Waiting to Exhale in Micronesia

Over 2,000 miles southwest of Hawaii you’ll find the real definition of island time, in the Marshall Islands.

Text by Terence Loose Photos by Larry Dunmire

T

o paraphrase a great poet, life in Micronesia’s Marshall Islands is what happens while you’re waiting for the boat. That was the realization I came to on the seventh day of my visit to the beautiful and isolated atoll nation 2,200 miles southwest of Hawaii. Over the past week I had waited for a lot of boats.

At the moment, I was waiting for a fleet of them – 17 traditional 20-foot sailing canoes called tipnols were lined up on the beach supposedly awaiting a starter’s gun for the Seventh Annual Outrigger Marshall Islands National Cup. Pride, tradition and some cash were on the line. But you’d never know it from the way the two-man crews lazed around the shoreline or relaxed in the shade of colorful sails.

I couldn’t blame them for lacking the competitive spirit, of course. My feet were immersed in the 85-degree crystal clear water of Majuro’s lagoon while a strong tropical sun warmed my skin. I felt the gentle trade wind. I looked out across the large serene lagoon, which is surrounded by 57 small islets to form a 67-mile perimeter with a highest point of 20 feet. Like a beach-and-palm-colored necklace floating on the deep blue Pacific.

Still, my total tropical calm could not win over the part of me that had fallen into a perpetual but futile state of readiness, the state most westerners probably find in the Marshalls.

“So, when do you think this thing will start?” I asked a big round-faced Marshallese man sitting in the shade of a nearby palm.

“Soon,” he said, and smiled. Yes, there was that Marshallese smile again. The one that was sincere, friendly, and loosely translated, meant, “I have no idea, but why do you care?” Marshall Islanders have perfected the smile. “Soon,” however, they do terribly.

And so I waited, the hold up being one of the entrants’ damaged tipnol.

The race represented a celebration of and return to – if only for a day – the strong Marshall Islanders’ heritage of expert watermen, on a par with any of the Polynesians. With 29 atolls and five islands comprising a total land mass of just 70 square miles spread over 775,000 square miles of ocean, fast, seaworthy vessels were vital to the survival of the Marshallese people. For 2,000 years they used korkors and their larger equivalents – tipnols and walaps, which topped out at 100 feet – for fishing, transport and warfare. In these open boats the Marshall Islanders covered huge expanses of open ocean, using the patterns made by swells and currents as they twisted around and between various atolls to find their way. To teach these wave patterns, they created the deceptively simple stick chart: flat pieces of wood tied together to represent the currents around atolls, which in turn were represented with shells.

But following WWII the Marshalls became a U.S. protectorate and canoe-building, a skill passed down through oral teaching, began to die out, replaced by the desire for motorboats. The art of canoe and stick chart building were relegated to cheap imitations sold in tourist shops. Over the past 10 years, however, canoe culture has received renewed life, thanks to a new generation of Marshallese who want to preserve their ancestors’ knowledge, and in 1997 the first national korkor championship was organized. A huge success, it has now become a two-day event sponsored by the region’s finest hotel, the Outrigger Marshall Islands Resort.

I had naively thought that of all things, this national sailing race would start on time, that any entrant not ready would lose his shot at the prize. But that was strictly one-dimensional American thinking; it left no room for tradition, respect, kindness – what the race was truly about. In short, it left no room for Marshallese thinking, which was hard at work at that moment a hundred yards down the beach where a half dozen men – most of them competitors – struggled to fix the damaged boat. No easy chore, the repair was now in its second hour and a race scheduled to start at nine a.m. would be lucky to make noon.

I walked the beach to where the men were working. They worked hard, but at an even pace. It’s the way the Marshallese do everything, with an islander’s relaxed manner and the survivor’s consummate stoicism that carried them through a long history of occupation.

A lean, middle-aged man wrapped thin line around a brace (Apet) that would hold the outrigger (Ae) to the 20-foot tipnol hull. Sweat covered his back as he yanked what had to be the hundredth wrap around the dark wood; this was the second of three braces that would get the treatment. Watching him, I questioned the idea of a Marshall Islands race, and doubted the claims that these home-built outriggers could reach speeds of over 20 knots. I also put race time back another hour and decided to go for a swim.

The waters of the Marshall Islands are the region’s big draw, world-renowned for diving, fishing and sailing, and fronted by miles of white sand beaches. Yet, because of the nation’s lack of infrastructure and remote location, the Marshalls have gone largely undiscovered by the tourist. A stellar year was 2000, when the islands saw a nine percent increase in tourists – roughly 1,000 visited. “Then we got hit with 9/11, Iraq and SARS,” says Outrigger General Manager Grant James, a big affable Australian charged with jump starting the Marshall Islands tourist trade. He recognizes the paradox in the Marshall Islands equation: pristine waters and undiscovered beaches rely on a lack of development, which in turn spells few facilities for grabbing the tourist dollar.

But for the slightly adventurous at heart, this is an equation for Shangri-la, a bit of which I experienced in my trek to Arno Island, just nine miles southeast of Majuro.

The day had started, not surprisingly, with a wait for our boat. The first choice was out on a fishing charter, the second out of the water for repairs. The third choice, a V-bottomed day-fisher in the mid-20-foot range with two enormous outboards strapped to the stern, came complete with a smiling captain who interrupted his smoking and drinking only to shout perplexing orders to his teenaged driver.

We left the protection of the lagoon and pointed the bow east toward Arno. Soon I was standing with both hands gripping the stainless steel awning structure, my toes trying hard to dig into the cockpit deck but more times than not losing touch altogether. The boat jumped and bucked in a furious battle against the oncoming sea. Thanks to twisting currents, waves attacked from all sides and with each landing of the bow an explosion of whitewater flooded over the gunwales. I found a new respect for the Marshallese who battled this ocean in nothing more than a homemade dugout canoe and woven sail.

Earlier, I was told that usually this trip was made over smooth water, but today might be a little bumpy since the trade winds were blowing 20 to 25 from the east. (Every day I was in the Marshalls, the wind blew at least 20; it was what kept the temperature so perfect.) Now, I looked over to our Marshallese guide, Mark; he hung on the other end of the awning structure and braced himself as waves of green water pounded his face.

“This is bumpy?” I said.

He just smiled.

In front of me, the teenage helmsmen gripped the steering wheel hard and played with the throttle to adjust our landings. The captain reclined on the cockpit floor, wedged into the port corner as if he were washed there by one of the bigger drenchings. I had to hand it to him, though. His cigarette was still lit and his beer seemed saltwater free.

“We gonna make it?” I called out.

He smiled and ducked as a wave took his baseball cap off. He looked up. “Soon,” he said.

“I meant are we going to make it?” But the captain was busy finding another beer.

Wet but exhilarated, we pulled up to a cement pier on the ocean side of Arno. The sea was flat calm here since the large atoll of Arno (which means waves on the lagoon side) blocks the easterly trade-wind-driven waves. And it was everything that was promised: swaying palms, pristine beach, clear water and vibrant reef. I threw my bag, filled with snorkeling equipment, on the quay.

“Where’s the truck?” I asked Marc, referring to the transportation that would take us to the hut we were staying in for the night.

“There’s been a slight problem with that.” Well, at least we weren’t waiting for a boat. But Marc’s lack of smile scared me.

Ten minutes later our “transportation” sputtered up: it was hard to tell if it was a packing crate that used to be a pickup or a pickup that used to be a packing crate. It had the rusting red hood of a circa-’80s Toyota, no windshield, one headlight, four tires, and an open body made from wooden planks that held a few batteries where the passenger seat would go. “One of the five cars on Arno,” said Mark, with not a note of irony.

We loaded our gear on its wooden flatbed. Then, we watched it roll down Arno’s single dirt road – we would have to walk.

I have been to many atolls, and have loved them all, mainly for their one paradoxical trait: They are at the same time majestic marvels and humble outposts. An atoll is in one respect just an island that has lost its battle with the tides and sunk, its only reminder a coral reef that refuses to quit growing from its perimeter. Thus, a ring of reef with a lagoon center is formed, with minimal topsoil for growing crops, no hills, and usually quite narrow – Arno was a few hundred yards wide at its girthiest. Walk any atoll and you will feel the overwhelming presence of the ocean. Walk long enough and you will end up exactly where you started. It’s restricting and liberating at the same time.

We walked a mile to our night’s accommodations, a modest hut on the lagoon side with access to a desolate and pristine white sand beach. With a private bathroom, electricity and running water it was far ahead of any other spot on Arno. In its lack of anything else, it was a bit short of the Outrigger.

The plan called for waiting for another truck to give us a tour of Arno and its people.

“It will be here soon,” said Mark. He convinced my travel photographer companion Larry to get his gear ready. I just shook my head, grabbed my mask and fins and took off for the ocean.

An hour and a half later, after a top-rate dive along a perfect reef with not one other soul for miles, I returned to our encampment. Larry was looking hot and frustrated; Mark was relaxed; the truck was nowhere to be found.

Sunset was just around the corner when the truck finally arrived. We piled in the back and bumped toward nowhere. But before we got far a squall threatened Larry’s camera equipment so we pulled over and Mark called for us to dash into a small shanty made from warped plywood and tin, obviously inhabited. We hesitated.

“It’s okay, believe me.”

Larry looked at his equipment, at the sky, then darted toward the small plywood structure. I followed.

Inside was dark, musty and filled with things that must have washed up on the beach. Near the entrance, carefully arranged as if on display for guests, were a dozen shoes, a few matching, including a pair of wingtips and a pair for bowling. The floor was dirt.

A small old man’s face come out of the dark. He was smiling with half a set of teeth and waving us to come deeper into his shack, where a straw matt served as a floor. Mark spoke to him in Marshallese.

“He says he is very sorry he has nothing for you to eat,” Mark said.

The man’s name was Leliklok, which means “go to the ocean,” and he wasn’t sure how old he was. He was an artisan, he explained, and pulled out a “bonsai tree” made of black coral and wood. He asked us through Mark if we knew that Arno was the spot of the famous “love school,” where Marshallese girls were once sent to perfect their sexual technique? Or that off the northern point of Arno enormous amounts of game fish were caught?

When the rain let up and we ventured back to the light, I wondered what Leliklok did all day, this aging man with nothing but pride for his atoll and what the wind and ocean threw his way. I wondered where his path was leading him, and I couldn’t help but think of that lonely atoll road that led only to itself.

Ten minutes further down that road, Mark told me, “Poverty’s a relative thing. They may not have goods, but they have land and food and family. They are happy.”

Still, I wondered.

The people of the Marshalls may be happy but they are not entirely well. Nature blessed them with clean air, seclusion and a bountiful ocean; more than 50 years of American control has saddled them with sickness and suspect medical care.

European contact with the Marshall Islands began well before the U.S. involvement, of course. But except for a few brief visits by the Spanish in the 16th century, it wasn’t until 1788 that the Marshalls were taken notice of. In that year the British captain John Marshall visited and named the atoll nation after himself.

By the end of the 18th century, the Marshalls were declared a German protectorate. But even the tiny Marshalls could not escape the hostilities of the world wars. During the first, Japan took military possession and later was awarded the Marshalls by the League of Nations. But in 1933, Japan withdrew from the League and began militarily fortifying the Marshalls in anticipation of WWII.

After heavy fighting, the U.S. liberated the Marshalls, and the real destruction began. During the 1940s and ’50s, the U.S. conducted 67 nuclear tests in, above and around Bikini and Enewetak atolls. The total power unleashed was 7,000 times greater than the blasts that decimated Hiroshima, Japan. The U.S. did relocate the site atoll inhabitants, but reports suggest that the trade winds carried the nuclear fallout to adjacent atolls.

In the 1970s, the U.S. proclaimed Bikini safe for habitation, and moved many Bikinians home, in spite of the fact that two entire islands had been blown away and many others were treeless and covered with debris. Later, a 1978 test showed the islanders had extremely elevated amounts of radiation from eating food grown in the caesium-contaminated soil and the Bikinians were once again relocated.

Offences such as these and the dietary and lifestyle changes brought on by swift Westernization has led to the plight of the modern day Marshall Islanders. They are plagued with soaring cancer death rates, high instances of birth defects and one of the world’s highest rates of diabetes.

It seems the one thing we could not bomb out of them is their spirit. That smile will never fade. And perhaps it is this undying trait of generous acceptance that has served them so poorly. As of 1986, the Marshall Islands has been an independent nation, a self-governing democracy in free association with the U.S. For exclusive use of a few of the atolls as research, missile testing and chemical storage stations, the U.S. subsidizes the Marshall Islanders’ existence. But many feel that the payment for decades of “test results” is woefully short. Thing is, I can’t see a Marshall Island representative going toe to toe with a U.S. rep on this issue; the big, friendly Marshallese way doesn’t stand a chance.

Marshall Islanders are trying to attract the Western – and Eastern – tourist dollar, however, seeing tourism as their way to prosperity, and the debris of WWII is part of their appeal. Bikini is routinely considered one of the world’s top dive sites, and since 1996 has been open to recreational dives. In addition to abundant sea life, Bikini boasts the world’s only diveable aircraft carrier, the USS Saratoga, which still holds planes and racks of bombs, and the Japanese battleship Nagato, aboard which Admiral Yamamoto ordered the attack on Pearl Harbor. All-inclusive dive trips launch from and return to Majuro weekly.

My own return to Majuro from quiet Arno was a somewhat mixed blessing. I looked forward to my nicely appointed, air-conditioned Outrigger room with a view (every room has an outstanding sunset-over lagoon view, that’s the perk of a very narrow atoll) but I longed for more “out island time.” Because Majuro is home to 30,000 of the Marshall Islands’ 60,000 people and serves as the nation’s main hub, it is also the most urban. Poverty and pollution are obvious in its main residential and business district, appropriately named D-U-D. This makes it the only logical doorway to the Marshalls, but there are bright spots.

One is the Outrigger dining room. It serves as a sort of Rick’s Café with a view – the oasis to which, sooner or later, all roads lead. In fact, the Outrigger fronts the lagoon and has a private quay where diving, fishing and sailing adventures begin and end. And in the Marshalls, adventure is never far away; most of the time, you don’t even have to leave Majuro atoll, as I learned in the next few days.

My first outing was aboard Jerry Ross’ Bako Divers boat. Ross, a huge bearded man who could almost pass as a ZZ-Top member (and I’m told he’s a serious blues guitarist) came to the Marshall Islands seven years ago as a site manager for a shell button wholesaler. He started diving. “I did 300 dives in 10 months,” he said. “I couldn’t get enough.” So he opened a business, and now does over 300 dives per year leading small groups of beginning and experienced divers.

As we motored away from the D-U-D toward the dive site at Calalin Pass, 12 miles away, Ross explained why Majuro is such an attractive diver’s Mecca. The conditions are unmatched. The average water temperature is 84 degrees with no thermoclines. Visibility averages 125 feet and in summer can get up to 200 feet. The dives are unspoiled and uncrowded with no boat traffic and divers can choose from about 50 dive sites within 20 minutes of each other. “All this means that beginner divers can be very comfortable in the environment,” said Ross. And they’ll need it, because as Ross explains, the wildlife is also unmatched. Spotting 10,000 fish in a glance is not uncommon, 100,000 per dive. And that includes many species of shark. “Every dive center in the world names one spot the Aquarium,” he tells me, and points toward Calalin. “Ours is the Aquarium on steroids.”

Getting suited up I asked him about the sharks. “You don’t have to worry about me,” I said as I pulled my lycra shirt on backward. “I was just wondering how other people react?” “Going in, half the people want to see sharks, half don’t,” he told me. “Coming out, they’re all glad they did.” I’ll try to remember that, I said, and strapped a knife to my calf.

Calalin is everything Ross promised, with a pristine reef wall that drops into a blue abyss. At 60 to 90 feet, more fish than I had seen in a year flew by – barracuda, snapper, wahoo, and many different kinds of shark. It made for a true frontier feeling, as if we were the first ones on the planet to find this spot, at the same time so far from any other life, but so filled with life itself. Thirty minutes went by faster than a startled gray reef shark and before I knew it we were ripping off gear in the cockpit, the sharks the talk of the moment.

The next day was filled with a much more mellow adventure: an all day cruise aboard the Kaimana, a like-new 46-foot Beneteau, which acts as both home and charter business to Liz Rodick and Ron Douglas, two cruisers who stopped chasing paradise once they found the Marshalls.

Ron, a former project manager for Kewit, left California in 1998 aboard Kaimana and sailed her to the Marshalls – via Mexico, the Marquesas, French Polynesia, Hawaii, Fanning, Samoa, Tuvalu, Kirabas, Australia and Fiji. Logging over 27,000 miles in five years, he crossed the equator six times. But now, he’s dropped his hook for a while, he says. “I’m here because I couldn’t find any place better. And believe me, I tried.”

As we cut across the lagoon on a perfect beam reach, desolate islets dropping past the starboard rail like some idyllic tickertape, I can see what he means. With the sun and wind in perfect balance out here on the water, shirts are never needed and perspiration unknown. After a 45-minute sail, we anchor off Bokolop – a little islet five miles and a world away from the D-U-D – snorkel yet another pristine reef and have lunch in the cockpit. Liz asks if we want music, and the answer is a resounding no. For city-folk like us the current soundtrack of wind through palms and water on hull is a veritable symphony. I tell Ron this and he just grins and says, “I’ll never live on land again.”

Thing is, I believe him. He’s one of those rare men who seem totally content to live in the moment. It’s not a lack of ambition – he made his mark in the business world – it’s an appreciation for what he worked so hard to find. Now, with Liz, he’ll show visitors the corner of the world he’s found, taking them on afternoon, sunset or overnight trips aboard his home. For a price, they too can glimpse his dream.

Two days later, as I was drifting in the lagoon waiting for the Outrigger Cup to start, I caught sight of them sailing by, the only boat I hadn’t had to wait for. I checked the beach; there was activity, this might be it.

Ten minutes later, the beach was filled with a line of sails every color of the rainbow. Some were made of modern nylon, many were nothing more than plastic blue tarps that looked as though they doubled for truck coverings when not rigged to the tipnol. The men, two to a boat, hung on the hulls in seemingly half-ready positions. The America’s Cup it was not, and I didn’t expect much when the starters cry went out.

And then it happened. The starter gave a shout and the men burst into action. It was as if they had been saving their energy all year for this one moment. The teams leaped onto their boats, sheeted in the wishbone sails, and they were gone.

Even a few of the captains weren’t quite ready for the speed, as within the first quarter mile three boats overturned, the sailors pushing the limits of flying the outrigger. They worked calmly at righting their canoes as the fleet raced toward the first mark five miles away, knowing they had no chance.

For the top competitors the 15-mile triangular course was a true grind. Tipnols are not easy boats to sail. With no keel and a mere handheld paddle for rudder, it takes a lot of muscle work to offset the forces of water and wind. When done properly, it is a true art.

After an hour of battle, the winning team crossed the finish line, and immediately folded up their sail and sat down. I didn’t blame them. And when they did, I let out a well-felt exhale. Suddenly, I didn’t mind waiting for all those boats. þ

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