The boat splutters to a halt alongside an ancient, dilapidated wooden jetty. Jed Namara, an American in his thirties, tanned and in good shape, wearing an old straw cowboy hat, sleeveless top and shorts, throws a tuna fish onto the jetty, steps from the boat and ties up. He takes off his hat and wipes his rugged, amiable face with a hand.
Akolo Rangi, a Polynesian teenager, slim and bare chested in his colorful traditional Lava-lava, hurries along the jetty from the shore, stoops and picks up the tuna.
Jed beams at him. “Hi Akolo. Where's your sister?”
“Kami said to tell Mister Namara she's gone over to Rockyway Island to buy some more can labels.”
A large, modern tuna boat close to the shore makes loud siren blasts as it passes the jetty. Jed turns, raises an arm and gives a one-finger gesture. “Kami's just wasting money. It's only a couple of days before the guy from the government's health and safety department arrives. 2012 is going to be the year Jed Namara bites the dust . . . unless . . .” He rubs his chin thoughtfully.
Akolo looks puzzled. “Unless what?”
“Oh nothing. Just expecting too much I guess. Come on Akolo . . . I need a beer.”
“There isn't any more of your American beer left. Do all you Americans drink Bud?”
“I do, but the local stuff's okay.” Jed grabs a tackle bag from the boat, shoulders it, places an arm round Akolo's shoulders and they stride along the jetty towards the shore, Akolo cradling the tuna in his arms. Several Polynesian men unload crates, boxes, bottles and tins from an old supply boat tied up at the jetty.