To a sailor, one of the most interesting sights in his travels is the observation of the many and widely varying types of vessels and boats which have been developed locally. Nowadays in most places the original native models have been supplanted by more standard types, yet in many remote corners of the globe they are still in full use.
The Samoan Islands, far down in the South Pacific, still retain several unique examples of small craft. Most common of these is the pau-pau, a small single-outrigger canoe, varying in size from an 8-foot one for small children, up to the 12-or 14-foot two-man craft for harbor transportation and fishing inside of the reef. The pau-pau is usually made in the forest, or "bush," close by where the tree has been felled. In the olden time it was partly hollowed by fire and then finished with a stone adz. Nowadays special large gouges, mostly "made in Germany," are sold by the traders for this special purpose, and a light-bladed adz, with its thin steel blade lashed by sennit to a crooked handle, is also used to shape the exterior of the hull.
The hull itself is usually of quite fine lines, with sharp concave stem and tapered stern, at the very extremity of which a cube or solid carved knob of wood is left in the shaping, for the practical purpose of making fast the line by which the hull is dragged out of the forest to the beach. Our highly educated and skilled naval architects have only recently discovered that a "bulbous bow," similar to the under-water ram of a battleship, increases the ease with which a vessel is propelled. Yet the Samoan has from generations immemorial been building his canoes with a forward projection at the bottom of the stem which is really an elder brother of the Bremen's bulb. Why it is there, I have never been able to ascertain, it’s merely fa’a Samoa, or an “old Samoan custom.” Yet there is no doubt that there is a reason for this extra work, and undoubtedly some long- dead canoe builder had the patience and curiosity to experiment with hull forms until he discovered that the peculiar snout seemed to give a more easily driven boat.
The “bonito boat,” a larger canoe ranging in length between 15 and 25 feet, comes next in size after the pau-pau, and, as far as I know, is unique among canoes in its method of construction. It must be remembered that the aboriginal South Sea boat builder was hampered by two deficiencies: the extreme rarity of soft-wood trees large enough to be hollowed out, and an absolute lack of iron or other metal fastenings.
Not to be thwarted by these details, some ancient Samoan speeded up his cerebral convolutions sufficiently to bring forth the idea of fastening smaller pieces of wood together to form a canoe larger than the pau-pau. Hence the bonito boat built on exactly the same lines as her prototype. The keel piece is usually of the full length of the hull, and as full as possible, hollowed out on the top. From this the sides are built up of pieces several feet in length, adzed out of solid wood with the small adz. Each piece is carefully fitted to its neighbors, and a “lip” 3/4 inches high of the solid wood left all around the edge on the inside. Small holes are bored through this lip, with corresponding holes in the adjacent one, through which lashings of sennit are passed and tightly knotted (sec p. 1555). This sennit is locally made from the cleaned and carefully plaited coir fiber of the coconut husk.
The hull completed, a single outrigger of the balsa-like fau wood is lashed on, and a deck put over bow and along the center line of the decking, frequently further ornamented with cowries or other sea shells.
These canoes in most cases are the private property of chiefs, one of whose special prerogatives in the old days was the catching of the toothsome and gamey bonito, whence the name of the type has been derived. Manned by two paddlers and a fisherman, they troll in the deep water outside the breakers. A long bamboo pole is used, with a heavy re-enforced butt socketed in a chunk of wood attached to the bottom. From the pole hangs a short line, armed with a barbless mother-of- pearl hook. As the fish strikes, the fisherman deftly pulls up on the pole, flipping the fish into the air and dropping it into the boat. Woe betide the hapless wight who is clumsy enough to allow his fish to flop overboard again. In the old days of tribal rule, he was fortunate to escape with a severe beating; now he furnishes a butt for the gibes of his competitors and the wrath of the chief, whose prestige has been lowered by such an accident.
The last, but most important of the native boats, is the fautasi. These arc apparently a cross between the ancient Polynesian war canoe, now extinct, and the New Bedford whaleboat with which the islanders have been familiar for many years, since Apia was formerly a favorite port of call for those sea wanderers.
Ranging in length from fifty to seventy feet, these beautifully lined double-enders remind one at first glance of a racing shell, so delicately are they designed. When fully manned by a racing crew, and pulling their full thirty-six oars, with a brown-skinned drummer squatting in the very eyes and setting the cadence by his rhythmic roll on a 5-gallon oil can, they would be no mean opponent for a varsity eight, especially in a seaway.
During a recent tour of duty in American Samoa, the writer obtained measurements of two typical fautasis, as they were drawn up on the beach previous to a race.
Their dimensions were as follows:
| L.O.A. | No. Oars | Height bow | Height midships | Height stern | Beam |
A | 67’ | 32 | 3’ 5” | 2’ 3” | 3’ 4” | 4’ 9” |
B | 56’ 6” | 24 | 3’ 6” | 2’ 5” | 3’ 4” | 5’ 6” |
In the race, A was decidedly the winner, as would seem probable from her finer form and greater man power. Her time over a 1.5-mile course, most of which was in the open ocean, with the long Pacific swells on the quarter, was 10' 20", giving a speed of approximately 10 knots.
These boats are as a rule built of 0.5-inch planking, carvel-built with seam battens, while an extra heavy keelson is fitted to give them much-needed strength against longitudinal hogging and sagging. Details of construction are shown in the accompanying illustration.
Since the building of a fautasi, with its imported materials, is to the native an extremely costly affair, the great majority are communally owned by outlying villages. On market day, which generally coincides with steamer day, they are piled high with baskets of taro, pigs lashed for transportation, and curios for sale to tourists. At dawn in Pago Pago, they come skimming across the calm waters of the bay, often crowded with as many as fifty men, women, and children, who have pulled ten or fifteen miles from their homes. The minor harmony of their song, accompanied by the distant rhythm of the drum reechoing from the high cliffs across the bay, awakens the palangi (foreigner, white man) from his American sleep to realize that there will be mail iron home today.
Since in the entire Samoan group, there is only one wharf which can take a vessel of any size alongside, and most landings at the smaller villages are made right from the open sea through a heavy surf, it can readily be seen that a suitable boat must, first of all, be seaworthy and easily handled, as well as have an adequate passenger and freight capacity. To this problem, the fautasi, especially of the smaller sizes, is the answer. Modeled after one of the best surfboats in the world, light and easily handled when properly manned, they are eminently suited for surf work, or for longer trips. It is not uncommon for them to make the 60-mile trip in the open ocean from the outlying Manua group to Tutuila, the seat of government.
The life of these craft, however, is usually short, due to their use upon coral-studded beaches, which soon scrape and batter in the frail planking, aided by the continual racking and straining received in the breakers. The newcomer, on his first trip in one, only wonders why they are not smashed to bits at each trip.
Personally, I have one memory of these surf trips which will stick in my mind for a long time. After a 4-day hurricane which had cut off even radio connection between Tutuila and the Manua group, I went over on the station tug Ontario to see what damage had been done. Arriving while the tail end of the blow still persisted, we found it impossible to even find a lee at any of the three islands, and finally "lay to" some distance offshore to await better weather which the rising barometer promised for the morrow. As we lay there, rolling heavily, a score or more of the natives came down to the beach, picking their way through the broken palm trunks and debris with which the whole shore was littered. Finally, four or five of the huskiest commenced to wade out, carrying a little chap on their shoulders, who in turn bore a small pau-pau. We could not imagine what they were up to, until the small man was pitched bodily into a giant breaker, canoe and all. It seemed like several minutes before a brown head emerged outside the heaviest of the surf, and soon we could see him swimming strongly toward the ship, towing his swamped craft. A few dexterous swishes fore and aft, and most of the water was out of the hull, when he climbed aboard, and soon came alongside of us. I had imagined all sorts of grim emergencies existing ashore, for anyone to thus risk his life to bring out the word. What was my surprise, when the canoeman was interrogated through an interpreter, to discover that lie had come off merely to express the chief’s regrets and apologies for not being able to send off a fautasi. “He say, ‘mebbe tomorrow more better.’”
And so it proved. On the next morning, when I got into the battered fautasi which had driven its way out through the still huge breakers, I was very careful to leave my watch aboard the Ontario. Covering my inward trepidation with an assumed nonchalance, I seated myself in the stern sheets, while the 260-pound native district governor planted his adequate bare feet astride of me, tucked up his once white lava-lava, and gripped the loom of the 20-foot steering oar. It is a peculiar feature of surf, that from seaward it rarely looks as bad as it really is. Even then it seemed ugly enough, however, and as we coasted toward the white sand it appeared worse all the time. I asked Tufele, the coxswain, if it were safe, and a quick grin and nod somewhat reassured me.
Reaching the outer line of breakers, at a curt command the rowers lay on their oars, while Tufele turned and gazed seaward with wrinkled brow, watching for a proper swell upon which to ride in. The natives handle their surfboats much upon the same principle as the Hawaiian surf board, that is, to pick a good sea, then by pulling like mad manage to keep on the shoreward side of the crest where the constant down-hill slide of the boat increases the velocity, and at the same time gives sufficient water underneath to take the frail hull safely over the jagged coral heads.
As we eased in gradually toward the reef, we would actually sec the 20-foot combers breaking in a welter of seething foam barely fifty feet ahead, while at every backwash the bare brown coral thrust itself up through mere trickling rivulets of water, only to be again covered with fifteen feet of madly swirling surf as the following swell crashed thunderously down, Tufele bent over me, “If we capsize, swim to sea, never toward shore. Cut all to pieces.”
This statement naturally cheered me greatly, but it had hardly percolated when he spoke to the crew, warning them to stand by, and brown toes curled around each stretcher. Another giant heave lifted us, and behind it we saw another long swelling sea building up. As we sank in the hollow, a sharp “Allo, allo, allo,” rang out above the thunder, and twenty pairs of broad shoulders heaved together in the quick strokes of a racing start, while the long boat shot ahead lightly, but not fast enough to prevent the enormous swell from slowly creeping up on us. On, nearer and nearer the beach, and, as the crest of our Atlas creamed whiter and whiter, our bow sank lower and lower, but still pointed for the sand. But no, as the hollow of the giant curved almost over the stern, it started to sheer to port, and even a greenhorn knew that broaching to with a thousand tons of water hot on us meant death. I could see the pillar-like calves beside me swell into great knots, tensed with awful effort, and the heavy steering oar bent like a bow as huge Tufele literally lifted the stern back to its safe position. It was all a matter of seconds, but my shoes were off before the time was half gone, and I dare say my fingerprints are still registered on the gunwales.
Then the shore ahead was obscured in a maelstrom of flying foam, rushing along the sides, swirling in by bucketfuls, while everybody still pulled like mad. Another second, and a grating shudder went through the hull, oars were pitched in every direction, while the crew were overboard like brown streaks, running the 50 foot hull bodily up on the sand. Grinning sheepishly, I relaced my shoes, wiped the streaming perspiration from my brow, and stepped ashore on dry land.
I have often read of the famous "Nantucket sleigh-ride," with a pain-maddened whale tearing through the open sea whipping a whaleboat behind, but in my humble opinion a "Samoan sleigh-ride" can compare with any other form of excitement found upon the surface of the Seven Seas. It has an added element of mental torture, in that as soon as the passenger gets safely ashore and collects his wits, he must then commence to worry about getting off again. However, that's another story.
With such trips as this almost a matter of weekly routine to the outlying islanders, is it any wonder that they may be considered to rank among the best boatmen in the world? And their craft are one type in which it will be many years before the old white-ash breeze is replaced by power, since no power boat could ever successfully attempt the achievements of which a well-handled fautasi is capable. May their bronze arms never forget their skill!