The waves lapped at the edge of the lagoon, swishing around the wooden stilts that held

the houses up over the water.

The day was nearing its end, and the sun hung low in the sky, orange rays illuminating

the endless ocean that spread out to the west.

The cluster of raised wooden houses that made up the village were abuzz with activity.

A quartet of canoes, all of them large, sewn plank constructions with tall masts and

outriggers lined the narrow beach.

Bond fires placed.

The smell of roasting food filled the air, swirling into gentle Pacific breeze.

Porpoise, tuna, pig, chicken, breadfruit, and nuts, the makings of a tremendous feast.

This was a night of celebration, when the villagers would renew their bonds with their

neighbors on nearby islands, trade information about winds and currents and new places to

explore.

Show off the things they'd found on their voyages, discuss marriages, and see family.

The tattooists were hard at work.

Some of them with bamboo and bone tools, others using tiny flakes of retouched razor-sharp

obsidian, mallets striking the implements with a steady tap, tap, tap.

The last method, obsidian, was something these people had picked up from their neighbors,

the ancient inhabitants of these islands.

The people celebrating tonight were recent migrants who had spent many days and nights crossing

the ocean to come here.

But they had learned much from those whose ancestors had long lived in these places.

...