Aftermath

A few months back a friend sent me a link to a New York Times article on a man who had just sailed for 1,000 days non-stop. He sailed circles around in the Atlantic, and left three years ago with his girlfriend as on-board company. As it happened, she got pregnant, and was ferried to another ship mid-ocean so that he could continue, and his arrival on land was also the occasion of meeting his then 2+ year old son.

Clearly he is someone for whom the journey mattered more than the destination. I have been reflecting on that as we get closer to our intermediate destination on our circumnavigation: Australia. We've sailed over 8,500 miles so far, over about 9 months; at an average speed of about 5 knots, give or take, that's 1700 hours underway, or a little over two months at sea. The balance we have spent at anchor, experiencing the newness of different languages, cultures, climes, and weather. I heard someone say that we don't sail around the world, we anchor around the world.

The time in Tonga has been just right; we spent a week in the islands of Vava'u, and have spent the last week daysailing our way south through the desolate Ha'apai islands of Lifuka, Limu, Telekivavau, and Kelefesia. These are largely uninhabited islands, save for the fishing camps that dot these archipelago's shores. At Telekivivau, we met Ofu, who retired from his job as a Tongan Fisheries Ministry official, bought a 40 foot fishing boat, partnered with a Japanese businessman, and now holds one of 7 licenses to harvest the ubiquitous sea cucumber from these waters.

The sea cucumber is, in shape and appearance, a sea slug; ranging from 1 to 2 feet long, about 5-8 inches in diameter. There are many varieties, but they share one thing in common: they are prized as a delicacy in Asia. Ofu pays a small fleet of local fishermen US $25 each for these cucumbers, and his business is brisk; in a typical week, he'll buy US $7,500 worth of cucumbers for eventual export.

Jennifer and I are very familiar with the sea cucumber; they seem to be everywhere we dive and snorkel, and are probably the most interesting creature I've ever read or heard about. In what can only be described as a Marvel Comics-like ability, sea cucumbers can liquefy their body and squeeze themselves into (and through) impossibly small spaces, only to re-solidify on the other side, and assume their usual configuration. To pull off this stunt, they rely on something called "catch collagen," which can unhook and re-hook the collagen fibers to create an essentially liquid animal. Aquarium keepers take special note of this unique attribute: sea cucumbers can squeeze into pump heads and water filtration systems. Underwater, if you stroke them, they will stiffen and become hard and rigid (no jokes please).

And it's not like they're rare; in deeper waters, sea cucumbers comprise 90 percent of the total mass of the macrofauna, and in New Zealand, they can reach densities of 1,000 animals per square meter. They will form large herds, moving across the deeper floors of our oceans, hunting food (they are scavengers.) When threatened, many varieties can expel parts of their respiratory system from their anus, along with a toxic chemical. Jennifer tried them at a Tongan feast in Vava'u and said they tasted like chewy mushrooms, but the "delicacy" aspect was lost on her.

Ofu told us how they are prepared for export. They are dipped briefly in very hot water, causing their bodies to swell, at which point they are slit open and stored in salt for three days, after which they are boiled for thirty minutes, and then sundried for two weeks. It's an interesting business; we spoke in the 200 meter diameter lagoon adjoining the 2 acre island of Telekivavau; we were the only other boat in the lagoon, and on the shore was a crude plastic tarp shelter with a wood stove and a large cooking pot hanging over the stove. Ofu runs the wholesale side; local fishing boats, none longer than 20 feet or so, with just inches of freeboard, spend days and nights on the water, either free diving for the cucumbers, or use a weighted, barbed spear, juggled from the surface and used to pierce and raise the now-impaled sea cucumber to the surface. When loaded to the gunnels, the boats alight at Telekivavau, offload their catch, and return to sea. At US $25 each, it's not a bad business for the fishermen, and Ofu seems to be doing a bang-up business. When we left him, he was off to one of the other islands to pick up more money to pay the fishermen, leaving behind a small team of Tongans busy dipping sea cucumbers in hot water, salting them, and then laying them out to dry.

We've sailed past these small Tongan fishing boats, and wondered what they were up to; as we anchor our way around the world, we've come to appreciate the mysteries of the journey and the explanations that often lay waiting at our destinations. We stay here in Tongatapu for a few days, picking up a spare part and fueling up, before leaving for Fiji; another journey and another destination. Unlike the 1000-day sailor, we like both the journey and the destination, but in his honor, I penned the following small tribute:

Aftermath

As soon as this storm passes --

When seas settle, clouds clear,

As soon as all that, I might go to work:

Repair tattered sails, frayed lines, splintered rails.

Until then, I tend to the battle:

Each wave, each swell, each gust.

I turn my face into the wind and rain,

Spurn shelter in a world that cannot reward

Passages without landfalls, wind without calm.

I dare the weather, and never mind aftermath.

Jon, October 2010