Peter was entranced by Tahiti and often entertained Brandy and me with stories about the island: its friendly, beautiful people, its mountains, rivers, beaches, and glistening sea, and its evocation of Gauguin. There was no question that he had loved it there. He met and befriended the son of Gauguin and became something of a notorious beachcomber, at least according to an acquaintance of mine whom I met much later and who had been in Tahiti during Peter’s sojourn. But Tahiti had a law stipulating that a non-indigenous person could not live there for more than a certain number of months in succession. And so, after a few months, Peter moved on to Samoa where he lived for about nine years. He made a living by selling fish, taking tourists sailing, managing an airline safety foundation, and working occasionally for the U.S. Navy, possibly as the captain of a pilot vessel But in one period of two-and-a-half years, according to his notes, he averaged only about $200 a month (in the ‘sixties).
Peter was not alone for very long in Samoa any more than he had been alone during Mama’s long absence. He met and fell in love with a Samoan named Luisa who eventually bore him two daughters. It was difficult enough supporting his new family on the pittance of his earnings, but worse was yet to come. Luisa’s brother moved into Luisa’s and Peter’s small dwelling with his wife and child without even asking permission, presumably a practice encouraged—or at least not discouraged—by the island’s extended family system. A note that Peter drafted to the brother epitomizes the situation and its poignancy.
You broke an agreement with bringing your wife and Baby into the
house. Not asking Luisa first how she would feel about this – not
asking if she would be able to live with your wife in such small house
with so little conveniences is right out rude of you. Luisa tells me that
she feels very unhappy as the children will have again to suffer under
such condition – and this affect me very badly.
To escape the endless wrangling with the brother, Peter moved into a rented single room. But he noted despondently soon after that “I am right now in a rather hardship condition to offer much to the living expenses of my baby and wife Luisa at this time. But I agree herewith to meet the payment of $10 per week . . .”
Missing his Samoan family Peter sought a reconciliation with the brother. And Peter’s good-hearted nature was clearly revealed in his note to the brother.
Luisa and I have agreed to let bygone be bygone that means to
forgive and forget, whatever has happen with the past, and we are both
willing to start over again with renewed love and tenderness, and in our
doings and decisions the concern for the best of our children shall be
our guide line. Can you do the same?
Peter’s heartfelt efforts to close the breach between him and the brother was of no avail, however, and so he drew up a formal separation agreement with Luisa which stipulated his contributions to child support.
If the reader has any lingering suspicion that the liaison between Peter and Luisa was a mere sailor-meets-native-girl fling without emotional depth, one should read the following undated note written to Peter by Luisa at some point in their troubled relationship that turned up in his memorabilia after his death:
Dear Peter,
I’m very
pleased to see you, my sweetheart. I want to be married
to you because I love you very much.
Goodbye, darling, I kiss
you every night.
Love always from Laura
After living alone for a year or so, Peter decided that the only way to escape further entanglement in the Samoan extended-family system and to overcome his persistent poverty was to ship out once again. Moreover, he was now suffering from physical ailments that had been growing worse. He had developed cataracts, partly induced perhaps by exposure to the bright sun on the sea for so many years, and his gums were in terrible condition. He believed that he would receive better health benefits and treatment if he returned to St. Thomas. Leaving the two daughters with their mother, to whom he sent money on a regular basis till his death, Peter took passage with an American boat captain who was headed for the West Indies. And so it was that one day I spotted an elderly man sitting despondently on the water taxi dock in Red Hook. He was now 64 years of age and the year was 1971. He wore thick glasses and was toothless, but occasionally wore his dentures.
Having since looked at a photo about two years before his departure for the South Seas and compared it with my memory of Peter’s appearance when we met shortly after his return, the contrast is startling. Clearly, he had aged much more than ten years. Life in American Somoa had not been kind to Peter physically.
As Alexandra and I soon learned, Peter had found a new cause for disgruntlement in what he perceived as the rundown state of the business that he had proudly established and left in the care of Mama and Per. His daughter Anna had married and his elder son, Lars, had decided to remain in Florida after his schooling, so Mama and Per had been the sole managers for most of the time that Peter was away. And soon after his return Peter became embroiled in arguments with his wife and son about how to conduct their business affairs. Inasmuch as he had left them in the lurch twelve years earlier, however, it was not surprising that they spurned his advice even though he assured Brandy and me that he still loved Mama. That Mama had not been altogether happy with her lot over the years was signified by a small but telling display of bitterness one afternoon before Peter returned from Samoa as she and I were chatting on her porch. I asked in mock dismay over some recent set-back of mine, “Mama, what is the secret of happiness?” And without a moment’s hesitation, she brought her index finger and thumb together as if to signify a pinch of something very small, held it in front of my face, and replied, “Expect very little.”
After a year or so, recognizing that he was redundant and resented, Peter moved out and built a shanty for himself on a small cay, which he called Happy Island and where a number of live-aboards had anchored just off shore. It was located in St. Thomas’ beautiful mangrove lagoon that was only two miles down the road from Red Hook.