the ponds with a backhoe, and rigging a cable affair from the house down the steep hill to the pond where you can drop into the water.