June 1st, 1976, a low-sung double-hulled canoe makes its way out of Honolulu Bay off the Hawaiian Island of Maui.

A crowd of well-wishers is there to see it off.

The wooden boat is nearly 70 feet long, the length of a good size yacht.

The 16 men on board churned the choppy water with broad paddles while a carving of a brown-skinned

woman watches from a post.

Above her, two orange-colored sails ripple in the wind.

By nightfall, they're on the open sea.

The men eat a communal meal on deck, then some try to sleep while others work to keep the boat on course, following orders from their navigator.

Mo P.I. Lugg is in his 40s with a compact body and soft black curls.

He's one of just a handful of men across the Pacific trained in the ancient art of wayfinding,

using the stars, the currents, the wind, and the waves

to navigate great distances across the open ocean.

Sometimes songs help show the way,

whirl maps of long ago journeys that Mo learned from his father and grandfather.

The canoe is named Hokulea after the star Arcturus.

And Moses Simon is to sail it to Tahiti 2,500 miles away.

Tahiti is a tiny dot in the middle of the vast Pacific.

It's hard enough to stay on course with modern instruments and maps.

But Hokulea has none of those.

It just has Mo.

Mo says he's never sailed in this part of the ocean before. It makes him nervous.

He can't really sleep. The crew has stowed a 40-day supply of food and water,

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