The Albino Eagle, A Black Fin

Bringing kayaks down to the muddy beach with the help of villagers.

Without warning the ustadz spoke through static. Our pre-dawn wake time came from the cold loudspeaker. Room lights were turned on, adding orange glow of windows against the dark sea.
The mothers prepared breakfast silently but quickly, shuffling out plates and thermal flasks onto our table. I flipped over a plate expecting our daily portion of mee goreng. Like many places in the archipelago, indo-mee goreng was a staple and favourite of the locals - and us. Breakfast was crispy fried tapioca and coffee.



Below our stilted kampong houses where our kayaks were stored, dark shadows with headlights moved a kayak to the stinky mud exposed by the receding tides. The shadows climbed down a steep wooden ladder on the mud shore, leaving foot sized craters, silverly with the first rays of sun on its water refills.

Inside our room, packed bags were in every corner. The rasp of plastic bags heard near and afar. The floor was strewn with little items reserved for pre-launch packing, like toiletries and rations. As the room brightened, small children wriggled on the mattress. Some cried.

We looked at the pile of packed bags and hesitated, nonchalantly counting how many back and forth walking we needed. There was always something left behind, plus the 12 cartons of water that had to go into our kayaks. Out Host heaved one heavy carton on his thick shoulder and skipped to the beach. The holds of the Feathercrafts started filling with small bags and blue bottles.

Almost Ready! Must catch the right timing for the tides.

The brooms were again scrapping lines on the sandy street. The vegetable seller sat in front of our kayaks with her basket of leafy greens. It was fully bright. Someone using the school’s loudspeaker started shouting names who were late. Heavy bags on little feet ran. Another kayak was squeezed out from storage and carried to the mud. A crowed gathered to watch, squatting or sitting on the hardwood boardwalk, hands capped above their brows.

Everyone has their own preferences on how to load the kayak. With all the gear were carried down, packing became . What bags to put where and how to balance 12 water bottles in the holds. In such an early morning, you gave advice at your own peril. A loose kayak frame, forgotten bags, overly large bag….there were many things that could mess up one’s packing plan. A frown or slightly audible exhaled surprise could be sufficient signal that all was not well with one’s packing.

Finally we were ready. Out Host gathered everyone for a quick picture. One by one, we slide our legs into the Feathercrafts, loop the sprayskirts, the paddle was given a quick rinse and lifted up for our first strokes. And if one had cared to look around at that moment, when everyone was poised to start, it was not us who were moving but the mountains, the anchored boats around us, the village behind us, that all started to move. We were in the middle of a transformation.

Lining up before the Lintah Straits

If felt as if the village started to fold up, like an origami paper, transforming itself into lines so thin one could only see it from a precise angle. From where I was paddling I could only see green grass and hills, where was the village? I looked up and saw an albino eagle clutching a stick of fire, flapped its wings and soared, and dropped the fire stick on where the village was.

Flames and smoke behind me, in front the sea.

And the sea this morning was so smooth she beguiled us, expressing her moods through light reflected off her surface. She was calm, she was a keeper of light, which covered her with a protective foil. Her entire surface was held together with impenetrable wax. Later when she raged, she cut light into thousands of pieces that shoot off her in a series of flakes and flashes.

Unlike in sports where sometimes time slowed in the midst of action, everything happened in double quick time paddling in strong tidal currents. I saw the kayaks in front turned away suddenly by the tidal streams. Flashes of light shot up in bursts from the sea. The streams pushed, like an arching back of a dragon in flight, the front kayaks so much that instead of looking at their stern I was facing their port side.

Very smooth seas before the chaos later.

To paddle the sea and to do such a crossing, one had to feel her. It wasn’t just more power, or looking at a point on the opposite island and arms punching. We had to find ways to slow time down. Elation, sadness, anxiety, hope, regrets…one had to pour into her, discharged everything into her depths and let these feelings recycled with her flowing streams. Holding the paddle like a brush, one had to know when to put in the hard strokes and when to lightly sweep the canvas. When one’s will to surrender, be like water, the sea would show her grace.

“Keep to 135 degrees!”

And to no avail. I radioed again the few times I could take my hands off the paddle. Just think of us paddling up a slope, and we were sliding ‘down’ towards an open sea. The change of tides was due in an hour, so the best option to do was to paddle on and stay in position. It was surreal paddling against the currents, where the desired island got further by the minute and there was not much one could do about it. The high peaks of the islands shifted such that the higher ones overtook the shorter ones, and beaches which were once by our side now slipped behind view. Near to protruding rocks, one could see not only the gush of waters but actually hear them. As soon as the rock was in sight it drifted away, but it was us who continued our slide.

At last when there was no more water flowing into the Indian Ocean, the sea flattened all her waves and as if we were on a carousel, we slowly circled back. The island that was getting smaller now became larger by the minute.

It was then that the black fin appeared, moving toward me.

Paddling close to Padar Island.

Each time I saw dolphins or whales during a crossing, it had been hard but OK. The few crossings that I did not, things spiralled into survival dramas. I was told similar dolphin tales by seasoned sea-farers and they always spoke about a strong connection between man and these sea mammals. I had not experienced them close, only brief encounters from a distance, as if they just popped up to give assurances.

On the sea for too long, my brain sometimes couldn’t be completely trusted. How else do I explained thinking the sea as a goddess, powerful to do as she likes? That water had drained away my rationality and mystified it, with a blink my eyes, a configuration to read her symbols and signs. Of that moment, as waters around me quietened, I stopped paddling completely. After a few hours out in the sun, residual white salt crystals had covered the black skin of my kayak, shimmering her in light.

As the black fin approached closer, it merged with my kayak.

I waited for more kayaks to paddle in or call in safe. A pod of dolphins appeared and followed for a while, giving a good feel to the last minutes of a crossing...

Reward of a nice beach for lunch at the end of a long crossing!