Thus,
the foot of the sail was held by the main-sheet, and the peak by the
guy to the sprit.
It was not a mere boat, not a mere canoe, but a sailing machine.
And the man in it sailed it by his weight and his nerve - principally
by the latter. I watched the canoe beat up from leeward and run in
toward the village, its sole occupant far out on the outrigger and
luffing up and spilling the wind in the puffs.
"Well, I know one thing," I announced; "I don't leave Raiatea till I
have a ride in that canoe."
A few minutes later Warren called down the companionway, "Here's
that canoe you were talking about."
Promptly I dashed on deck and gave greeting to its owner, a tall,
slender Polynesian, ingenuous of face, and with clear, sparkling,
intelligent eyes. He was clad in a scarlet loin-cloth and a straw
hat. In his hands were presents - a fish, a bunch of greens, and
several enormous yams. All of which acknowledged by smiles (which
are coinage still in isolated spots of Polynesia) and by frequent
repetitions of mauruuru (which is the Tahitian "thank you"), I
proceeded to make signs that I desired to go for a sail in his
canoe.
His face lighted with pleasure and he uttered the single word,
"Tahaa," turning at the same time and pointing to the lofty, cloud-
draped peaks of an island three miles away - the island of Tahaa.
