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Walter E. Traprock - The Cruise of the Kawa
But Sentant is unique. I can only say that as I sat sniffing on the deck of the Kawa there was about us
a soupcon of the je-ne-sais-quoi tropicale, half nostalgie, half diablerie. It was ... but
what's the use? You will have to go out there some time and smell it for yourself.
I have mentioned the contour, color and fragrance of our island. I now come to the strangest feature of
all. I refer to its sound. I had for some time noticed a queer, dripping noise which I had foreborne to
mention fearing it might be inside my own head - a devilish legacy of our recent buffeting. You can
imagine my relief when Whinney asked apologetically, "Do you fellows hear anything?"
"I do!" was my rejoinder, seconded by Swank who had come up for air.
We all listened intently.
Though the sky was cloudless, a distinct pattering sound as of a light rain reached us.
"Nuts..." said Captain Triplett suddenly, spitting on the nose of a fish that had made a face at him. A
glance through our mercifully preserved field-glasses corroborated the Captain's vision.
"For the love of Pete!" I gasped. "Take a squint at those trees." They were literally crawling with nuts
and tropical fruits of every description. In the shadow of the broad panjandrus leaves we could see whole
loaves of breadfruits falling unassisted to the ground while between the heavier thuds of cocoanuts and
grapefruit we heard the incessant patter of light showers of thousands of assorted nutlets, singing the
everlasting burden and refrain of these audible isles. It was this predominant feature - though I anticipate
our actual decision - which ultimately settled our choice of a name for the new archipelago, - the Filbert
Islands, now famous wherever the names of Whinney, Swank and Traprock are known.
It was now about half-past two bells and an excellent time to make a landing, preparations for which
were forthwith set in motion. Now, if ever, we had occasion to bless the tightness of the Kawa, for in the
confusion below, somewhat ameliorated by the labors of William Henry Thomas, we found most of our
duffle in good order, an occasional stethoscope broken or a cork loose, but nothing to amount to much.
Our rifles, side-arms, cartridges, camera and my bundles of rejected manuscript were as dry as ever. I
was thankful as I had counted on writing on the other side of them. A tube of vermilion had run amuck
among Swank's underclothes but, in the main, we were intact.
After some delay in getting our folding-dory stretched on its frame, due to Whinney's contention that the
bow and stern sections belonged on the same end, we finally shoved off, leaving William Henry Thomas
to answer the door in case of callers.
In the brief interval of our passage, I could not help noticing the remarkable submarine flora over which
we passed. The water, perfectly clear to a depth of four-hundred and eighty-two feet, showed a
remarkable picture of aquatic forestry. Under our keel spread limeaceous trees of myriad hues in whose
branches perched variegated fish nibbling the coral buds or thoughtfully scratching their backs on the
roseate bark. Pearls the size of onions rolled aimlessly on ocean's floor. But of these later; for the nonce
our tale leads landward.
As our canvas scraped the shingle we leaped out, tossing the dory lightly beyond the reach of the waves,
and fell into the agreed-upon formation. Triplett in the van, then Whinney, Swank and myself, in the
order named. Beyond the beach was a luxuriant growth of haro. [Footnote: Similar to the
photographer's grass; is used in the foreground of early Sarony full lengths. I have seen a similar form of
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