Voyage to the Cannibal Islands

by Julia Loren

 ...I tell you the truth, whatever you did

For one of the least of these brothers of mine,

You did for me."

Matthew 25:40

"As the church awakens to its call in Christ, there will arise a generation of men and women who are generous with their time, talents and resources and who know how to pray. They will launch a new wave in missions around the world, not becoming fat on the material wealth of the nations or on the rich teachings of God's servants, but on sharing them with those who need it the most. They will be men and women who will do anything, go anywhere and pay any price to see the call of God fulfilled through their lives."

(From The Birth of Mercy Ships Pacific: 8 Key Principles of Pioneering by David Cowie)

Lugainville, Espiritu Santo Island in the Vanuatu Archipelago

(south of Papua New Guinea far off the coast of Queensland, AU)

What a strange group gathers here by the Coral Sea loading the dingy with supplies bound for the Grace II, a big motor-sailor moored about 100 yards offshore in Lugainville harbor. This trip will carry the crew to a remote village on the weather-side of the island seldom visited by anyone but the monthly supply boat. The local Vanuatu pastor and Superintendent of the Assemblies of God, Dick Joel Peter, hopes to encourage this remote congregation into a greater state of faith after the disheartening departure of their former pastor who opted out of the isolation.  The Australian missionaries who own the boat, Des and Merlene Davies, who are in their early 60's and trained in self-sufficiency from long decades pioneering a homestead in the Australian bush, hope that none of the passengers get too seasick and that the islanders receive their gifts of clothes and medical supplies with less suspicion and more openness to them. The Coastland's Mission's Director, long and lean John Robertshaw, in his 40s, hopes the American journalist/counselor will write favorably about his work and that lots of people will get saved during the outreach.  The young pastors-in-training, Ben from Australia and Steve from Lugainville, hope for a bit of adventure and daydream about the girlfriends left behind.

Nothing much changes in these islands.  The weather turns from hot to hotter to comfortably warm again.  Tall palms teeter towards the sea.  Child sized dugouts skim past with two full adults fishing precariously on uncomfortable wood slats guarding their secrets.  No bottles of water or ice chests of beer.  Strictly business for hours on end - fishing and maintaining their watch on the missionaries and yachties. Winds may hold off cargo boats and mail, visitors and strays for months at a time yet nothing stops the missionaries from sailing in, motoring in, flying in to brief landings near isolated villages.  In the words of one Australian hotel owner in Port Vila, "Missionaries are our main industry."  The missionaries and their events come and go like the tide that washes their footprints from the beach after every leaving.

Last night, I could not sleep.  John and Ben and I were stuck together in some Port Vila hotel for a three-hour nap between flights.  After a two-day drive from little Bowen, Australia near the Whitsunday islands of the Coral Sea and a two-day delay in Brisbane we finally made it to Vanuatu yet not to Espiritu Santo. We were stuck again experiencing what the islanders must feel when they have little control over events that keep them bound to their villages.  I am beyond exhaustion.  I prop my chin up on my pillow, pull back the drapes and watch the surreal outline of palm fronds waving wildly on gusts of watery winds behind the condensation on the glass, their form caught in the glare of the pool lighting.  All too soon, I shower, jump into the taxi, drive slowly into the hesitant dawn.  Even at this hour, the town is awake.  Young Melanesians saunter in the street, lean against door jams, laughingly clasp hands as they greet as if sharing a joke that passed only between them hours earlier.  A Chinese couple leaves their Melanesian host smiling after an all-night party and nodding as they step into their car and home to sleep for the day. The town lies in shadows.  The bay a sea of black against black.

Arrive and wait.  The story of traveling in third world countries. What a dusty airport.  Linoleum tiles on the floor gouged by passing luggage gathering dust balls and children's' candies.  The observation deck on the second story fenced in with high wires looks more like a prison holding us back from touching paradise.  Brilliant green hillsides separate the clouded night sky from earth and heave it upwards until the light breaks through, steamy, not too hot, a perfect day.  I am beyond delirious.   It took us four days to arrive at our ultimate destination of Lugainville by car and plane.  The missionaries sailed over in ten days.  No matter how you get there, you are bound to be exhausted when you arrive.  We missed the feast the islanders prepared for us two nights ago due to the airlines delay.  We would, however, arrive just in time for church in the little, twin-engine puddle jumper just now touching the runway.

Stepping off of the plane a mass of black and white faces peer back at us from behind another wire cage.  One man steps forward to shake John's hand and hug him, uttering something in Bislama, the local Pidgin English.  He then shakes my hand and gazes intensely into my eyes, reading my character in a single stare before greeting Ben.  Des and Merlene stand behind him and welcome us next in their shy and reserved way that gets dumped overboard as soon as we step foot on their boat.  We load our gear into a white van that deposits us at a cinder block church with attached house and half-completed Sunday school extension of cement block jutting off from the main sanctuary.  The manse is little more than a big room decorated with old prints, posters of Jesus, some books, a couch and a couple of chairs for guests.  The pastor's wife slices and butters some bread, pours some coffee, shyly disappears.  A dirt walkway separates the manse from the church.  I walk down it, past the sleeping mongrel and a cooking area outside the back door of the kitchen, to the toilets.  On the way back, I note a basket woven of banana leaves stripped down with some leaves braided into slight ropes used as carrying handles.  Giant tubers I suspected were yams jutted from the top.  A bundle of wood rested on the ground below the grill still smoldering from an earlier fire.

We sat and chatted, waited for church to begin, watched the wife set to work on a coconut crab - boiling it then pouring oil around it before roasting it in the fire.  John looks as tired as I feel and is quite ill with a non-stop cough and some twinges of pain racing across his face from time to time.  He has been falling ill since I met him almost two weeks ago.  I wonder why he came when his bed would have been a better place to recover.  I fear that his illness is more serious than he is letting on in his typically British restrained way of speech.  But I say nothing.  I do not have the nagging rights of his wife about his health and he is an adult who can make his own judgments on whether he is too sick to continue the journey.  There was a moment in Brisbane when he reconsidered during the long delay stuck in a hotel until Air Vanuatu decided to fly again.  "But we've promised them, haven't we?" he reasoned out loud.  "Then it's settled. We must go."  He would be a man of his word even at the cost of missing valuable time with his family. I think too, that he suspected that this would be his last trip to the islands.

John Robertshaw, looking a bit like John Cheeves, the actor on the British comedy Faulty Towers, had dedicated his life to God during the Jesus People movement of the 1970s while a young man in New Zealand. His journey eventually led him, his wife and two children, to pastor an Assembly of God church in Bowen.  Everyone who knew John agreed that he was a man of passion and vision - perhaps more vision than sleepy Bowen could handle.  Like all Kiwis, John loved sailing and scanned the maritime frequencies during his off hours to listen to the chatter of those at sea.  A radio ham, John also bought up the licenses to run a radio station using volunteers from local churches to operate "Reef Rhema", Christian Radio for the Coral Coast. It soon became apparent that whatever John envisioned would come to pass in record time for he was a man who connected people and ideas and brought them to life. His greatest vision and love was founding Coastlands Mission in order to reach the remote in the islands of the South Pacific and in the outback of Australia. The cornerstone of the ministry was to provide SSB radio communications to missionaries working in isolated and dangerous places. The communications center was located in a little cinder block building on the church property in Bowen, Australia just south of Townsville.

Volunteers in the radio shack scan a selection of radio frequencies 24 hours a day.  Through the use of telephone interconnect they are able to supply continuous communication with missionaries in remote places.  They maintain regular radio contact to take position reports, give out weather forecasts and help troubleshoot engine and gear breakdowns, as well as provide a friendly voice to those who often feel alone as high seas break over their bow and toss them about or alone on the front lines of ministry. During my voyage, I noted that Coastlands offers radio support to seven vessels - two in the Torres Straight, one in Port Moresby, one approaching American Samoa, two in Vanuatu, and one in Bowen that is preparing to leave for Papua New Guinea.  A team of radio technicians outfits the boats with the necessary radio equipment.  Coastlands also offers communications support to three vehicles working in the outback of Queensland's north coast and Northern Territory. Most recently, a team of technicians even traveled to New Zealand to fit out the electronics on a new YWAM ship called "Mercy Links".

Time for church. The sounds of old amplifiers, whiney voices warming up and testing the mics alerted us that it was almost time.  Soon, someone beckoned us inside, past the seated congregation of women on the left and men on the right, children scattered on both sides regardless of gender, and ushered us up to the front row, the seats of honor.  Giggling boys sat with young girls up front, a few of the girls standing up, leaning against a post.  The young adult choir leaned against the wall watching us as we filed in and took our seats on free standing pews, almost knocking one over, while the band faced them from the other side of the room.  A group of "government men" sauntered in - two big bruisers who looked like bodyguards and George Wells, the local member of the parliament, sat down behind us. It was to be an eventful morning.  The MP was there to honor Pastor Dick for 24 years of ministry in this church and contributing to the social welfare and well-being of the church.  After worship, he stood and read his speech, obviously uncomfortable and a little shaky.  Was he nervous about being in church or was it the presence of white skins?

"Without your presence," the MP said in Bislama as I struggled to capture a few words in his rapid speech. "Many of the villages would be dead...Church in the community is very important for prayer, for leaders, church school, hospital...you people run from pastor to pray for the sick...and they get healed." Apparently, he was impressed with some local divine healings.  When he said, "Building me a house for me," I understood that politics was politics no matter how small the island.  The church as he understood it was also useful in the community for votes.  Honor the people and they will honor you.  In closing, he picked up the pace and said to Pastor Dick, "Long life.  We be one one.  Tank you too much. God be blessing you." This same MP would later be a force of welcome for Des and Merlene who also had proved their worth to the locals through long years of ministry and traveling to remote villages with food and medical supplies.

Next on the program -  a group of teenage girls filed in holding out leis of various flowers.  The government men were called up first and then the delegation from Coastlands.  I spot the frangipanis of pink and white interspersed with blocks of delicate greenery like fern fronds and stand before it until they clap three times and I bow my head to receive the leis.  The heavenly scent of frangipani is the embrace of God to me that morning, lifting my weariness.  Pastor Dick introduces John to speak by saying, "Friend b'long me long time."  I am too tired to listen.  Instead, I watch the breeze blow through the huge openings in the wall straight through to the other side tossing fabric colors of reds and pinks and blues like celebrating flags, scent of frangipani, the clothes on the line next door snapping back at the wind, I try not to fall asleep.

The music starts as John gives his alter call and dozens of people walk to the front for prayer Pentecostal-style.  Pastor Dick calls up the Coastlands Delegation to pray.  Dutifully, my feet walk forward but I feel like I am sleep walking.  I pray for several ladies then make my way over to the MP where John has begun praying for him.  I speak a word over him.  "Because you have honored God, God will honor you," I hear myself saying.  "You will stand before many tribes and kings and nations," I continue babbling for a few minutes.  A definite mantle of leadership lies heavily upon his shoulders now that the "condominium" government has been demolished and both the French and English rule disbanded during the "Coconut war" of recent history.  Where will they go as an independent nation where land ownership is a complicated matter among chiefs and villages and the absentee owners - those who were once upon a time "blackbirded" away to work in slave labor in Australia's sugar cane fields?  God only knows and he will make His purposes prevail in Vanuatu's archipelago.

We break for lunch, a feast laid out on long tables while women stand guard, fanning away the flies. Before we eat, Merlene approaches the MP carrying a few boxes of medical supplies for the village hospital.  Others notice her approaching the MP and all conversation stops while she explains the contents and hands him the gifts.  When he nods and receives them everyone claps three times then return to their individual conversations.  It is as if secret customs and ceremonies are casually happening all around me and I am the last to know.  But it is ok.  Everyone else in the group knows that I am ignorant of their culture and takes time to explain patiently what I am witnessing as the action unfolds. 

Honorable guests eat first and the men take the head of the line.  The government men pile their plates high. Ben moves in before John and I am motioned to follow.  No one has touched the best meat of the crab.  John points to the claw and nods for me to take it. Apparently, no one will touch the crab until a guest has taken the claw.  I have always wanted to taste Coconut crab and greedily snatch it to my plate.  So, I am the honored guest today.  The crab was amazing with a taste like none other. We eat well, not knowing when our next meal will come.  Fortunately, I have prepared for that and stashed some rations in my bag at Ben's urging.  The juices, energy drinks, breakfast bars, loads of chocolate and coffee would see me through the week - and the others if I shared.  And of course, when you're traveling with missionaries in the confined space of a boat, they would know if you didn't share.  Being the only American in the group I thought I had better be a good representative of my country and anti up the chocolate first, then dole out the rest as needed.  And it would be needed.  Aussies and islanders don't provision like Americans.  Merlene's freezer was stuffed with bread, the cooler with cheese and eggs, the side boards with canned beans.  An American yacht would have a cooler full of beer and soda and a freezer full of delicacies plus plenty of snacky chips and junk food aboard.  We would all loose weight that week...especially John but not because of the food. 

After lunch, we walk over to a large shipping container taking up half a lot across the street from the church. Merlene and Des pull out a few huge bags and toss them in the van. The container looks familiar to me.  It is one of two I saw in a vision while in prayer months before the trip. The containers floated up out of a lagoon while a sailboat broke up on a reef in the distance. The vision has to do with this couple, I am sure of it now.  But what does it mean? I doubt whether we will end up on a reef. If we do, I am confident of rescue.

Once the van is packed with luggage and bodies, we leave taking Pastor Dick with us to the beach.  A group of children form soccer teams and kick and laugh their way down the sandy playing field.  Others sit and watch us.  Some men, their fingers entwined lightly touching as they walk and talk past us.  Little dugouts, hand fashioned outriggers, line the beach.  The dingy is loaded now and ferries cargo to the boat before returning for us.  We step aboard.  Within a half hour, we haul up the anchor and take a look at paradise from the water - green hills spotted with coconut palms, small houses with rusting tin roofs, chicken studded yards, people in ragged t-shirts lounging idly on their property or carrying water from an outdoor spigot into their houses, working at the Sunday family chores.

We motor up the west coast until a still breeze centered off our port stern encouraged Des to put up a little sail.  I can sleep now to the rocking of the boat in confused seas.  The rougher the water, the more I like it.  Fortunately for the Davies, none of us gets seasick. I sleep and wake to the sound of the radio cackling.  Sleep and wake to the toss and tumbling seas as they pick up.  I spend some time writing then go up to see a full moon on the water, the stars descending on us like a celestial blanket, so close you can reach out and touch them, some falling just past my fingertips shooting into distant lands. I return to my bunk and sleep until dawn when the washing machine cycle of turbulent seas rudely tosses me onto the floor. So I wander out on deck and talk with John about the work of Coastlands Missions.

"Through the years we've been able to see the difference we're making," John Robertshaw said. "There are a lot of areas in the Pacific that are neglected and whole villages of people hungry for visitors. Imagine living in a small village and having no outsiders visit to encourage your faith for years at a time or no way to communicate with the main cities for emergencies?" Coastlands placed HF long range equipment on many islands in Vanuatu, Fiji and Papua New Guinea specifically to help break the isolation.  Several technicians work with Coastlands and various churches in remote islands help maintain the equipment and radio stations. An armada of vessels helps transport equipment, food and medical supplies along with encouragement and prayer. 

John spoke of the story that initiated a corporate venture between YWAM and Coastlands to establish a beach head of communications support. "I flew over Fatuna Island on my way to a pastor's conference in Vanuatu and we dropped down to a little grass runway surrounded by these cliffs.  There is a big lake up there with five or six villages and all the villages were built around the top of the cliffs with ladders that were used to get up to the villages.   This pastor happened to be there that I recognized from a pastor's conference.  So I jumped off the plane and gave him a big hug.  He was shocked to see me.  I said, 'G'day, have you been out to a pastor's conference recently or talked to your leadership lately?'  He said, 'I've talked to no one for 12 months.'  I just cried and said we've got to set up some reliable communications here so you're not out here on your own.  So we were able to put that system in with the help of the YWAM ship that transported the radio equipment to his isolated village on a remote island in Vanuatu.  "Just to have a vessel steam through the night burning diesel to take one radio to one little island, to help one pastor who hadn't spoken to his leadership for support for over12 months, was amazing," John said.  "If I have a difficulty in my ministry I get on the phone and call somebody and pour my heart out.  What happens overseas is that the island pastors have no one to talk to. 

"We came in on that ship at 5 am with the sun coming up and saw a group of islanders on the beach who had been waiting there for us for three days, ready to host a feast in our honor.  They were just about to give up when they spotted the ship steaming into view. We launched the rubber duck from the ship and they left us on the island knowing that we had four hours to get the job done before catching the last plane in and out for a week.  We climbed up the cliffs and had only one chance to set it up. The moment came when we had to go so we fired it up and hoped that it would get back to the repeater or the whole thing had failed.  Instantly, we switched the thing on and the next thing we knew, this pastor was on the radio talking to his leadership, talking away in his own language, his isolation broken."

Many are being raised up with the creativity and initiative needed to reach the remote in a fast changing world. According to the Coastlands brochure:  "By sea and by land going to places others do not go - Boaties, 4WD Trekkers, Engineers, Technicians, Doctors, Teachers, Preachers, Church Planters, RF Junkies and even Inspector Gadget have taken up the call to use their unique gifts in 'Reaching the Remote.'...What we take for granted can mean a lot to those in the remote. Using your skills can bring the Gospel as well as hope and encouragement to those in need."

According to John Robertshaw, "We're not a sending agency, we're a facilitating agency.  We work with churches with various types of ministries and vessel owners from different churches.  The skippers raise their own support. Coastlands, interestingly enough, has a number of boats involved.  When someone applies to come under the name of Coastlands, we build up relationships with the church groups that they are a part of from various types of denominations.  They will go to work with a certain church stream and work with the national leadership of the area they are sent.  We offer them the name of Coastlands to work under our credentials in the islands and offer communications support to them.  Yet their home church is their sending agency.  Then we have an associate ministry for those who have a strong ministry outreach themselves such as Marine Reach (YWAM) which is already well established.  We find it a privilege to work in relationship with them as partners.  Our technicians will come in and work on their ships.  We provide a ministry as well as support others' ministries."

After a breakfast of runny eggs and beans, I turn to Merlene and ask her about her call to missions. Des, a man of few words, seldom breaks in. It would be much later in the trip before he felt comfortable enough to talk openly about their calling and work in the islands. Des and Merleen have been married 36 years resulting in a close knit family of 3 children and 8 grandchildren. In 1986 a friend on a neighboring farm in Central Queensland shared the good news with them and led them to the Lord together. With an initial call to missions resounding immediately in their ears, they continued to grow in their faith until it came time to sell the home farm and move to the Coast, where 3 years later they moved into Maritime ministry on Grace II, affiliated with Coastlands and headed to Vanuatu. They finance their ministry with a small retirement pension. Merleen's nursing experience and Des's Jack-of-all-trades background as a farmer led them to practically meet the needs of the Vanuatu Islanders. In remote communities and churches they install and maintain VHF communications systems, distribute clothing and medical supplies, repair sewing machines and teach the ladies sewing. Showing the Jesus video in the villages and distributing bibles and literature has led this shy couple to see many salvations and physical healings as they seek to build up remote village churches in Vanuatu.

The needs are so great in these remote places that in 2000 they solicited donations and packed a shipping container with supplies in Gladstone, Australia then had it freighted to Espirito Santo in North Vanuatu, a city known for WWII US Army bases when the islands were known as the New Hebrides. With many sea miles under their belts, Des and Merleen have distributed by hand the container's contents of clothing, school supplies and medical equipment to the remote villages. They have now completed their 4th season in Vanuatu, and have broken through in building confidence in the relationships with local pastors, chiefs and villagers. This trip is one of the outreaches to distribute their second shipping container in anticipation of reaching further and more remote communities taking His Love and Grace II to the Islands.

I wonder about the vision but say nothing to Merlene and her husband. John knows about the vision and we decided to have a time of ministry for the couple at the end of the outreach.

We arrive in a large cove, wind sheltered and beautiful as any South Pacific paradise landing. An old man in a small dugout paddles not far away, watching us, trying to see who is on board and wondering at the fact that we have two ni-Vanuatuans on deck among the white missionaries but not venturing closer until after we set the anchor. He is one of the chiefs.  We go ashore and awkwardly stand around waiting for something. The men gather together and hustle a few women into the church to start a welcoming ceremony. They place leis around our necks and officially say welcome, now you are free to roam the village, clap three times and turn us loose. As if I am going to walk about freely. I am dying to peek inside the one room houses, the walls and roofs of woven coconut fronds. An occasional spigot rises from the ground noting where water may be found. I turn one on and taste fresh, pure spring water. The chief gives us a hut to ourselves for changing, napping, whatever. It contains dusty mats on the dirt floor and cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. John asks me if I would like to sleep ashore. No thanks. Visions of rats scurrying across my feet and bats flitting across my head while mosquitoes ate me alive made me decline in a hurry. I sleep better aboard a boat. I always have.

I note a communal cooking fire, the communal dining area containing some picnic tables and wooden platforms strategically placed beneath giant paw paw (papaya) trees in the shade, the communal church. There is even a large women's hut that once upon a time served as the place where all women slept but is now the women's meeting hall. Christianity changed a lot of village customs, many for the better. For instance, men had the legal right to beat their wives who were considered less valuable than pigs. Grandfathers had the legal right to use their grandsons to tend their gardens and meet their sexual needs until the boy comes of marrying age. Village fought village and ate their enemy in a final act of conquest giving Vanuatu the nickname of "The Cannibal Islands". Some "Kustom" villages maintain their customs. Those influenced by missionaries gradually change. I imagine that the women are happier. The men more confused. The teenagers desire more than ever to get into the big city and experience "real" life. Even their last pastor was influenced by western culture enough to take the last offering and use it to run away from the isolation to the city.

Still, I see that change is slow to materialize in our hearts and lives. I realize that all is not beautiful in paradise. In fact, paradise can be quite rotten to those who live there permanently.  Mosquito-borne diseases of malaria and elephantiasis - yes, think "Elephant Man" - run rampant on some islands of the Pacific including Polynesia.  During certain seasons, storms make it impossible for government boats to reach remote villages in the Solomon Islands and other islands, with needed food and medical supplies. In fact, most villages have no ongoing medical or dental care. Some villages at the brink of starvation have been rescued by Coastlands mission boats going where government boats dare not travel.  What yachties think of as "quaint villages" are in reality, villages subject to abject poverty and the host of social ills that go along with poverty - disease, alcoholism, drug abuse, spousal abuse, acute loneliness and even suicide. It's easy to ignore the signs if you are just passing by the coast or stopping in for a day on land.

But I was not just one sailing by. My fellow crew and skipper stopped into this village, passed out some clothing and medical supplies, and were invited in to feast and speak to some small groups of villagers.  During our time ashore, I saw the bruises on women, barely perceptible against their Melanesian skin, and recognized how they got there. Some children ran around with toothaches, distended stomachs, bold scars, and wary eyes. Older youth strolled the beaches with old soccer balls, wandered off in twos, revealed their loneliness and sadness, their typical teenage struggle with boredom and identity. The women boldly asked the skipper's wife (who had already established relationships in the village) and myself to talk with them about how to make marriage and family life better in the village and what to do about the cultural and technological alienation facing their youth. All issues of keen interest to me as a psychologist and armchair anthropologist. I am there for two days. What can I say that will affect them?

I speak at a meeting in the afternoon and they introduce me as "Pastor Julia". Hmm...new title for me. I speak about how everyone knows each others' business in a small village, about love and forgiveness, mutually supporting and encouraging one another, about how only God can meet your deepest need for love and how you can open yourself up to receive this love. The women know exactly what I am talking about. The men do too. Later, Pastor Dick Joel Peter invites me to come back to his church and minister there or in all the island churches anytime. He says I can minister to the women, then hesitates, looks at me funny and says, "You can do anything you want to do here." What an amazing complement and trust, a radical departure from the cultural treatment of women as less valuable than pigs.

The children are amazed by my blue eyes and blond hair and shyly stare at me. When I show up on the beach after snorkeling in my shortie wetsuit, the kids giggle and point. They have never seen someone in a wetsuit before. Every once in a while, a child walks up alongside me and takes my hand. They want to touch the light skinned woman to see if she is real.

The village feeds us that night. The guests first finish their meal. Then the men are served and eat. Finally, the women and children get to eat what is left. Anything leftover gets thrown to the scrawny, flea-bitten dogs darting near the tables wary of a foot kicking out. Women clean up and men start setting up Des and Merlene's generator for the lights and sound system for the evening meeting. We are going to party tonight. The children are all excited.

Let the dancing begin. A shuffle of feet circling the front of the platform, kids at the edges of the circle dropping into the dust falling fast asleep, an electric guitar, arms in the air, is this Africa or a Mississippi riverside meeting? I move into the circle and dance with them. They are pleased. Children take my hands and dance along, leading me into the flow. Testimonies begin, more music, Pastor Dick preaches, John preaches, they come forward for prayer. A few get saved. A few fall ecstatically to the ground. A few claim that God physically healed them. Everyone is impressed that we brought the lead pastor of their denomination and feel honored by his presence. The presence of the Lord sweeps over the place like a gently flowing breeze scented with tropical flowers. Eventually, we all fade back to our beds. Tomorrow is another day.

We spend the day distributing goods, giving each family group a package of clothes, Bibles, the village dispensary medical supplies, the chiefs' special gifts. Pastor Dick spends all his time encourage the men in the village and slapping the backs of the chiefs. Ben and Steve blow up balloon animals and hats for the horde of kids, some of whom belong to the village, others lodging there during the week because of the presence of the school on this end of the island. I talk in the school and encourage the kids to write about their daily life, illustrate it and give it to me later to put into a book. It would take me a few months to put it together and send it to them along with a photo album of the pictures I took while among them. 

John Robertshaw is so ill he lays stretched out on a bench in the church out of the sun. I go inside and leave a can of vitamin enhanced drink next to him so he has something to pick him up when he awakes. He is in obvious pain these past two days and has a peculiar odor about him despite the fact that he uses the shower on board the boat. I wonder if we should take him to a hospital. It will take us at least 12 hours to motor back to civilization and then have him airlifted out. We cut the trip short. I think Des and Merlene realize that John cannot take much more.

That night at the end of the service, the chiefs take us down to the beach and plant coconut trees in our honor. In 7 years, my coconut tree will be bearing its first green drinking coconuts. I really hope to be there then and taste the fruit of our labors. The whole village lines the beach as we get into the dingy to go back to the boat. As we leave the shore, I see that many flick lighters or matches in a lovely light show, like fireflies on the beach, their way of waving goodbye. Once aboard, we hoist anchor and leave the cove in the middle of the night. The stars take over where the villagers left off with their lights blinking, guiding our way home.

Epilogue:

While the work of Coastland's missionaries continues in the South Pacific islands and outback of Australia, the director, John Robertshaw, passed away of cancer a few months after this voyage to Vanuatu. He is sorely missed by all who knew him and is surely one of God's most beloved sons. Ben married John's daughter. Pastor Dick and his adopted son Steve continue ministering throughout Espiritu Santo.

After hearing about the vision that I had of their ship sinking, Des and Merlene decided to take a year off and rest up. This year, in April 2003, they set sail from Australia in Grace II for a fifth season of ministry in the Vanuatu archipelago. A cyclone hit and rapidly disabled the crew and vessel. They abandoned ship and all aboard were safely rescued by a Japanese freighter who took them to Guam. They are currently living in a rented house in Espiritu Santo desperately praying that God will give them another boat so they can continue their outreach to remote villages. The uninsured vessel is presumed sunk on a reef.

For more information about Coastlands Mission please see their website at www.coastlands.net or email Julia Loren at julialoren@yahoo.com.