The Sun—a warm shade of tangerine—hangs low in the sky. Sunset is not far away. It’s at dusk, dawn, and the distance between, that the atoll seems most isolated; like a black hole, nothing can be seen beyond the dark barrier, a marine event horizon, lowered by the night. Warm Pacific waves lapped at the shore as a father—himself wise, wizened, and well-worn by the waves in times past—awaits his son on the beach. Several other villagers appear, waiting to help unload the canoe-full of fish expected to be brought a shore by the son.
As a lone waka ama, an outrigger canoe, came into view, the son was evident, his bulky frame cut an identifying silhouette against the setting Sun. Those on the shore could tell something was off; the waka ama sat higher in the water than one would expect of a canoe loaded with fish; and as the bow carved a crisp channel through the sand up onto the beach, it was confirmed. The waka ama was empty.
The son’s head sank into his hands, and he recounted how as he was pulling a loaded fishing net up from the depths, an octopus had different ideas. Combined with the weight of the fish stranded in the net, the interference by the octopus was enough to cause a split in the net. All the fish broke free and returned to the watery blue.
“Oh no, that’s terrible!” the villagers who had gathered exclaimed.
“Maybe,” the father replied, an air of ambivalence about him.
The next day, the son took to the water again. Without a net this time, which was still undergoing repairs, he was putting his faith in his favourite fish hook—a treasure gifted by his grandfather carved from a whale jawbone. After picking an auspicious spot, where the baitfish seemed to make the water boil, he had barely thrown his line in when it was struck by a massive ‘ahi, a yellowfin tuna! After an hour-long battle that tested the mettle of both fisherman and fish, the son hoisted the gargantuan leviathan into the waka ama, before turning for home.
Again the father was waiting on the beach, and as the canoe came over the horizon a large tuna-shaped hump was visible. Others gathered around to help unload the ‘ahi, others sharpened knives to begin carving up the Goliath.
“Oh wow, that’s fortunate!” the others commented.
“Maybe,” the father responded again.
Buoyant from his battle yesterday, the son eagerly pushed his waka ama once more into the infinite azure sea. Again he found where the baitfish were churning—a telltale sign there were larger fish in the area. And once again, he came armed with his whalebone hook. Though today not yesterday, today was another day…
As was his way, the father once more waited on the beach. Though his heart sunk when he saw a larger vessel—a double-hulled voyaging canoe, a waka hourua—sail over the horizon. He recognised the sail pattern from a neighbouring island, and they would only be approaching the atoll, this far from home at evening, for a good reason. Both hulls rode up on the sand, and a familiar face hopped down onto the beach. The father pre-empted the news, and hung his head. The familiar face assured the father that he and the other crew tried as hard as they could to save his son, though despite their efforts he was dragged below the waves. His fish hook had snagged a large shark, which as it dove dragged his son under, the son’s leg accidentally coiled in the fishing line.
“Oh no, that’s terrible!” the villagers exclaimed.
The father was silent for a long moment, before murmuring “Maybe…”
A week passed. Mourning rituals, laid out generations ago, were followed strictly. Wailing and lamentations spread out from the atoll, like ripples of a stone dropped in a pond, only to dissipate, unheard, into the vast ocean. A second week passed. Life continued, as it seems it must, though with heavy hearts for all; though none heavier than the father.
In the third week, another double-hulled canoe sped towards the island, sails filled with a stiff breeze. Several villagers gathered on the beach—the waka hourua attracting a crowd, as it was unfamiliar to anyone on the atoll. And as nothing attracts a crowd like a crowd, before long the father was, too, drawn to the shore.
The waka hourua ran up on the beach, and some of the villages grabbed ropes to secure it. A stocky man, sporting somewhat recognisable yet altogether different tattoos of royalty, strode purposely up the sand towards the father. Standing before the father, the stocky man bowed deeply while at the same time his son, along with an unknown woman, appeared from below deck on the waka hourua. Bewilderment appeared on the father’s face, followed by a deluge of tears. The stocky stranger went on to elaborate—in a tongue that, like his tattoos, where both familiar and foreign—that the son had washed up on an atoll of a distant powerful thalassocracy a week’s sail away. The son was rescue by local fishermen, and brought before the chief. The son and chief’s daughter—now both standing behind the stocky stranger—were betrothed, the upcoming marriage would ensure the bonds between the two remote island groups evermore.
“Oh wow, that’s fortunate!” the villagers rejoiced.
“Maybe.”
*(The above is inspired by parable of ‘The Chinese Farmer.’)
