The canoe rode the waves, rising as it reached the peaks and falling down into the deepening

troughs.

When it reached the top, its sail of woven plant fibers billowed and filled with wind,

driving it forward, and then slackened and slowed as it fell.

Fat droplets of rain pelted the decks, stopping entirely when the wind died down and then suddenly

reappearing when a gust's droveled wall of water into the heaving canoe.

But despite the fury of the storm, the women and men on the canoe showed no sign of fear

or even real discomfort.

The planks that made up the canoe's hole were waterproof, tightly lashed together with

fibers.

They flexed and moved with the waves and wind but didn't yield.

The outrigger kept the canoe upright and stable, even as the gusts blew in and the waves

roiled and struck the flimsy-looking craft from all angles.

A baler, they called her a limas, scooped water out of the canoe using a red clay pot.

The man at the canoe's rear guided the steering wheel with a firm hand, making adjustments

to the course to ride the peaks and troughs at advantageous angles.

A woman at the canoe's prow called out, the shells of her earrings and necklace jangling

as she gesticulated and yelled to make herself heard over the storm.

She had spotted land just ahead, pointing toward it with an arm covered in tattooed dots

and lines.

Many of the people on the canoe were tattooed, the markings showing on the exposed skin

above their woven loincloths and skirts.

...