Copyright @ 2019 Gerald R. Knight
Published by Iguana Books
720 Bathurst Street, Suite 303
Toronto, ON M5S 2R4
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of the author or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.
Publisher: Meghan Behse
Editor: Shelley Egan
Front cover design: Daniella Postavsky
Front cover image: “Marshall Islands Canoe (C19)” by Herbert Kawainui Kāne, with permission from Herbert K. Kane, LLC.
“Knowledge of the past gives us a rudder to navigate the present.”
— Herbert Kawainui Kāne
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77180-228-4 (paperback). 978-1-77180-329-8 (epub). 978-1-77180-330-4 (Kindle).
This is the original electronic edition of Man Shark: The Legends of Ḷainjin.
I dedicate this series to author Kim Echlin, whose inspiration made these writings possible, and to the waitress who told me I looked like a writer and reminded me who I was.
Author's Note
There is a single story in the extensive oral literature of the atoll-dwelling Marshall Islanders that, uncharacteristically, has no ending. This is the story of Tarmālu and her son, Ḷainjin. In accordance with legend, she leaves her baby in the care of others as she leads her fleet of proas from the shelter of the Wōtto Atoll lagoon into the open ocean to save their craft from the certain destruction of an oncoming typhoon. She is never heard from again. When her son grows up, he goes on an epic search to recover her story and creates a renowned navigational chant to record the seamarks along the way. It is never told if he finds her. These are tales told in many versions betwixt islanders dispersed across an inviting yet harrowing ocean that has long since washed all prehistory into its depths. The footnotes are necessary only for those who wish to delve below their surface into the environment, language, and culture from which they spawned.
[1] Outrigger canoes rigged with sails.
Foreword
Greetings to you all, my sisters and brothers in Christ. I, Deacon Alfred Capelle, would like to sincerely thank Mr. Gerald (Jerry) Knight, the author of the book named Man Shark (Ḷōpako), for this excellent accomplishment he has achieved not only for himself but especially for all Marshall Islanders. I first met Jerry when I worked with him for the Alele Museum from March 1996 to October 1991. Jerry was then the Chief Executive Officer and Director of Alele Museum.
Iọkwe kōmiwōj ro jeū im jatū ilo Christ. Ña, Deacon Alfred Capelle, ikōṇaan kaṃṃoolol Mr. GeraldKnight, (Jerry) eo eaar je bok in bwebwenato in etan Man Shark (Ḷōpako) kōn jerbal ṃōṃanṃōn in eaar kōṃṃane ej jab ñan e wōt ak eḶap tata ñan kōjwōj ri-aelōñ kein ad. Ikar jino iioon Jerry ke iaar jerbal ippān ilo Alele Museum jān ṃaaj 1996 ñan Oktoba 1991. Jerry eaar Chief Executive Officer im Director eo an Alele ilo tōre eo.
Man Shark (Ḷōpako) is a legendary folklore about Tarmālu and Ḷainjin, her son. You can read the story and enjoy it yourself. It is quite appropriate for Jerry to have authored the book, being as keen on listeing to island folklore as he was as a young man ri-pālle. Jerry came to our islands when he was nineteen, as a member of the Peace Corps in 1967. Before joining the PC he was in college majoring in literature, where he learned the required skills for one wishing to be attentive to recitation, to understand and question our morals, and to learn the effective methods of listening and writing a legend or a story as told. And so when he came to the islands he already possessed the keen interest and skills necessary to help him listen, understand, and write the legends and stories the elders in those days related to him. Jerry also deepened his local language-speaking ability to that of native fluency and developed his understanding of the local culture from his interactions with the older members of the communities on atolls and islands such as Namdik (Namorik), Roñḷap (Rongelap), Arṇo, Mājro (Majuro) and others where he was able live at length on. The time well-spent in the atolls and islands benefited Jerry with the knowledge, skills and deep interest in the stories and words that are the information foundation of our language and culture. The combination of knowledge, awareness and love inspired Jerry to write the stirring and valuable storybook Man Shark (Ḷōpako). Therefore, on our behalf, again, “Thank you kindly, Jerry, for this your wonderful gift to us all, people of these islands. May God bless you and your family!”
Man Shark (Ḷōpako) ej bwebwenato kōn Tōrmālu im Ḷainjin ḷadik eo nejin. Koṃ maroñ make liñōre bwebwenato in im itokḷimoimi kake. Elukkuun kōkar bwe Jerry en kar je bok in bwebwenato in kōnke ej juon likao in pālle eo ijeḷā bwe ekanooj itok limoin im kōṇaan roñjake bwebwenato in aelōñ kein. Jerry eaar itok ñan aelōñ kein ad ke 19 an iiō, tōre eo ke eaar uwaan Peace Corps ilo 1967 eo. Ṃokta ḷọk jān PC, eaar jikuuḷ ilo college im katak kilen im wāween roñjake, meḷeḷe kake, kajitkini im jeje bwebwenato kake. Innem ke eaar itok ñan aelōñ kein ededeḷọk an wōr itok limo ippān im an jeḷā rāpōḷtan ko raorōk ñan jipañe kāroñḷọkjeṇ, meḷeḷe, im jeje bwebwenato ko rūtto ro ilo tōre ko raar bwebwenato kaki ḷọk ñane. Jerry eaar bareinwōt kaṃwilaḷ ḷọk an jeḷā im meḷeḷe kōn kajin im ṃantin aelōñ kein ke eaar mour ippān rūtto ro ilo tōre ko ke ej Peace Corps Volunteer ilo aelōñ in Naṃdik, Roñḷap, Arṇo, Mājro im aelōñ ko jet eaar maroñ mour ie. Pād eo an ippān armej ro ilo jukjukin pād ko ilo aelōñ kein eaar kōjeraṃṃan Jerry kōn jeḷā im meḷeḷe ko rōṃwilaḷ ilo bwebwenato im naan ko rej pedpedin im kōmletin ṃantin aelōñ kein ad. Kobain in aolep jeḶā, kapeel im iọkwe kein ippān Jerry ekōṃṃan an ellowetak bwe en je bok in bwebwenato kōbbōkakkak im aorōkrōk in: Ḷōpako. Kōn men in, ilo etamwōj ri-aelōñ, “Koṃṃool im jouj, Jerry, kōn menin letok aiboojoj in aṃ ñan kōṃwōj aolep, ri-aelōñ kein. Anij en maroñ kōjeraṃṃan eok im baaṃle ṇe aṃ!”
At this point I would like to take this opportunity and encourage all Marshall Islanders who will read this great book to keep a keen interest for our language and culture, our most valuable gifts from our Creator, God Almighty, our Father in heaven. We have reached the tides in which our language and culture are being threatened, and so let us be very watchful together and wholehearted as we tighten our belts in solidly maintaining our language and culture to prevent their fading and lost. In reading the Man Shark (Ḷōpako) story we are inspired to be gratified and to want to help do what we can to keep our language and culture healthy and lively as long as our republic breathes. I would also like to urge the heads of the department of education for our islands to recognize and use this as a textbook in the public and private schools. If the public school teachers adequately review this book it will help open their eyes and make them aware of the importance and the need to teach their students properly via the means of the language and culture. I end my words with the following adage: “It was not accidental that a wandering tattler (bird) should alight on the beach rock!” So long to you all and may God be with everyone.
Ilo tōre in ikōṇaan bōk iien in im kōlowetak aolep ri-aelōñ kein bwe en itok limoidwōj kōn kajin im ṃantin aelōñ kein ad, menin letok aorōkrōk kein adwōj jān ad ri-Kōṃanṃan, Anij Ḷapḷap Jemādwōj ilañ. Jebuñūt tok tōre kein rōkauwōtata ñan kajin im ṃanet kein ad, innem jen kanooj mejmej karruo ippān doon im bōro wōt juon ilo ad kūkkim dāpij im kōmājojoik kajin im ṃanet kein ad bwe ren jab mājkun im jako. Bok in bwebwenato in Man Shark (�
�ōpako) ilo ad liñōre ej jipañ kōllowetak kōj bwe en jubūruōd im kōṇaan jipañ kōjparok kajin in ad im ṃanet kein ad bwe ren emmourur wōt toon wōt an emmenono rūbablik in ad. Ij bareinwōt rōjañ jeban jerbal eo ej bōk eddoin im loloodjake jeḷāḷọkjeṇ ilo aelōñ kein bwe ren kile im kōjerbal bok in ilo jikuuḷ ko an kien im bareinwōt ilo jikuuḷ ko jet. EḶaññe enaaj jejjet an ri-kaki ro an jikuuḷ kein liñōre bok in enaaj jipañ kōpeḷḷọk mejāer bwe ren meḷeḷe kōn men in eaorōk bwe ren aikuj katakin ri-jikuuḷ ro ilo kajin im ṃantin aelōñ kein. Ij kōjeṃḷọk naan kein aō kōn jabōn kōnaan in me ej ba: “Ekar jab jirrilọk bwe kōtkōt en jok ioon bar!” Iọkwe kōmiwōj im Anij en pād ippādwōj.
Alfred Capelle
Chariman, Customary Law and Language Commission
Republic of the Marshall Islands
The calm
Peck. Peck. “He must be thirsty,” Ḷainjin thought as he awakened from the day’s deep, lonely slumber. He glanced out from beneath the shade of his worn woven pandanus-leaf sail. He had draped it like a tent to shade his boat, and there in the blazing sunlight was the Chief himself, with his coat of iridescent black feathers and his red neck-sack drooping in regal splendor. He was pecking on the outrigger deck yet again, breaking the quietude as if to summon Ḷainjin’s attention. By default, silence had invaded his being. He had experienced the unthinkable. Now, truth be told, he preferred to stow his thoughts as much as possible and, like the bird before him, simply observe and instinctively react. At this moment, all he wanted was to stuff his gut. He had crossed the ocean and lived to tell about it. Yet he had nothing to say and no one not to say it to. He and the bird had both been snatched from their mothers’ warmth too young. Both had braved the same skies but only one of them carried sadness, reflection, regret.
The bird straightened his neck and pointed his long, hooked beak to the light blue sky. Then he lowered it and belched up a freshly caught silver mackerel five knuckles long and dropped it before the commoner.
“Koṃṃool.” Ḷainjin chuckled as he grabbed the fish and rinsed it in the calm, clear sea below. He had not eaten fish for several days and sorely needed the energy. He was about to pop the nourishing treat into his mouth when the bird pecked him to stop. Suddenly, the surface of the water erupted into a chaotic battle of shiny mackerel baitfish chased skyward by rapacious tuna into the beaks of swarming, screeching, and diving terns. He was not ready for this! Or was he?
The bird, swept up by the excitement, flapped his long, elegant wings, nearly as long as Ḷainjin’s arms. He rose upon the breathless air and quickly climbed through the terns to the top of the flock, where those whose gullets were full were likely to be found gliding upon the faint thermal breath reflecting from the ocean’s shiny surface. His keen eyes observed the various circles of fish below. At the center of the various engagements were circular clumps of confused and panicking bite-sized baitfish broken apart by speedy, black-backed fish with the delicious, bloody hearts that his worker liked to rip out and feed to him. Ringing these encounters were much longer fish with their sails up, their spears raised, and their gluttonous mouths open wide. Twisting through the translucent blue, now and again, were the somewhat slower-moving big-mouths ready to eat him, his worker, his kubaak, or anything else they could crunch with their pointy teeth. Unlike the white-and-black flappers about him, he sensed that these same weightless wings that allowed him to glide and sleep among the clouds would prevent him from rising off the rolling but dangerously flat surface below, particularly in this nearly breathless calm. Were it not for his perch and the commoner’s ambitious paddling, he knew he could not survive these doldrums that caused death to his kind under these moons in this part of the ocean.
From the Chief’s perspective, Ḷainjin served as his one and only worker, but Ḷainjin, unlike his sole companion, now had no one to depend upon but himself. The sky about them had crept into their spirits as they had flown from one place to the next — he on the surface, his Chief at times so high he was out of his sight — yet one of them held trapped inside him the story of his mother, his dead friends, the bloody battle beyond the kāleptak, and all he had seen and done before his search for her and since then. Surely, this untellable tale would color his perspective wherever they traveled.
“Ak!” the Chief squawked as he surprised a tern and clamped onto its tail feathers with his strong, light bill. As though commanded, the frightened bird emptied its gullet into the air. Instantaneously, the Chief released his captive, converted into diving mode, and plucked most of the fish ball from the sky long before it could splash into the ocean, boiling with activity below. Then he landed carefully back on his platform just in time to encourage his commoner to get fishing for one of those satisfying hearts. “Ak!” he commanded.
Though Ḷainjin had eyed his bird from time to time, he had raised the butt end of his mast from its resting place within the deep, narrow hull of his proa onto its sailing position in the yoke at the boat’s center. This prompted the sail’s booms to swing outward in balance with the outrigger, and he propped them there with his paddle before securing their sheet. His decks were now clear. He had not bothered to furrow his mat sail but uncharacteristically allowed it to drape down and dip a bit into the sea. He had grabbed his fiber trolling line from its place below and, time being critical, had not even bothered to remove its precious mother-of-pearl lure. He had tied the Chief’s baitfish to one of the prized hooks, tediously ground from the shell of a giant clam. The hook, of course, was strong, but the line was fashioned to troll for a fish thirty ñeñe behind his sailing rig, not to hold a tuna racing a few lengths beneath his boat. Therefore, he tied a netted sinker ball of the dense shell onto the very end of his line to cause it to descend all the faster. He inspected the baited hook one last time. He had tied it about three knuckles below the shiny, pearl-shell lure and about half a ñeñe above the sinker ball. He held the end of the line between thumb and index finger for a moment, weighing the baited line of carefully crafted implements with an up-and-down motion as if to judge the risk of their loss against the hunger pangs in his gut. Then, caught up in the excitement all around him, he released the line, letting it slip freely over his palm. He watched as its sinker led the descent into the transparent blue water below, followed by the twirling, flashing lure, and finally, by the gently swirling silver baitfish.
The terns hovered and flopped onto the volatile surface of the sea surrounding them. The ravenous flocks plucked some of the hapless baitfish from midair as they jumped before the mouths of the charging predators below them. The screeching birds shaded the sky and showered him with cool seawater flicked from their fluttering wings. Bits of baitfish rained down. In a commanding voice, he chanted, “Tartok im kein liitiō, bwe? Ijañin eoḷōk! Ellok im toto wōt!” He allowed the line to play out to what he judged was a depth of about twenty ñeñe, or about a fifth of his coil. Then he abruptly began yanking his baited line back up from the depths in one violent skyward motion after another, letting the line fall haphazardly over the outrigger platform and forcing the bird to hop to a perch on the forward deck, out of the way. “Tartok im kein liitiō, bwe? Ijañin eoḷōk! Ellok im toto wōt!” he chanted, but still no strike.
Abruptly, he stopped and let his line slip back down over the palm of his right hand until it played out a second time. His throat dropped as the feast’s center of intensity began randomly drifting away. Was this his last chance? He chanted yet again as he repeated the violent skyward yanking, and this time, his reward was a most satisfying resistance, followed by forceful pressure in what seemed to be the opposite direction. He turned his head skyward, shook his locks, and squinted to drain the burning sweat that had crept off his deeply furrowed forehead into his eyes. His sun-blackened face blossomed into a magnificent grin that soon broke into a hearty laugh. “Kook! Kook! Kook! Kook,” he cried, as though calling chickens. “Wōde im ajoḷe!” he chanted, enticing the fish to crunch down as he would on a kernel of pan
danus. Ecstatically, yet ever so gradually, he squeezed the wet line as it slipped, hurtfully now, between his calloused thumb and fingers until he judged the hook set and the body of the fish parallel to the boat. Then he began, hand over hand, to coax the fish gradually up to the surface. When the fish charged upward, he was quick to keep the line taut. When the fish turned in retreat, he allowed the line to slip, ever more firmly, through his fingers. One abrupt tug and all could be lost! As soon as he felt the first break in the tuna’s strength, he began pulling more and more energetically, hauling his catch toward the boat to keep it from the jaws of any shark attracted to the struggling prey. As the fish broke the surface, Ḷainjin raised it up by the line with one hand and resolutely snatched its throat between the gills with the other. Lastly, he raised the energetic and vibrating mass of muscle out of the water, dropped the line, and clubbed the fish’s forehead, crushing its skull and releasing its spirit into the fray about them.
He laid the dead fish across the deck of his stern hull and slit its silver belly from throat to anus with one effortless swipe of his unusual shark-tooth ring. The ring, when worn, encompassed nearly two digits of his middle finger. It was laboriously fashioned from mangrove, and it featured a single, large shark’s tooth with holes drilled through its base, lashed into a slit between its two ridges. He sometimes looped the ring through a length of twine that attached to his trochus wristband to prevent it from slipping forward. He usually cut with the tooth turned perpendicular to the flat of his hand, the ring held in place by the incredible grip of his outermost digit. He tossed the gut into the sea and tore out the still beating, bloody prize.
Man Shark Page 1
