When the winds shift to blow from the west in the summer months, on the small Pacific island of Satawal, breadfruits begin to fall from the trees. On the island, a breadfruit on the branch belongs to a particular family or clan, but a fallen breadfruit is fair game; free for anyone to eat.
In the 1970s, when Sisario’s father, master navigator Mau Pialug, first began to help the Hawaiians recover the traditional navigation skills that had faded over generations, some people on Satawal grew angry. Rather than passing traditional knowledge onto those solely within the family, he was giving his skills away like fallen breadfruit – for any outsider to pick up. In 2007, when the Hawaiians built and presented Mau with a Polynesian canoe as a token of thanks for sharing his expertise, Mau christened the canoe Alingano Maisu, which translates to “The Beautification of Fallen Breadfruit.” It was as if he meant to say, see here, look what this fallen breadfruit, this sharing of knowledge, has brought about.
“It’s true that navigation you don’t share it with anybody. My father believes that he needs to share the skills to anyone who is willing to learn and listen so that the skills don’t die away. We will teach anyone who is willing to learn and listen.”
When I heard that Sisario, son of Mau Pialug, was teaching a course at the Palau Community College on Traditional Navigation, I jumped at the chance. I was willing to learn, more than willing to listen.
Sisario was six years old when he joined his father to sail the Polynesian canoe, Hokule’a, from Hawaii to Tahiti. Spanning 34 days, the trip marked an historical landmark for Pacific islanders, proving that it was indeed possible for ancient Polynesians to navigate the Pacific – they had not drifted to new lands as was once thought, but sailed. The striking similarities between Polynesian and Hawaiaan cultures described by Cook were wrought by sailing canoe, not by drifting migrations. When the crew reached the port in Matahiva in 1976, Sisario joined the crew as they took to the town in celebration, weaving through the streets sipping a soda. A few years ago Sisario completed the traditional po ceremony to become a navigator of Satawal, and since then he has been continuing his father’s legacy, teaching a course in neighboring Palau in Micronesia.
On February 20, Sisario’s 3rd class at the Palau Community College embarked on a practical voyage to Ngulu, an atoll 190 miles northeast of Palau and the westernmost island chain of neighboring Yap. We set sail with no GPS, no charts, no sextant. Only stars.
I’m working on an audio piece depicting our journey, but for the time being I thought I should at least post a few clips.
Nine of us sailed from Palau to Ngulu, which lies northeast of Palau and in February, directly into the wind. Tacking back and forth, we sailed for twelve days to reach the island.
Life expands and constricts on the sailing canoe.
Bounded by waves, the shifting horizon, the world is infinitely large. The horizon, stretched taught against pale blue sky, begs thoughts. Zaheena once told me that President Nasheed of the Maldives likes to tell the islanders, “The horizon makes us dream.” Dream I did, a lot.
Within the 40 by 9 foot platform that was our home, life is also magnified. Food is of limited supply, and as we neared Ngulu we ran short of water and were forced to ration. The yellow canvas tarp slung over the bunks is speckled black from wear, and sometimes I imagined we too would acquire a weathered look after a long voyage. Exposed to the sun, wind, and rain with little shelter but a sail, it’s no wonder the crew became close.
I’ll save most of my banter for my audio piece, but here I’d like talk about the incredible people I journeyed with and me, and share stories from two of my fellow crew members, Debbie and Wayne, and George from Ngulu.
All of our ancestors must have sailed somewhere at sometime. For Debbie, a Palauan-American and the only other female on board, much of this trip was about exploring her heritage, and learning what it was that her ancestors, our ancestors, must have gone through.
After a divorce, Debbie left small town Southern Illinois in the early ‘90s as a single mother to move to Palau and rediscover her heritage. That first morning we left, she wore a long red rosary around her neck, the cross a tarnished bronze. Her mother Margie, had given it to her. On her right hand, a gem the size of a walnut glittered – “My S.O.S. ring,” she informed me, “in case we get lost at sea.” Debbie is adventurous, beautiful, fun. She wears electric purple toe polish and a crochet hat with large sunglasses. Now she’s the coach of the national woman’s canoe team, and drives Palau’s only ice cream truck – a van that swims with blue and green rivulets and the limestone rock islands that are a signature for Palau. A scoop of blue ice cream rests on top.
Here’s a story she told me early on about her great grandparents, and the high chief and most powerful man of all Palau, the Ibedul:
Wayne, who was one of the two student navigators on our journey, left Palau when he was still young to work on aircraft carriers in the Navy for four years, traversing the Mediterranean and Atlantic. Like a turtle, he told me, who travels for miles with a memory of his home island imprinted in mind, he came home. An avid collector, when I asked him what he does when not navigating back in Koror, he laughed. “Back in Koror? I sell knock-off souvenirs to unsuspecting tourists.” When I pressed him, “I better not tell you, you’ve probably already bought one.” Wayne is soft-spoken, patient, and quick to laugh. He really went out of his way to make the newbies comfortable on the voyage, but never in a condescending manner. Once, when I began to stumble out over the reef in bare feet to go snorkeling he told me, “Aylie, the ocean gives and it takes. Right now you’re a candidate for the taking.”
We talked a lot about voyages, real and personal, during the trip. This is a story I will always remember, about a hotdog stand in Naples, Italy:
On the night of the full moon, it rained.
“Wakey, Wakey! You’ve got 15 minutes! Get ready for your fresh water shower!” cackled Sisario from outside our bunks. I clung to my blanket, but knew he was right. My watch started at midnight. Elliott and I poked our heads out to look around. The sky was glowing. Absent of moon and stars, everything was cloaked in gauzy, white mist. The boat was pitching in the steely waves, but Sisario stood unwavering, his legs shoulder width apart, arms crossed over his bare chest, laughing into the rain. Kintu whooped as he helped close the main sail. The wind died, and we began to rock back and forth with the swells.
This is the image of Sisario that will forever remain etched in my mind. Fearless. Mirthful. Intensely positive. On a racing yacht, such conditions may well have yielded mayhem – strangled yells and cursing from the captain and crew, a general fog of grumpiness. But not on the Alingano Maisu. For Sisario, this was fun.
And in absence of stars? Sisario could feel where we were going. The swells, the way the boat rocked and creaked, all held meaning to him. I was to learn so much from him on this voyage – more of which I will include in my audio piece.
As we neared Ngulu, we gave way to a little modern technology to give us speed. Elword, one of the Yapese crew from Ulithi, is in Palau to study Outboard and Diesel engines at the Palau Community College. He grew up in one of the outer islands of Yap, an atoll where at low tide you can walk across the sand to neighboring isles. People still sail canoes in Ulithi, and Elword’s grandfather was renowned as a carver of some of the fastest canoes in the atoll. Never tiring, I marveled as he shimmied up the mast with the agility of a monkey ascending a tree. When we finally reached Ngulu, he could barely stop to eat before running off to shoot sea birds or search for turtles. And so when the wind died, it was Elword who rigged the 100 horsepower engine to guide us to Ngulu. It’s his generation afterall that really bridges the gap between modern and traditional sailing.
We finally reached the island on the 12th day. The horizon that had surrounded us for nearly two weeks, interrupted only by the occasional fishing boat or shipping vessel, was suddenly shattered. Off the bow emerged the western-most island of Ngulu atoll. “Like a wave standing still,” Kurt, the other student navigator, told me. A deep crease hooks over Kurt’s left eye, as though he’s locked in a perpetual squint out to sea. And he likely was. Kurt’s driven the launch to Kayangel, Palau’s northern atoll for 15 years now. As we began to approach the island I used to watch him pace the decks, eyes locked on the island we were to eventually reach. First the island rose feathery green and then a thin slice of beach appeared, next the bright green lagoon beyond the breakers.
It was George who came to meet us. He wore a faded wide-rimmed cap, that might have been pink or orange in its earlier life but is now faded to a rusty white. He was quiet upon approach. No one whooped or yelled or slung down bottles of rum. He motored us in and then we waded over the reef and into shore, to a beach washed clean of any refuse but sponges and purple urchin spines.
George grew up on Ngulu, and lives here with his wife, Maria, their nephew Rugmar, and two elderly women. And eight dogs. I asked him when the last time he had left Ngulu. “Recently. I visited Yap in 1994.”
They had prepared a feast for us – coconut crab (my favorite), breadfruit, barbecued fish, fresh drinking coconuts. All of it we ate on young coconut fronds, which we disposed of after eating. Maria, George and Rugmar declined to join us, happy to have a Chicken Cup Noodle we had brought from our stores. That evening Maria strung leis from coconut fronds and elilai, or plumeria, and placed them on our head and shoulders. That night we watched under the moon as a turtle pushed its way up the bank to lay eggs. It retreated quickly, scared perhaps by our presence or thrown off by recent climate changes, said George. We slept well, many of us still rocking, but this time to the rhythm of the crashing waves and swaying palms.
We heard the tsunami warning a week into our journey to Ngulu. It came while I was off watch, rocking in my bunk. There was a moment of silence, but then Sisario laughed. “Well, we better go check on George!” The winds grew shifty and it took us a few more days than anticipated to reach the island. When we came ashore, I asked George what had happened. Here’s an excerpt from our discussion. See if you can hear the coral stones he was passing over in his hand, and the dogs barking.
When George was young 30 some people lived on Ngulu. Debbie and I wandered back to the village one day, along the old coral paths, peering into abandoned houses, the thatch roofs torn open by slanting, yellow sunlight. They built a new radar tower earlier this year, and George hopes that it will bring people back.
Rugmar, three-years-old and brimming with energy, could sure use a friend. His teeth are pearly white. He purses his lips as he struts around the island, joining the dogs in barking as the boat brought forth more supplies. Twice I watched him flip through the same book by Pearl Buck, eagerly awaiting an explanation for each illustration from Maria. One morning, as he paved trails in the sand with a washed up glass bottle, I intoned “beep beep” when he came near. It didn’t register. Then I realized, Rugmar has never heard what a car sounds like. He doesn’t need toys, or t.v. to entertain him, only the sand, and the waves, and the wind.
We waved goodbye to Maria, George, and Rugmar after breakfast on the second day, heading northward for a night on the northern atoll. The island we visited was uninhabited, nicknamed Turtle Island by the crew. “It’s amazing how beautiful nature is when you just let it alone,” said Wayne. And he was right. As we approached we spotted two turtles mating, and later, when I set out to snorkel on a reef unscarred by sun or man, a turtle swam right up to me. I was intrigued at first, until it dawned on me that I might just be the biggest female this turtle had ever laid eyes on, and batted him away.
At the bow to man the anchor were Ben and Kintu. Ben, also a paddler, form Ulithi, strong limbed, he turned 31 on the trip, and his hair is just beginning to sprout silver hairs. Ben was always quick to make a joke and to laugh on the trip. He recently left a job at the resort in Palau and was eager to join the trip and see Ngulu. Kintu, whose cheeks are pocked in a perpetual whistle, was the quietest on board. Resolutely patient, he claimed first in command after Sisario. Often he was bobbing on the steering paddle, unbothered by wind or sun. When a meal was prepared, he always shrugged it away. “Later,” he would say. These guys, after all, are tough. On the local canoes they’ll often go days with only little food and water, no tarp to shield them from the sun. Eating day old rice or the last scrapings of the pot was no big deal. He’s also from Satawal, and one day hopes to become a master navigator.
That last night in Turtle Island Wayne and Kurt went spear-fishing and Debbie whipped up ceviche and Wayne typical Palau fare, salt and oil soup, my favorite. The next morning we made a bearing towards Palau, this time Debbie and Elliot navigating.
Elliott Benzle!
“Elliott, with knives, from Ohio.” That’s what I first wrote in my journal about Elliott. Elliott was the glue for our passage. He brought games, comics, pepperoni, climbed coconut and apple trees. By the end he was crowned the General. Elliot with knives flew 22 hours to get here for this trip. Elaborate tattoos swirl round his left arm, “Cherish the things you love” reads one verse in Cambodian, a map of his travels and life experiences. At a party in Taiwan, Elliot confessed to a friend that he’d love to move to Hawaii, but thought it was too expensive. “Go to Palau! It’s like Hawaii but cheaper!” So Elliot enrolled in a Beginner’s Chinese course at the Community College, gaining lodging in the dorms – utilitarian, light-buzzing rooms. The next semester he was hired by the Development Office to teach English, write a newsletter and do web design for the college. He’s an adventuring type. His next journey – a scooter trip across China and into Mongolia in summer of 2011. As for knives? Nothing serious, but they came in mighty useful for filleting fish for sashimi. Check out Elliott´s new site about our trip (contact him if you would like to design a website like his at www.ShatterBoxWebDesign.com!)! 2009-2010 Traditional Navigation and Sailing
We steered for Orion on the way home, as he set over the western horizon. It took us just under 36 hours to spot Palau, and then half a day to approach the dark hills that form the main island of Babeldaob.
I was sad to leave the boat. The tiny world that had been ours for 16 days was now rapidly crumbling, or expanding, bursting. A game of billiards flashed on a flat screen t.v. in one of waterside bars as we motored through the channel to the port, and we all grew silent. The stars dimmed as the glow of the capital Koror gave way to buildings, a stadium, bridges.
I marveled at the simple, bare-bones lifestyle we had adopted during our trip. Inside I worried, would it fade too? The journey had been one of survival, and I felt closer to a past and a history, than I ever had before.
Could I take that back with me?
In the weeks following the trip, I have found solace in the fact that over thousands of years, through wars, famine, changes in climate, industrialization, colonization, globalization, the stars have remained (more or less) the same. As the stars pass over the Pacific and the world, they are still guiding sailors. In my own voyage, let that simplicity and sense of survival rest among them.
Few master navigators remain in the Pacific. But with the conviction of master navigators like Sisario and his father, to teach anyone who is willing to listen and learn, perhaps one day it will flourish again. And then the sky can remain bright, etched with meaning, far more than an inky pool above.
If you are interested in joining one of Sisario’s courses, or in funding the program at PCC, please contact me and I can put you in touch with the Palau Voyaging Association. Any and all support is needed and appreciated.
On one of my last nights in Palau we had a slideshow of our journey at Debbie’s. It was raining, so we moved next door to her neighbor’s porch. Kelly and Theo were eager to hear about our journey. When they heard that I was leaving, Kelly plucked one of his beautiful paintings – of an outrigger canoe approaching Palau – from the wall and handed it to me. Its frame is made from driftwood, and everyone there signed the back, drawing a fantastical recreation of our voyage to Ngulu and back (fueled I think by our party spirit). It never ceases to amaze me how kind strangers can be.
Thank you Kelly, and Theo, Sisario and Crew, Debbie, Elliott and Wayne, for a fantastic voyage. I know it’s trite to call it life-changing, so I won’t. But life-altering, confirming it was.
March 18, 2010
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