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when the Count von Zeppelin had stopped at Hilo for a day on her way to Papeete. The Tahitian hula strikes me as an athletic accomplishment rather than an art form. But its very energy and speed make it still more startling in the dress or undress these native girls wore.
    There was more to come. After a long dance sequence which included paired dancing between girls and each of the two young men—in which they did things that would have been astonishing even among barnyard fowl (I kept expecting Captain Hansen to put a stop to it), the ship’s master of ceremonies or cruise director stepped forward.
    “Ladeez and gentlemen,” he announced, “and the rest of you intoxicated persons of irregular birth—” (I am forced to amend his language.) “Most of you setters and even a few pointers have made good use of the four days our dancers have been with us to add the Tahitian hula to your repertoire. Shortly you’ll be given a chance to demonstrate what you’ve learned and to receive diplomas as authentic Papeete papayas. But what you don’t know is that others in the good ole knutty Knut have been practicing, too. Maestro, strike up the band!”
    Out from behind the lounge stage danced a dozen more hula dancers. But these girls were not Polynesian; these girls were Caucasian. They were dressed authentically, grass skirts and necklaces, a flower in the hair, nothing else. But instead of warm brown, their skins were white; most of them were blondes, two were redheads.
    It makes a difference. By then I was ready to concede that Polynesian women were correctly and even modestly dressed in their native costume—other places, other customs. Was not Mother Eve modest in her simplicity before the Fall?
    But white women are grossly out of place in South Seas garb.
    However, this did not keep me from watching the dancing. I was amazed to see that these girls danced that fast and complex dance as well (to my untutored eye) as did the island girls. I remarked on it to the Captain. “They learned to dance that precisely in only four days?”
    He snorted. “They practice every cruise, those who ship with us before. All have practiced at least since San Diego.”
    At that point I recognized one of the dancers—Astrid, the sweet young woman who had let me into “my” stateroom—and I then understood why they had had time and incentive to practice together: These girls were ship’s crew. I looked at her—stared, in fact—with more interest. She caught my eye and smiled. Like a dolt, a bumpkin, instead of smiling back I looked away and blushed, and tried to cover my embarrassment by taking a big sip of the drink I found in my hand.
    One of the kanaka dancers whirled out in front of the white girls and called one of them out for a pair dance. Heaven save me, it was Margrethe!
    I choked up and could not breathe. She was the most blindingly beautiful sight I had ever seen in all my life.
    “ Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from Mount Gilead.
    “ Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor: thy belly is like a heap of wheat set about with lilies.
    “ Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins.
    “ Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee. ”

IV
    Although affliction cometh not forth of the dust,
neither doth trouble spring out of the ground;
yet man is born unto trouble,
as the sparks fly upward.
    Job 5:6-7
    I slowly became aware of myself and wished I had not; a most terrible nightmare was chasing me. I jammed my eyes shut against the light and tried to go back to sleep.
    Native drums were beating in my head; I tried to shut them out by covering my ears.
    They got louder.
    I gave up, opened my eyes and lifted my head. A mistake—my stomach flipflopped and my ears shook. My eyes would not track and those infernal drums were tearing my skull apart.
    I finally got my eyes to track,