November 23, 2007

First Week in Abaiang
We've been anchored in the lagoon at Abaiang, Kiribati for almost a week now. It hasn't been a perfect week, but that's not the fault of Abaiang in any way. When we left Tarawa it was in a bit of a rush, with Karen pressing for every minute to get out of the uncomfortable harbor there. She'd had a sore throat since the day before and had a low fever and the pitching there wasn't helping her sleep, so we looked forward to moving to a place where it should be flatter, smoother water. It has made life bearable for Karen, as she tried without success to shake off the respiratory infection she brought from Tarawa. We were assuming it to be a virus, which would not respond to antibiotics, and we just treated her with good food, lots of rest, plenty of fluid. By day four it was clearly no better, and we heard on the radio that Jan, from Watea had caught the same thing as they left going to Abamama Atoll, 70 miles south of here. She had resorted to antibiotics, and was rapidly improving. Karen started on amoxycillan, and is now showing distinct improvement, though it will no doubt be a few days before she is up to normal.
In the meantime, having checked in with the local constable on Wednesday morning, we rented a motorbike from an obliging local fellow, and went exploring along the hard packed gravel road the runs the length of the atoll, along the lagoon side. Spike and Angela from the catamaran Holokai had kindly sent us a note telling us how to find John Thurston, a California native who came to the Pacific Islands in the 1970s and has split his time between here and Papua, New Guinea. He settled back here in 1990, and has built a number of commercial boats as well as chartering his trimaran to government and NGO officials who needed to visit the more remote islands in the vicinity. Particularly since his boatbuilding operation has some similarities to what Jim is doing at Also Island in Fiji, we were anxious to meet him. His house was easy to find, about 5 miles south of the constable's town, because it had a 36 foot catamaran, a 38 foot trimaran, and a 32 foot trawler under construction in his yard. We were warmly recieved by him and his work crew, shown around the yard, and invited to move anchorage to stand off the beach opposite his house. We did a bit more riding around, looking at how crops are grown, and noticing that the vast majority of buildings are the traditional fale, framed in coconut palm timbers, thatched with pandanus fronds, with a low raised floor and no walls to provide the best air flow, a clean comfortable space for working out of the sun in the day and sleeping on mats at night. By mid afternoon we returned the bike, and I waded and swam out to where we'd anchored the dinghy. The lagoon beach is very gently sloped, so when the tide falls to low, there's a 200 yard wide strip of wet sand between the beach and the water. We'd come in at low water, and waded that strip in ankle deep water, but now I was neck deep when I reached the the dinghy. I rowed back to get Karen, and took her back to her bunk. There she has spent most of her time since we got here, with a short break to move Sequester down to John's house, and that evening a visit from John and his friend Tadaawa who we had out to share Thanksgiving dinner. John had sent some vegetables and a cabbage out when we invited them, and that went into a curried pumpkin stew with rice to provide a tasty main course followed by sliced oranges and Karen's home made chocolate pudding. We talked about island life and past travels, looked at pictures, and made tentative plans for a few things to do together. All plans are tentative here; time is flexible, and few things are pressing and imperative. Everything to do with boats revolves around the state of the tide.
While Karen concentrated on healing herself, I amused myself taking a mechanics look at a couple of sick generators, one belonging to John, another to his neighbor and work crewman Timua. While I cleaned carburetors and reset governers I mentioned that I'd like to get to sail one of the local outrigger canoes which are some of the best examples left of the proas, rigged with crab claw sails, that were found all over the Pacific by the early European explorers. The big version, in the 70 foot long range, were one type of vessel the polynesians and melanesians were sailing two millenia ago when they found and settled all of Oceania. Navigators from Magellan to Cook reported in astonishment that the native craft could exceed 18 knots in conditions when their own square rigged ships could rarely reach 10, and averaged closer to 150 miles a day, about 6 knots. Timua was quite happy to take me out for a run around the lagoon so we arranged it for early afternoon the next day when the tide would be up enough to float us off the beach. His proa is one of a few in Abaiang made from plywood rather than planked from timber, stitched together. They are sailed with the little outrigger float always toward the windward side, so instead of tacking to change direction, as conventional western boats do, they perform what is called a shunt. The supporting spars of the sailing rig are pulled out of the shallow holes they ride in, and reset in the opposite end of the boat, and the paddle used as a rudder is passed to the other end as well. The bow becomes the stern, the stern becomes the bow, the wind is on the same side, but the proa is headed in the other direction. It sounds complicated, but the rig itself is so simple and the steering so light that with very little practice it can be accomplished in well under a minutes time, perfectly acceptable for a boat going out to a fishing spot, or carrying goods to the other side of the lagoon. The sails these days are almost all made from ragged scraps of cheap blue plastic tarpaulean. They aren't very big for the size of the proa they power, and the power and weatherliness of such a rig is a bit of a shock to a sailor of "conventional" western rigs, even though we ought to know better by now.
C.A.Marchaj is a Polish physicist who wrote what has to be the definitive text on the fluid dynamics and aerodynamics of sailing, and his wind tunnel comparisons showed clearly that the crab claw outperforms every other form of sail on average over all points of sail. Others excel at one point or another of wind direction or conditions, but overall, the crab claw is the best. That should have been evident to us when it became apparent that with sails woven from pandanus leaves and coconut fiber the Polynesian navigators routinely covered thousands of miles of open ocean, often against
prevailing winds, at a time in history when Europeans were experimenting with how to sail into the wind at all. Not everyone accepts that interpretation of the evidence of the Polynesian migration, but more evidence is produced every year to support it. Recent excavation of an archeological site in southern French Polynesia turned up a stone tool made from a volcanic rock found only in northern Hawaii. That trip is rarely attempted in a well found modern yacht, but evidently it was an established trading route about 800 years ago, and this is consistent with DNA analysis of human and Polynesian rat bones found at ancient digs from the Solomans to Easter Island to New Zealand. I intend to spend some time in Majuro experimenting with what can be achieved using good material to make a crab claw sail.
The catamaran in John's yard had been there for many months. He had built it 8 years ago, and the owners had brought it back to upgrade the worn out 18 HP diesel engines to a pair of new 30 HP units, and to repair the decks. These boats lead a hard life, always overloaded with passengers and gear, and not well maintained. John was just consulting on the refit, with the owners doing the work, and he was quite relieved that they had finally completed it. On Saturday, we heard chain saws cutting lengths of coconut log, and splitting them. Logs were set under the keels as skids, with a sheet of plywood under each rudder to avoid them digging in as the boat was to be rocked and slid down the beach to the shore at low tide. At high water it would float, and they would be away. As expected in these parts, work proceeded behind the proclaimed schedule, but by Sunday morning we saw big, long ropes rigged to the keels, and a crowd of people of all ages and descriptions gathering in the shade of the trees above the beach. We were soon in the dinghy, Karen still not well, but unwilling to miss this. In a half hour I was in the thick of the action, unable to resist making suggestions about where to place skids, and how to keep the keels from digging in using strategically placed men to lift the stern and pull down on ropes from the bow. Tadaawa translated for me, as very little English is spoken here, and they instantly saw the strategy, In minutes we were ranged under the wing deck and along the ropes, with the entire village chattering and laughing, wedging themselves into the crowd along the ropes to get a grip and brace their feet. The village elder, a small, grizzled old man standing by the port stern, made a loud proclamation to get attention, then started a rhythmic chant. The pullers all responded, and at each repetition of "aah-bay-WAAP" there was a united surge back on the lines. The boat rocked, shuddered, then surged down the beach for 10 feet before wedging itself into the sand. Everyone cheered and clapped, and headed for the shade and their shared picnics while the men under the deck moved skids and plywood, boosted the rudders with the same chant to rearrange the ply, then called the villagers back to the ropes. As we formed up for the third time, the big middle aged woman behind me let out a shriek of laughter and started chattering to the whole assembly. She waved her arm back at the old man behind her on the rope, pointing at him, then with an index finger repeatedly poked herself in the left breast so it bounced like a bag of jelly. Everyone hooted and guffawed as the old man sheepishly grinned and wagged his head in denial at the obviously good natured accusation of his assault. It was clear that these people weren't subject to quite the same level of prudish modesty we've seen over most of the South Pacific. Karen meanwhile was mixing with the mothers and children under the trees, taking pictures of the babies, watched over by their older siblings and grandparents, and getting a video clip each time we dragged to boat toward the sea. The whole operation took little more than an hour, and within minutes of the hooting, clapping finale of
the boat reaching the low tide mark, everyone was headed away. We waded back to the dinghy and retired to Sequester for some rest, reading, and later some downloading and sorting of the contents of the camera. It was a great interlude, a village party to get a job done.
Yesterday the antibiotics were beginning to reduce Karen's misery, but she isn't yet up to walking around on the island. So I went in for a long, quiet visit with John, talking about the state of the world and the Pacific in particular, discussing science, religion, philosophy, economics, business, and a little about getting boats built in the boondocks of Oceania. We also traded a couple dozen DVD movies for the time we stay, so we each have a variety of low energy entertainment for the evenings. He loaned us a great little book about the medicinal uses of plants in Kiribati and the Marshall Islands, for some intellectual stimulation. This morning is being consumed with printing photos for the villagers and for John, and writing up the diary here, while we let the watermaker refill the drinking water supply. John's well has provided for the wash water, but for drinking we want the security our high tech machine can deliver. The tide will soon be on the rise, and there are lessons to be learned, so I think I'll leave the keyboard for now. Salutations from Paradise. Ted