1
Doctor, the captain told me
we were in the South Seas now.
Right in the heart of them.
That's right, madame.
The South Sea islands.
The last hiding place
of beauty and adventure.
That's what all the travel folders say.
I thought you'd been here before,
and that you adored the islands.
Yes, I do in my own way.
What's that wretched-looking spot
we're passing?
It's one of the South Sea isles.
Nothing like that is mentioned
in the folders.
Well, it's a little in disrepute.
It was mentioned
in all the folders once.
That silly-looking sand waste?
Has it a name?
It's the island of Manukura.
That was once the most beautiful
of all the islands...
that raised their little green heads
above these waters.
The most beautiful and enchanting
bit of paradise in all the world.
I always throw it a kiss when I pass it.
Excuse me, madame.
What happened to it?
It made the mistake of being born
in the heart of the hurricane belt.
You've stolen a canoe.
Stealing is against the law.
You must pay the penalty
for breaking the law.
You are sentenced to 30 days punishment.
When you have finished 30 days, you will
know better than to break the law again.
I don't understand.
He says...
He's defending himself against the power
of the French government and very ably.
Does he deny the theft?
No. He offers in rebuttal
that there was moonlight.
An awful lot of it.
And his lady love says...
she saw a gold fish in the sea.
My dear doctor...
I am as sensitive to the whims of love
as the next man.
But as governor of these islands,
I cannot afford...
to sit 'round admiring
the quaint and the curious.
Thirty days, my good fellow.
It's not exactly my business,
de Laage...
but you've only been here a year.
Whereas I, indolent wretch...
have spent a pitifully long time
on these islands.
- I know these people.
- You're wasting your time pleading.
I'm not pleading.
I'm pleading for you...
not this scoundrel of a canoe thief.
You're a sensitive man.
You'll do something to yourself if you
govern these somewhat childish people...
according to your ideas
instead of theirs.
You'll destroy yourself.
That sounds very ominous. What is that?
Father Paul has sighted the Katopua.
- He's chattering in his belfry.
- Come along, Doctor.
You can complain about
my tyrannical soul to Madame de Laage.
Your wife will like it if you let
this miserable canoe-snatcher go.
As a homecoming gift!
Chief Mehevi, he's sentenced to
30 days hard labor on the coral reef.
My dear Doctor...
I am ready to give my wife and my
friends anything I own in the world...
except my sense of honor and duty.
A sense of honor in the South Seas
is about as useful and often as silly...
as a silk hat in a hurricane.
Marama!
- I think the ship never comes home.
- Me, too.
I think the wind never blows.
I feel like praying...
for the wind that overturns the world
to hurry the Katopua home.
I worry about everything
when you're away.
About the wind, the waves.
Sometimes I worry the fish eat you up.
Me? You worry about me?
- Why I'm the best sailor in the world!
- I know.
- I'm the best swimmer, too.
- I know.
And tonight when we come out of church,
I'm the best husband in the world.
- I know, I know.
- Shut up. You don't know anything yet.
Eugene.
- Oh, Germaine.
- Darling, it seemed forever!
All my happiness went with you
to France...
but it's returned now.
O Heavenly Father...
we thank Thee for the safe return
of our loved ones.
Amen.
Your health, madame.
We certainly missed
your civilizing influence.
Here's to your homecoming.
Your health, Doctor, and Father Paul's
and yours, Chief Mehevi.
All our people are happy
that you come back.
Thank you. Tell me, Father Paul...
how's my husband been
conducting himself in my absence?
Like a good governor.
- Has he fallen under the tropic's spell?
- No, madame!
He's been staunchly under the spell
of honor and duty.
I don't suppose there's any use
of my inquiring...
whether my uncle answered
my application to return to France?
No. He said nothing.
Farewell, old Cafe de Rostand
for another year.
I'm sorry.
Yes. And in Paris, our good doctor
would weep day and night...
for his little half-drowned homeland...
the island of Manukura.
Why, he's as deeply rooted in this place
as I am, or Chief Mehevi.
My roots are parched, Captain.
We'll drink this one to Mehevi.
I brought him back the finest
bridegroom in the islands.
Yes, I know. I see him jump from mast.
Who's that?
Terangi.
I'm delighted to hear the news. I didn't
know he was marrying your daughter.
You've been too busy
with your report cards to France.
The romance is known
to every child in the islands.
I'm delighted.
Terangi is utterly charming.
He was delightful on the trip.
He'd hang from the top of the mast like
a bird with wings stretched for home.
I hope you'll be able to leave him
behind for one voyage, Captain.
He's planning on spending
his honeymoon in a canoe.
It won't be a long honeymoon.
I'd as soon sail without sails
as without my first mate.
The more I see these natives, the more
I think they're more bird than man.
Terangi can smell a wind
before it's begun to blow.
He knows every rock on the sea bottom...
and he runs a ship
as if it were a pair of shoes.
I was saying that very thing
to de Laage.
I wasted ten good minutes pointing out
he's the governor of a flock of birds.
Not birds that should be put
in a cage...
but birds that should be allowed to
flutter through the sky which they own.
With stolen canoes in their bills,
you forgot to mention.
When are the nuptials
to take place, Father?
The wedding will begin at sundown...
and will continue until the entire
native population is exhausted.
Wait a minute. I wanna give a toast.
My dear people...
I am very happy and I'm a little sad...
because when I return to France...
any day now...
I shall miss your happy faces.
But I leave with you
my very, very dearest love.
And to Terangi...
and Marama...
Terangi, I had a dream.
I had no dream. I slept.
Terangi, don't sail away on the ship.
Without me, the ship doesn't move.
It stands still in the middle of a wind.
Don't sail away.
I don't want to,
but I smell a wind coming.
By noon, the wind will be good.
I dreamed that all the birds
flew away from Manukura.
From Manukura?
Where did they fly to?
There's no place to go.
They flew away.
Did you dream there was a wind?
No. It was quiet.
Only the sky
was full of birds flying away.
The dream's no good.
Because how could the birds fly away
if there is no wind?
They only leave
when the ifu mantui comes.
The wind that overturns the world.
The world is gone when you go away.
Stay here.
You're married a few days and already
you're an old wife full of worries.
What are you worried about?
- About your going away.
- I come back!
- If something happens to the boat...
- I swim back. Where's my cap?
It's very funny what a difference
a cap makes in the world.
In Tahiti, when I wear this cap,
everybody is my friend.
You think I'm just Terangi who swam
with you when you were a little fish.
In Tahiti, when I sit in a cafe with
this cap on I'm the same as a white man.
Take me with you.
No, please. I like to, but I can't.
Please! I won't take any room.
I'll sleep on top of the mast.
You can hang me over the boat's side
at night and pull me along with a rope.
Only take me. Please, take me.
Quiet, quiet.
What in blazes are you doin' aboard
this boat, Marama?
Please, I go to Tahiti.
- How did she get aboard? You bring her?
- No, I come in a bag like a coconut.
What's wrong with going to Tahiti?
I never been. I go just once.
Listen, the longer you stay aboard,
the further you'll have to swim back.
You have no reason to go to Tahiti.
Oh, yes. I buy a dress with a ribbon on.
And red shoes with high heels.
And a hat with a feather,
and a petticoat with flounces.
And a doll that dances.
All right. You stay on board.
But we'll take Terangi's cap away
and he's through being a first mate.
I can't have a first mate with a bride.
He'll be an ordinary sailor.
Scrubbing decks. Gimme that cap.
Oh, no, no. Don't take his cap.
No, Terangi, he won't.
Good-bye.
Hurry back.
Aloha!
I can't give you anything but love
Marama!
Get up!
Get up!
Get up, I said!
Clear out!
Get up when a white man tells ya!
Terangi, get back on the ship.
My warrant says
the man's jaw was broken.
I don't care if his jaw was broken!
Pity it wasn't his neck.
I saw the whole thing,
and my mate is not to blame.
If you're his witness, Captain,
there won't be any trouble.
But he's got to be surrendered.
All right. Come on.
But I'm going along.
I'll see the governor about this.
I've spent hours, Governor,
trying to find out why my first mate...
is sentenced to six months in jail
for doing exactly as you or I would do.
Your boy hits too hard.
Not hard enough. I saw the whole thing.
I even testified in court.
The sentence is unjust.
But surely six months in jail
isn't unheard of...
in a serious case
of assault and battery.
Come, Nagle, it isn't a matter
of life and death.
You don't know the Tuamotu natives.
They're not like your Tahitians.
They can't stand confinement.
There's something behind this. A matter
of maintaining European prestige?
A native mustn't raise his hand
against a white man?
Your boy not only hit too hard...
but he hit the wrong man.
That rum-soaked bully.
Strange as it seems,
he has influence at home.
As soon as he recovered consciousness
in the hospital...
he cabled the Ministry of Colonies.
So Terangi is made a victim of politics.
I'm afraid you're right, Nagle.
I sail for Manukura in three days.
You can't pardon him?
Later, perhaps. Not now.
I've done all I can.
You'll have to take your punishment
quietly and cheerfully.
You hit too hard, man. That's all.
The next time you hit a man,
take care not to break his jaw.
You're too much of a man
to store up any bitterness.
Your berth will be waiting on my ship.
Time will pass quickly.
I'll explain everything to your wife.
Will you give her this?
Sure, I will.
Don't you worry about her.
Remember what I've told you.
I'll tell you what I'll do.
I'll put him on the road gang.
Keep him outdoors all day.
He's going to take his medicine
all right.
I hope so.
Wasting water, eh, convict?
The Katopua.
And wouldn't you like
to be going home on her!
Come on, pick 'em up. Get movin'.
Captain Nagle!
Chappeli, coffee.
Captain Nagle!
I wouldn't have had this happen
for anything, son.
It just hangs another year
on your sentence. That's the penalty.
That's what I've got to go by: The law.
Lucky you didn't break from the inside.
That would've added five years.
Now you behave yourself.
We don't want to keep you here
any longer than we've got to.
The long and short of it was,
I couldn't do a thing for Terangi.
How silly, how unjust.
- It's up to you.
- To me?
I fail to see in what way.
As governor of his island, you can ask
to have him paroled in your care.
And much as I should like
to do just that...
I don't think it wise to interfere
with the administration of the law.
Oh, administration of fiddlesticks!
The man's absolutely right.
It isn't a matter of law.
It's political pull and injustice.
Just a minute. Let me explain the case
a little less legally.
De Laage, our friend Terangi
isn't just an errand-running islander.
He's the best loved of every man, woman
and three-year-old child in Manukura.
You're not only allowing him to rot
in jail, but offending your subjects.
And what's worse,
you're hurting yourself.
Your concern for my soul
has flattered me for some time.
I must ask you to concern yourself
with my more physical ailments.
He means well, dear.
He's only saying what we all think.
I know he means well.
I know you all mean well.
But I am not the representative
of well-meaning points of view.
I represent a civilization...
that cannot afford to show confusion
or conflict to the people it governs.
The law has spoken in Tahiti.
I must uphold that law.
Would it influence
your sense of duty at all...
to know that Mrs. Terangi
is about to be a mother?
Really?
That's wonderful!
That puts everything in a different
light. Explain to the authorities.
No. It puts me in a worse light.
Now I'm not only Terangi's persecutor,
I'm the oppressor of an unborn child.
I think it's unfair to appeal
to a side of me that's very strong...
but that simply cannot
function as governor.
I understand you, de Laage.
Thank you.
And my heart feels sad for you.
Though six months isn't forever.
Terangi's young.
Let's make the best of it.
So easy to say, Father.
But I have to tell her.
Yes. He sent her a little gift.
Oh, I'll take it to her.
There's no need for you
to put yourself out, darling.
Yes, there is.
In six months, it'll all be over.
He'll be back, and you'll both
forget so soon.
Go away.
I want you to come with me and live
in my house while you're waiting.
There's a lovely garden
and you can sit...
I don't go to your house.
It'll be easier.
I don't want it any easier.
Terangi in a jail.
You're right.
It won't be long...
because no jail can hold Terangi
very long.
If it has a window, he'll fly away.
If it has water around it,
he'll swim away.
And everybody will laugh at the jail
that tried to hold Terangi.
They'll laugh.
It's another two years, Terangi.
Every time you try to break out,
it's two more years.
Understand? Two more years.
That's two more years, Terangi.
He cannot possibly escape.
- You have jurisdiction over this case!
- I don't deny it.
You're the only man who can save him
from this mad thing that's happening.
- He's broken the law.
- What law?
The law that condemned him
unjustly to prison?
That refused him the simple rights
of a human being?
I can't.
Eugene, don't be angry
at what I'm going to say.
I love you. I know your heart.
Please stop. My feelings are my own.
I won't have them discussed.
Sixteen years in a cell with rats
for companions! And for what?
For thinking himself
greater than the law.
For breaking jail.
For defying authority.
Man alive! You can't do it!
You know what these people are,
and Terangi's the best of them.
He'll not live in a cell! He'll die!
You're condemning
an innocent man to death...
out of a cold-blooded whim
called honor and duty.
Will you listen to Mehevi? Perhaps
the chief can think of something.
Tell him what you think would be just.
Excellency...
the people in my island
were all happy before.
Now they're very unhappy.
This is not good law or good justice.
You once asked me not to worry
about your soul...
but to concern myself
with more pharmaceutical matters.
Well, I'm back on that worry.
You're not only condemning poor Terangi,
you're condemning yourself.
You're condemning yourself to black
nights and dreams of ugly remorse...
to the betterment of a man who prefers
to be a martinet instead of a human.
You'll see your guilt as a man
written in every face in Manukura.
You'll walk as if you were dead among
them, without a smile or a greeting...
if you lived in these islands
for 100 years.
It'll dry you up!
Itll kill your heart.
I am doing my duty.
I come of a family that has administered
my country's affairs for generations.
I understand how strongly
your humanitarian feelings run.
And yours, Germaine, and yours, Mehevi.
Understand mine then. They run as deep.
There is no Terangi.
There is only a man who has set himself
above and beyond the law.
It is not a question of justice
or injustice to a human being.
It is a question of upholding the law
under which these islands are governed.
I am not asking for anyone's smiles
as my reward.
Take a good look, convict.
You haven't got fat Sam to deal with.
He wouldn't take my advice
and now he's out.
And now I'm in.
And by all that's holy, you're in.
And you're gonna serve every day
of your 16 years.
And if you ever want
that iron off your leg...
you're gonna break, see?
You're gonna open that ugly mouth
of yours and act like a human being!
Get that door open! Hurry up!
Come on, you blundering fool!
Warden.
Did you ask the doctor over tonight
for chess?
Yes. I'm sorry, he was busy.
And Father Paul?
He had a christening.
What's that noise?
I don't know.
There's no festival this time of year.
What are you going to do?
Gonna have a walk, take a look around.
I'll go with you.
Get your wrap.
I will.
Perhaps it's something nice, a native
dance we haven't been told about.
Get your wrap.
Mehevi!
I heard this noise.
I came here to find out what it was.
The people are celebrating, Excellency.
- What are they celebrating?
- Their happiness, Excellency.
- What has given them happiness?
- Terangi.
- What about him?
- He has escaped, Excellency.
When did you hear this?
Who brought the news?
I have had no official report.
600 miles from Tahiti.
The drums have brought the news.
The birds have brought it.
Do you hear that wind?
It came on the wind.
What have you got to say to all this?
Is there any law against dancing
and singing when the heart's happy?
As your governor, I demand
what information you have.
Is he on this island? Have you seen him?
You don't have to see him.
He's a legend.
You can celebrate him like Bastille Day.
He's the soul and symbol
of all these good people.
No cage can hold 'em.
They're the last of the world's
afflicted race of humans...
who believe in freedom.
Look at 'em dance!
There's the island's answer to your law.
How long have you known of his escape?
- The last voyage.
- Why wasn't I informed?
It was an official matter.
I saw no reason to interfere with the
excellent official communication system.
Murder!
Did you know there was a man
murdered by him?
He broke the bars that held him
in a cage he didn't belong.
But murder!
I imagine this puts an end
to the legend of Terangi.
There'll be no more escapes.
He'll be caught
and sent where he belongs.
Sent to the fortress of Cayenne
and stowed away in a dungeon...
until he's dead and forgotten.
Dead and forgotten like any law breaker.
Murder and anarchy
will leave no legend behind.
Father!
- What do you see, lad?
- There.
What is it? A log?
No. There's a man hanging on it.
Feel better?
Yes, Father.
And you came from Tahiti in that canoe?
Yes.
At least 600 miles.
Why did you come?
I want to go home.
They say you killed a man.
I don't know.
I hit him hard.
- Did you mean to kill?
- No! Only to go home.
You're only a few miles away now.
Before you tell, Father,
let me go home for one day.
I have a daughter.
I've never seen her.
And Marama.
Tell me, Father, has she waited for me?
Yes, she's waited.
It's good to be alive...
after being drowned.
How can I be your judge?
You've sinned, but others
have sinned more against you.
You weren't meant for evil.
You were made to do evil.
How can I judge?
You won't tell, Father?
No.
We found you in the sea,
we shall leave you on land...
near to those who love you.
No, you owe me no thanks, my son.
This is between me...
and somebody else.
Father, can I tell Marama that Terangi's
waiting for her on Motu Tonga?
No need to. She's there.
Went there yesterday, fishing.
To Motu Tonga? He doesn't know it.
Why didn't you tell him?
What? And spoil their surprise
tomorrow morning?
You young rascal, I'm ashamed of you.
Mama, I saw a man.
A strange man.
A strange man?
Why, Tita, there are no strange men.
Marama, I've come back.
I've been waiting.
Eight years. Long time.
You are the same.
You?
The same.
Who is that?
She is Tita.
Mine?
Yes.
This is what I dreamed of all the time.
I dreamed I'd see you again,
and my child.
They'll find you and take you away.
They can't take this hour away,
or this day.
They can only take away tomorrow.
I heard.
I have waited as long as I dared.
You must go now.
- They know?
- The island knows, but not de Laage.
Not yet. He will find out.
He will hunt you down.
De Laage?
Why will he hunt me?
What have I done against him?
His heart is black against you.
You must go tonight.
- Where, Father?
- Fenua Ino.
Fenua Ino. The forbidden place.
It is taboo. No one goes there.
No one will look there.
You will be safe there until you die.
Stay hidden till the darkness.
We will load my big canoe.
You will start
when the island is asleep.
Gee, quite a wind coming up.
This is the worst I've seen or heard
for a long time.
Like devils running around.
Can you imagine Paris
in a wind like this?
All the silk hats blowing off,
all the bouquets blowing away.
All the ashcans bouncing
down the avenue.
I'm afraid civilization wouldn't look
very pretty in a high wind.
I've missed you
from our dinner table, Doctor.
Eugene's been pining for a game of chess
for a long time.
So have I. You know...
Eugene and I have been having a feud.
- Cognac, Doctor?
- No, thanks.
Sort of a battle of souls.
Let's check our souls for tonight,
de Laage.
Let's be Frenchmen, both of us.
You're not angry at the doctor, are you?
No, I'm not angry at anyone.
It's they who are angry with me,
all of them.
Black looks and mutterings.
Father Paul! Why isn't he here tonight?
Praying for my soul, I suppose.
They love their precious murderer.
Let's forget Terangi, just for tonight.
Forget him? He haunts this island
like a school of ghosts.
I can no longer sense what's going on.
I took a walk through the village today.
- There's something strange in the air.
- Strange?
Well, the wind gives the island
a different smell.
No, not the wind.
The natives behaved queerly.
Some of them smiled at me.
Kept watching me and smiling.
I had a feeling something queer
was going on behind my back.
Something strange. Hidden.
Important.
The only thing important that's
happening in the village today...
is that Mama Rua is dying.
Terangi's mother.
Afraid she's gonna die.
And Marama's sister's having a baby.
I play a kind of chess game...
with the oldest gambler
in the world: Death.
He takes Mama Rua...
and I checkmate him with a baby.
I think I'll have
another drop of cognac...
just to keep the wind out of my bones
on the way home.
I've never been on the island
in a storm. Do they get bad?
I've heard tales of them.
Winds that blow the islands
out of the sea.
But I think Manukura
is pretty well anchored.
At least part of it.
The devil's abroad tonight!
We're all on edge tonight.
What are you doing, boy?
Answer me.
What are you up to?
What are you doing
with the chief's canoe?
Stealing?
Stubborn, eh? Very well.
Come along to Father Paul's house
with me.
Be careful with the sail.
- Excuse me coming at this hour, Father.
- You are welcome.
- I want your help.
- It's yours, de Laage.
- You know this boy?
- Yes. Mako. He's a good boy.
- He won't lie to you, Father Paul.
- Oh, no.
Ask him where he was going
with that canoe.
Whose canoe?
A boat loaded with food.
Food being smuggled to Terangi.
He's on this island. He's being hidden.
He's waiting for the boy in that canoe.
Father, I didn't tell! I didn't tell!
Hear that? He confesses.
Captain Nagle smuggled him in.
I'd been waiting for that.
And you refused to come
to my home tonight. Why?
Because you know. You were afraid
to face me. You're guilty.
They're all guilty. The whole island.
I'll break Nagle for this.
Neither this boy nor Captain Nagle
had anything to do with it.
Terangi was picked up at sea
ten miles from here.
By whom?
You! When?
Last night.
You helped Terangi.
You, my own priest!
- I'm his priest, too.
- You helped a murderer.
I aided a man whose heart is innocent.
You betrayed your own government.
You've given aid to anarchy
and bloodshed.
- I'll answer for it.
- You'll answer me, Priest.
- Where is he?
- I don't know.
He knows! You're in the presence
of your own priest, boy!
You dare not lie. Where is Terangi?
Would you ask this child
to betray someone he loves?
I'm asking him to tell the law
what he knows.
The government demands information
against the murderer.
There are stronger things
than governments in this world.
Something deeper.
More real.
This child has that in his heart.
Though you tortured him,
he wouldn't speak.
He shall pay for his silence.
And I shall bless him for it.
- I've never seen the barometer so low.
- Did you send my note to Captain Nagle?
Yes, he's waiting inside.
I'll come to the point at once.
I am commandeering your schooner.
- This wind is too strong to be out in.
- How soon can you be ready to sail?
- The weather's bad.
- How soon can you be ready to sail?
- Nagle's thinking of your safety.
- He's trying to frighten you.
I'm not trying to frighten anybody.
We can't find Terangi in this storm.
- It'll get worse.
- It'll blow itself out in 24 hours.
If I delay, it may be too late.
He'll get away.
We're in the track of a rising wind.
The barometer's falling!
- You must listen.
- I'll listen to one voice, my own.
De Laage, I told you
you'll end by destroying yourself.
I'm ordering your schooner
in the name of the government.
Take him along.
Go out in this wind, de Laage.
Maybe you'll find something
more important than Terangi.
When you feel the might of the sea
and wind, maybe you'll discover...
there's something greater in this world
than the French criminal code.
Terangi's out there.
He's paddling through this storm
in a canoe.
Go chase him. Then hear God howl
and laugh at you.
- Get your ship ready.
- I'll be ready when you are.
Oh, Eugene.
Look! What is it?
The birds. They're flying away,
like your dream.
- Terangi, where are you going?
- Back to Manukura.
Look!
The great storm is coming,
the wind that overturns the land.
Go to Tavi's store.
Get ropes. Anchor your houses.
Take to the trees
if the sea should cover the land.
- Go quickly!
- Go!
- What's that?
- Either the wind or end of the world.
And me with a baby to deliver.
- Take her to the church.
- No. Surf boat! Surf boat better.
Surf boats? Are you crazy?
Sea will cover land. Surf boat better!
All right, take her to the surf boats.
Surf boats! And I commit suicide.
- You'll need me to help you.
- Everyone go to the church.
No! Sea rising. Carry church away.
No, the church is on high ground.
Come with me.
No, come to the boat!
Come on.
The reef!
It's breaking.
Come on!
Come on!
Father, will the sea rise
and cover the island?
We're on the highest spot here,
my daughter.
Even if the sea reaches us,
the walls will keep it out.
The church! It's going!
Father Paul, come. The sea is breaking
in. The walls are going. Look!
Take those who want to go.
I am staying here.
You will drown.
You saved me. Take my arm
and let me save you.
- No, my son. Take madame.
- No, I'll stay here with you.
Take her back safe to the world
that has wronged you.
Please, madame, go. Terangi, take her.
Yes, Father.
Those of you who wish to go, go now.
Those who wish to sing with me
for the last time, stay.
Where is the child?
There.
Is it boy or girl?
You don't know! You haven't got it!
It's dead!
No, my daughter. It's here, alive.
It's a boy!
How many survivors, Doctor?
Is that all?
Germaine, my wife?
I wish it could've been me
instead of her.
I gave you up as well.
How did you pull through?
We were at the edge of the hurricane.
You were at the center.
What is it, Terangi?
A canoe.
A war canoe.
Then Father Paul took your wife to
the church. It seemed the safest place.
I'd have gone too,
except I couldn't desert my patient.
That's the last you saw of her?
It grew so dark, you couldn't see
the church from the reef boat.
But when that bell stopped ringing,
I knew what happened.
As soon as you can get your
engine running, we'll make a search...
for survivors.
I must make a report, list all dead.
I shall want all details.
Come with me to the ship.
The ship will find us. I know that.
The ship will come,
and then they'll take Terangi.
Oh, no, Marama, no.
But I know they will.
Terangi knows it.
But I'll make them take Tita
and me, too.
Be quiet, Marama.
It doesn't matter now.
We're lucky to be alive.
Katopua.
- Good-bye, Marama.
- Good-bye, madame.
Good-bye, little Tita.
God bless you, Terangi.
Captain!
Easy left!
Germaine.
My dear. My dear.
I thought I lost you,
but I never gave up hope.
Germaine, forgive me.
Forgive you? For what?
For everything I failed to be
since we were married.
I faced it all today.
I've nearly gone mad.
Take me back to the boat now.
I'm so dreadfully tired.
I know, dear.
- Where are the others?
- There are no others. Not a soul.
I was tied to a tree and drifted here
alone. All the others were lost.
Let's go back to the boat.
Eugene, take me back to the boat!
There's something out there.
It's only a floating log.
You're right, Germaine.
It's only a floating log.