AT around two o’clock on the afternoon of 22 August, I left Watuluma on the dinghy with Sydney and Wesley for Salamo.
We came across more huge Milne Bay waves but now I felt used to them. That was until the sea became furious, turned black and seemed to restrain the dinghy which was struggling to pick up speed.
In the struggle, one of the clay pots I carried in my arms cracked and disintegrated before my eyes.
I was trapped somewhere between worrying about the clay pots and worrying about my life.
Wesley, the skipper, saw the demise of the clay pot and told me I wasn’t holding the clay pot properly for a rough sea. He demonstrated how I should hold it on one he was carrying for me.