Ring of Fire (David) Dec1 2014 On the strict understanding that sailors cannot be relied upon to be where they say they’ll be, I’ll tell you a little of our plans. We have it in mind to sail, in May next year, to Fiji with a brief stop at Minerva Reef, a couple of coral enclosures two to three km across, each with a gap allowing access to the calm of the enclosure. At high tide there is nothing visible. It’s a must-stop since GPS and a must-avoid before. We have about five months to explore the Fiji archipelago before the cyclone season pushes us north and west. I think it’s a reasonable bet we’ll make it to Fiji. Our planning chart shows a solid line between New Zealand and this island group. After that the lines become dotted and radiate out in a variety of directions. Perhaps we will have had our fill and choose to return to New Zealand. Maybe South East Asia or Australia will take out attention. But if we follow our current ideas we will head for Japan either via Tuvalu, Kiribati and the Marshall Islands or through Vanuatu, the Solomon Islands and Papua New Guinea, the latter route currently gaining favour. At the end of this entry is a story, ‘Call And Response’, that accounts, in part, for our Japanese inclinations. Our sojourn in this interesting region might be a matter of months or, knowing that we’d be unlikely to pass that way again, we may stay longer. Still, a time will come when we will want to move on. In our sights is Vancouver. It’s a romantic notion to sail my own boat to my home country even though home is the other side of the continent. It’s also a very long passage, some 40 or 50 days with nowhere to stop. We have this idea, of which we may be cured before the time comes, of being at sea long enough to learn to live there. All our passages so far have been entirely destination focused – a routine of watch keeping, sleep and eating, our attention never far from the GPS, ticking off the miles. We imagine that a passage of North Pacific duration would encourage and make room for being at sea, for living. We won’t, of course, lose sight of the destination but perhaps be less singularly driven, more able to pursue other projects. That’s the idea anyway, and the appeal of a long voyage. From Vancouver we will follow the coast south, slowly, until we reach Central America where another decision awaits. Might we be seduced through the Panama Canal? Or will we begin the long journey home? That’s too far in the future. Either way, we will have circumnavigated much of the Pacific, the Ring of Fire. In the mean-time, we have a few months of cruising north from Wellington. We are ready to go and need only a suitable weather window to make a dash for Gisborne, our first stop, just a couple of days away. It could be a long wait. November and December are not known for light winds. Call and Response This was over two years in the planning – none of us thought we could pull it off. Yet here we were, sailing across Hiroshima Bay, the thunder of our Taiko drum echoing through the mist-cloaked hills. ****** It had begun at my first Taiko class, in a warehouse directly under the northern end of the Wellington Airport runway. Everything had to stop when a plane came in to land. It was a large, windowless room, lined with every percussion instrument imaginable. Murray’s craggy face leaned into our conversation. ‘Did you say sail to Japan?’ ‘Not exactly. Just contemplating the possibility.’ I rested an elbow on one of the big drums. ‘Why?’ He patted the hide-covered instrument lovingly. ‘I’m building another one of these to present to my Taiko teacher on Miyajima.” Murray’s grey eyes sparkled. “Imagine delivering it by yacht.’ He saw the doubt on my face. ‘It would be a mighty ceremony. There’d be call and response drumming all across the bay. You can hear these things for miles over water. At the shrine there’ll be a ceremonial presentation, a lot more drumming and a truck-load of saké.’ Immediately this struck me as a most impractical yet irresistibly romantic idea. Japan was well off our planned route, through waters known to be ripped apart by typhoons at any time of the year. Committing ourselves to a date nearly two years and over five thousand miles away had trouble written all over it. Sailors are notoriously unreliable for being where they say they’ll be. Things go wrong, plans change and the weather, of course, has a hand in everything. Yachts have left New Zealand for, say, Fiji and arrived in Tonga or Vanuatu instead, because that’s what the winds dictated. How could we promise to be tucked up in Hiroshima in twenty two months, ready for Murray to climb aboard with an enormous drum? And this was just our end of his plan. Murray had still to find the hides and stretch them. There was a sizable round of tree trunk to locate, season and hollow out. He’d need a wood carver, sponsorship, maybe a camera crew. He’d need to persuade Air New Zealand to fly him and his drum to Hiroshima. All he had was a dream, yet here he was trying to pin down transport for the last six miles of the enterprise. All because serendipity had put before him one small part that matched the vision – a New Zealand built yacht that could get to Japan on its own bottom and then carry his drum to Miyajima Island and the people who nurtured his passion for Taiko music. Even so, the idea would not leave me alone. New lines, Asia bound, began appearing on our passage-planning chart. ****** “Hear that?” Murray cocked his ear to the wind. “Hōno Daiko.” The thunderous rhythm and haunting conch pulled at us, calling us in. “Come on, let’s show them how we do it in Wellington.” We moved forward to the majestic instrument lashed on the foredeck like a figurehead. Together we beat out the ancient rhythm until sweat dripped from our bodies. We were gratified by a raucous cheer from the island. The Great Torii Gate towered over us as we slowly approached the wharf where our hosts were gathered in their blue and white hanten and headbands. Many hands took our lines amid a frenzy of drumming and chorus of okaerinasai and Murray-san. Our drum-maker was near tears at this reception. It was more than twenty years since he had been among these people. The ornately carved drum was untied, gently lifted off the boat and placed opposite the taiko of our hosts. The drumming stopped. The group fell silent. Murray stepped forward to his teacher and bowed deeply. “It’s been too long. Tadeima.’ He said, ‘I’m home.” He paused, searching the faces for old friends. “We’ve brought a small gift. A thank you. Much of what I treasure most was given here by you. Arigatou gozaimashita.” “Let me tell you something of this taiko. The drum shell is solid kauri, inlaid with paua, awabi. The skins are thick bull-hide. They will resonate for centuries.’ The taiko players gathered close around. ‘The drum shell is encircled by three sea dragons, three ryῡ. Here are the taniwha of my city, the fierce Ngake and his brother, Whataitai. They carved out Wellington harbor. The third you all know,’ he said, running a finger along its spine. “The princess, Toyotama-hime, sea goddess of this island, Miyajima.” There were shouts of approval. “I give you this drum as a symbol of our friendship and our joy of Taiko.” Murray’s teacher came forward and bowed, then stood. A broad smile creased his venerable face. “Okaerinasai, Murray-san. Welcome home.”