In the central plaza clearing, the dancing light of lanterns project flickering shadows that illuminate the faces of teenagers and smaller children who flock and eventually settle. 

Just above the ebony and cinnamon-haired heads of the young people sitting on woven nipa palm mats, a middle-aged woman’s voice pierces the din. “Please behave while Grandfather speaks. Steamed fish and rice will be served after Grandfather’s story-lesson. Just be good, and listen patiently. And enjoy these snacks for now.” 

The older and younger adults carry in trays of deep fried banana and crispy pigs’ feet appetizers and distribute them to the calming crowd. Moving past them to the center of one end of the plaza, saunters a slow-moving man with strands of braided white hair. Pearly cowrie shells and soft yellow scallops adorn his neck and torso. He carefully squats upon a low, wide bench composed of dried stumps fastened together with twine. He occasionally wafts a palm frond fan in front of his face revealing the web of creases caused by decades of sunlight, salt spray and the whip of coastal winds. 

The man takes a moment to clear his throat.

“Let me begin. Untold generations before my own, the world awoke from a frozen slumber. The ocean began in recession and slowly rose. Our original people lived on just a handful of expansive sea lands where the coast stretched on and on, requiring weeks of travel by kayak to circumnavigate. Amidst these larger land tracts, the highlands and mountain ranges eventually formed our present day archipelagos. We, as the ocean-borne, maintained ties with this network of cozy sea lands ever since.

“Our neighboring Southern cousins began sharing stories of far-off explorers uncovering the great cities of our violent pale-skinned distant relatives who inhabited somewhere past Western waters. Those same Western distant relatives who generations ago dismayed us by harming our ancestors upon first meeting—via gouging out their eyes. 

“By the ocean gods, why would I ever want to deprive my at-first enemy of the sight of our lush rice terraces and the deep azure of our hidden lagoons? Have we not, for generations, lulled at-first enemies into joining our people and partaking in our customs, eventually swearing them into our folds as new-members? 

“In the past, these violent relatives of the West arrived in what we initially called floating shanties. We later learned that they left their homelands, which supposedly spanned one hundred times the size of our Big Big Northern and Big Big Southern Sea-lands. Ridiculous. Despite their boasting, when outnumbered these Western brutes initially fled from our ancestors, and they spread stories to their people about the savagery of the ocean-borne. 

“Of the ocean creatures, we ocean-borne are a race of the least wild and savage amongst peoples of any known lands. We know we are not ravaging marauders who stalk our inner seas waiting to take unwary sea-travelers captive. 

“They had not spoken of their people who stayed on our lands over time. They who first loved our women, then later our customs and way of life. So we eventually made peace with these same Westerners by agreeing to trade bushels of our surplus produce for their hearty grain-paste and delicate pottery. Thus—we sealed a bond with these men of since we are forever linked by our common domain, the easy waters of the Sunset Sea in the West and the people who now thrive amongst us as our own.

“These new Western folk had called our lands ‘isle-lands,’ and the people of my generation started to use their foreign words like ‘islands,’ as if our homelands were somehow isolated from each other. A member is nothing on their own, remember this young people: members participate and in that way the group lives and breathes. 

“And how long would the lone mangrove shrub exist to the world were it not for the ocean to carry its buoyant seed by way of currents to local and distant shores? It’s these same ocean currents that would batter and erode the coast into beach sediment were it not for the thriving mangroves to resist its turbulence. The mangrove protects, the soil nourishes, the waters link all of life.

“And it’s these same ocean waters that brought us the men from another world, in that fateful afternoon long ago when I was known not as Grandfather, but rather as one of the first few ocean-borne members to unlock the floodgate to worlds beyond our imagination.” 

A hand is raised high and steady from the crowd. 

“Yes,” Grandfather says, “What is it?” 

Popping up from the mat, planting both feet, the energetic boy known as Benjo in his mid-teens speaks in bursts. “My parents tell me of the brave warriors who battled and defeated the sailors who first arrived. Also the elders tell me the battle was only a tale and that really, instead our great grandparents made the sailors’ stay more than welcoming. So we got all the sailors got drunk on guava liquor, and raided their camp capturing their leader. How is this possible since they now control all the harbors and ports that we helped them build?”

Grandfather nods his head, “Yes. I hear you Benjo. Lately, I’ve noticed you. You have sat close by, listening to the elders’ fireside talks these past new moons.” He motions the young man to sit. 

“The youngest ones among you know only part of the story. You might even heard parts of this story from ones who have travelled abroad.” 

A hint of ash and soot swirls in the sinking glow of early evening. “In the past, yes there was a clash between their strange world and our tiny homelands. The tale most of you heard went something like this.” Grandfather takes in a slow steady breath. 

“Upon first sighting, I could not fathom the immensity of their floating ships of billowing fabric, thick rope and sea-stained wood planks. Those vessels propelled by the breath of ocean wind somehow towered above the waves, reaching the heights greater than two coconut trees stacked root to crown. Upon the water, the wind-powered ships moved like clouds that rested a good distance from our shores, just before the rocky reefs and the watery murk of mangrove fields. Those ships are what we now call galleons. From a single galleon, emerged a few large, wide vessels not unlike our nimble one-man kayaks.” 

“In the distance, the rowing men appeared without war spears or torches. Our own armada of coastal guards patrolling by kayak escorted five rowing ships in crews of five or so of their men toward our shores.

“Their landing party of two dozen appeared first to our sands. These formidable men, armed with peculiar metal rods and long knives, guarded a stout, tall man in the middle rank. He alone carried no obvious weapon of just a salt-encrusted metal pole that held a lilting flag and tipped with a rusty spike. His body appeared to be covered in an ornate, shiny metallic plate draped over layers of woven fabric. Below the dull glimmer of a curved metal helm, his eyes shone like a twin pair of crystal blue stars on a sun-kissed face resembling the sky at dusk. 

“Of the twenty and five ocean-borne that appeared from the depths of the trees, just seven of us, including myself, made a procession lead by the head shaman. The remaining ocean-borne made a loose crescent in close rank behind our seven. We approached in awe before this man from beyond the great ocean. The shaman slid his feet in the circular, rhythmic gait of a purification ritual, while shaking bundles of smoky herbs at the star-eyed man. 

“Then that’s when the lightning flashed from the hip of one of the star-eyed’s company. After that deafening thunderclap, the shaman clasped the side of his head, as his fishbone earring and earlobe fell to the sands. Then the blood began to flow down his back. Another crackling boom and the sacred shaman met the sands motionless, face scowling at the sky. A small cavity in his neck spilled a generous flow of red into beach sands. 

“The wind ships belched thunder, splitting palm trees and sending a barrage of soil and sands to our backs. Pockmarks of craters appeared at the tree lines just beyond our procession. 

“In a quick crouching dash of ten paces with heads low to the sands, crews of two and three from our ranks pulled violently at ropes that controlled the weighted and sharp-hooked nets that were hidden in the sands. Many of our at-first enemies tumbled and tripped prone unto these snares as the talons of fish hooks pierced their palms, forearms and shoulders. 

“From twenty and thirty paces a dozen ocean-borne perched against coconut tree trunks bared their arms swinging in circular arcs holding on to tails of twine. Wrapped at the end of the tails were palm-sized stone flints that when released, connected with the heads and chests of these men from beyond. The hollow coconut knocks of these impacts confirmed the unerring skill of these silent attackers in proximity.

“At tree-lines behind us, the bulk of our defenses opened with a round of small hand spears thrown at distance using curved spear throwers, with a few piercing their intended targets. 

“Then, when maybe only two dozen face-painted bladed chargers appeared before them in full sprint toward the fallen and netted prey, a few men from the galleons showed their backs in order to hop into available rowboats, and only after firing their weapons in haste at long range. The explosions failed to intimidate the chargers. The pulse of their enraged blood coursed in their eardrums while intensifying their focus for mayhem, slitting the throats or wrists of those who resisted the counterattack.

“The star-eyed man’s inner circle formed a defensive vanguard around him with long knives and thunder-sticks after hacking through the initial netting. After discharging blasts from stowed weapons and bloodying several ocean-borne, a great number of the invading crew in the vicinity started a mass retreat to the galleon evading the coastal guard armed with long fishing spears; these deft guards aboard swift kayaks harried any remaining aggressors of those retreating.

“Slowly the star-eyed man’s gestures of surrender were made clear: The battle is over, his deep bow indicated. Release my men and I am yours to reckon with, signaled his hands and face. Then he sternly stepped toward us while suppressing two men locked in close quarters, disarming one of his own by knocking the long knife from his grasp. 

“Two days later, we allowed most of the captured crew to escape to the safety of the galleon. Wounded and strong enough to travel on, they and the rest of the crew already aboard the galleon sailed to the next way port, though their leader was not amongst that small number. At the port, the surviving men reported that their leader was boiled and stewed and served as a ceremonial delicacy to the savage man-hunting marauders who nearly wiped them out.” 

Hushing can be heard from the attentive audience. 

The elder coughs out a dry wheeze. “Some of the younger ones I see here may have heard this story of the battle at the beach front. I can tell you, it never happened. Please listen closely, this tale is repeated by these same outsiders in order to secure and maintain exclusive trade routes, thereby wedging out future competitors and other adventurers. 

“The story of the battle at the beach was told with the expectation that the story’s finale of the grim feast would become a myth and a harsh warning to future would-be invaders of this supposedly treacherous land. As a result, other foreigners dared not sail into these indomitable lands for at least a generation, which gave these original foreigners time to normalize relations with our people.”

Small piles of emptied trays have been stacked. The middle-aged woman from earlier began picking the stacks up from the mats. 

Grandfather draws in a breath of the humid and fragrant tropical air. “Here’s what I clearly remember, like the taste of saltwater, from that day long ago, weeks after one beast of an ocean storm.

“That very first galleon appeared battered, and it moored down far from the reefs. It appeared they were caught at open sea during the monsoon, surviving the latent cyclone like stubborn, lucky fools. The spotted crew were too ill to even navigate past the reef rings and mangrove fields and to reach us on the sands. Our guard escorted a few of the rowing scouts, who after beaching, could only stand by using their oars as support. The ones still in boats who remained entrenched at the mangrove barriers seemed to be the worst off, like a convoy of living cadavers awaiting rescue.” 

“The remaining coastal guard rowed out to these dying men by kayak to deliver coconut water, fermented guava juice, and dried papayas. They beckoned and appeared willing to wait even more as we delivered more food and drink and other goods in which they quickly ferried to those perhaps even worse off aboard the galleon.

“Eventually they sent just twelve men, plus their leader, whom they called ‘El Capitan,’ to drive onto our shores in order to establish trade agreements, however, at the time, we remained curious to know the purpose of these alien men who had survived the watery ravages of the waves and wind.

“They looked nothing like our dark honey-skinned relatives from the South Seas or our once-violent pale neighbors from beyond the Western Sunset Sea.Our people expressed ourselves in the best way we could to the aliens. Our people made drawings done with bonfire charcoal and used signs formed by hand. They seemed to understand and made drawings in return. They shared with us pictures from books and strange maps of the world beyond. An alien of aliens, they were then called ‘the strangest,’ as a term of affection.

“Eventually these strangest of aliens began to enjoy their stay. The strangest learned the words of our ocean-borne dialect, amazing us with their adaptability. The barking and facial contortions of the strangest El Capitan turned out to be intelligible as well, and we began to learn key words of his native tongue over time.

“Together we developed a pigeon tongue spoken in the local seas of our known world at the time. These pigeon words and phrases were used locally between the strangest and the ocean-borne in these One Hundred One Small Sea-lands. We also learned that they worshipped just a single god-man who conquered death just like our legends of lore who exist beyond death. When asked if their god-man was ever lonely being their only god existing beyond death, they scoffed at us then whispered apologies into trinkets around their necks.

“In time, the strangest began arriving in galleons that increased in number with each passing dry season. After the first, there were three, then five, and soon they began to build harbors and ports on our lands and our neighbors’, delivering endless goods and holy book men. They also traded with our neighbors of the Sunset Sea over time.

“Let it be known that El Capitan was the kindest of the aliens and popular amongst our tradesmen and especially the droves of women who swooned before his blue star-eyes. After many moons, his accompanying twelve men boarded that first-arriving galleon that still harbored beyond the reefs. The men decided to say farewell and set sail for their far-off home. Except for El Capitan, who stayed for nearly a year and married six lucky women who each bore him a baby. 

“His legacy included a score of grandchildren of whom he was never able to meet since El Capitan died of a fever during his stay. Many say he had severe homesickness, but to those of us who he lived amongst, he died smiling. He was never lonely amongst the people and wives who loved his otherworldly charm, his exotic stories and ways. You know that some of you are descendants of El Capitan, who is known in their native tongue, outside of these sea lands, as …. Ja’mellan.” 

Soft chuckles erupt from the torch-lit crowds. 

“Oh excuse me, my children. My old age is catching up with me. El Capitan’s name was Magellan. Yes. El Capitan has played a role in our history and ancestry as the great ocean-borne explorer from beyond the seas …. Magellan.” Grandfather raises both his arms, closes his eyes, and then crosses his arms over his chest. His head tilts into a bow. 

The patient crowd responds with hoots, whistles and the steady percussion of applause and foot stomps. At this cue, wisps of steam trail past several younger men and women walking and chattering while delivering a flurry of bountiful trays of spiced fish and boiled rice to Grandfather and his listeners. In all eight directions toward lands linked by endless seas, the sitting young people stretch the length of their limbs. Then each tuck morsels of the feast using just a single hand, skillfully feeding without metal or wood implements ever touching their lips. 

Headline photograph courtesy of the Community Archives of Belleville & Hastings County (public domain)