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Island navigator Piailug gives the author a lesson in paafiu, which means “numbering the stars” in Polynesian. It is the first lesson for any apprentice.
Second of Two Parts: This is an excerpt from the newly rereleased book “The Last Navigator: A Young Man, An Ancient Mariner, the Secrets of the Sea.” Published by Abbeville Press, it is available on its website. In the scenes that follow master navigator Piailug finds an eager student in Steve Thomas from America.
He began instruction that afternoon in the ship’s fo’c’sle, the only private place we could find, amid the coiled hawsers, cans of paint, and outboard motors. I launched into a long list of questions from my preliminary research. He listened patiently, and carefully answered each question in simple English.
When I paused to contemplate my notes, he took my pad and pencil, removed a plastic prescription bottle from his woven pandanus handbasket, and used it to trace a circle. Then, grasping the pencil as if for the first time, he painstakingly placed thirty-two dots around the circle.
“First we must learn the stars,” he explained gently. “Do you know the stars in our language?”
I began with Maeilap, the name for Altair, then managed Paiyefaeng (Gamma Aquilae), Wuul (Aldebaran), Mwaerigaer (Pleiades), Yiugiuliig (Cassiopeia), and Meon (Vega) before I needed help.
“Where did you learn this?” he demanded in surprise.
“From you,” I said factually. He gave me a sidelong glance—I had learned the names from the film footage. Then he helped me fill out the rest of the names of the stars in my notebook.
Micronesian navigators use the rising and setting positions of fifteen stars or constellations to define thirty-two points around the horizon. The stars’ rising po- sitions are indicated by the prefix Taen, setting positions by the prefix tupwul, both spoken with an “a” suffixed to bridge two consonants. Since the stars keep their positions relative to one another as if painted on the underside of a vast dome, they always rise in the same place on the eastern horizon, follow the same arc through the heavens, and set in the same place on the western horizon. It is true that the stars rise four minutes earlier each evening, which causes the night sky to change with the seasons, but they always rise and set in the same place.
Micronesian navigators use the stars both to name the directions around the horizon and to maintain direction at sea, by pointing the bow of the canoe at the rising or setting star, or one that follows the same arc. This circular array of stars has been called the “sidereal compass” by Westerners.
“My grandfather Raangepiy taught me the stars,” Piailug commented as I scribbled the names in my notebook, “but I didn’t write it down like you are doing. I kept everything in my head.” He paused for a moment and concluded: “This is called paafiu.”
A paafiu navigation chart.
Paafiu, meaning “numbering the stars,” is the young student’s first lesson in navigation; in it he learns the principal navigational stars. Piailug began to learn paafiu at age five, accompanying his grandfather while he worked or fished. Sometimes the old man simply had him repeat the names of the stars. Other times he would place thirty-two lumps of coral in a circle on a woven pandanus mat to help him visualize the star points. This is called fferaeg giyegiy, or “unfolding the mat.”
Raangepiy tied strands of banana fiber between the coral lumps representing the major axes—north-south, east-west, northwest-southeast, northeast-southwest—to help his grandson visualize the reciprocal relationships. Piailug learned his next two lessons on the mat as well. For amas, or “facing,” Raangepiy constructed a small canoe of palm fronds, placed it in the center of the circle, and had Piailug name the stars that lay over the canoe’s bow, stern, outrigger, and lee platform. At sea, if the guiding star is unavailable or obscured, the navigator can steer by a star over the stern, outrigger, or lee platform.
In the second lesson, yaerhowumw, Raangepiy pointed to each star in the circle and asked Piailug to name that star and its reciprocal or “partner” star, thus inculcating the reciprocal relationship between the star points—critical knowledge at sea. When I had finished copying the names of all the stars in the paafiu array, Piailug took back the pencil and notebook and drew lines to represent the coconut midribs.
“These are paths,” he explained. “There are many of them. Paths connect rising Maeilap with setting Maeilap, rising Paiyefaeng with setting Paiyeor, rising Wuul with setting Yeoliuyeon—paths connect all the stars. You must always place yourself in the center of the paths. Do you understand this?”
I nodded yes. I understood that just as I, a Western navigator, projected my compass rose onto the world, placing myself in the center of a sunburst pattern of radians—north, south, east, and west—he mentally projected paafiu. Then he placed a dot in the center of the circle of stars, at the intersection of the paths.
“This is Satawal,” he said. He pointed to the rising Yeoliuyeon, Orion’s Belt. “Houk lies under this star. Chuuk lies under this star, Maeilap.” He glanced up to see if I was following. “Polowat lies under rising Paiyefaeng,Pollap under rising Wuul,Piig under rising Welegeo,Pigeeleo under setting Maeilapelefaeng, Faraulep under setting Mwaerigaer, Lamotrek under setting Paiyefaeng. Do you see, Steve?
We call this woofaniuw, woofaniuw for Satawal.” Woofaniuw means literally “to gaze at the island.” It is the paliuw’s chart case, for it delineates the star courses to all known points in his world. Just as a Western navigator cannot voyage without the right charts, a paliuw is helpless without woofaniuw; his voyaging range is as great or as limited as his knowledge of the star courses. Piailug later recorded the star courses to and from all the islands in the central Carolines, from Pohnpei and Kosrae in the east to Yap and the Philippines in the west and Saipan and Guam in the north.
Then, to my astonishment, he recorded the courses from Satawal to Piig, then north to Hawaii; from Hawaii he delineated courses to North America, South America, Tahiti, the Marquesas, Samoa and Japan. He told me he learned this woofaniuw from his grandfather.
The next day we resumed our lessons. Piailug seemed to teach me with urgency, immediately sensing what I understood from my own sea experience and previous study, and what was new to me I asked if he used the shape of the waves to tell which direction the current was setting his canoe, one of the most formidable problems for any navigator.
I gestured with my hands to show the waves coming from the direction of the wind and the current flowing against them: “In this case,” I said, “the waves would get bigger.”
“Not bigger but steeper,” he corrected me. “And what if the current goes with wind and wave?” he asked.
“The waves will be lower, smoother,” I answered. He nodded.
“We use the waves to tell the current,” he explained, “but first we do foaton mwir [literally: facing astern]. We look back at the island to see if it has moved.”
He sketched a map of Satawal and the surrounding islands on the back of an old envelope. When departing on a voyage, he explained, he sailed out to the point at which Satawal was about to dip beneath the horizon, then observed the effects of the current. If Satawal had moved north, he knew a current was pushing him south. If Satawal had moved south, the current was pushing him north. The procedure was nearly identical to Western practice, using a hand bearing compass, except that Piailug visualized the islands moving in the sea while the canoe remained rooted to the bottom.
“What if you are here, out of sight of all islands?” I asked, drawing an “x” on the envelope. “If the current changes, how do you know?”
I expected him to elaborate on the art of reading the current by its effects on the shape of ocean swells. But instead he studied the sketch for a long time. Then slowly, almost reverently, he placed some dots near the island of Pigeeleo.
“A bird stays here,” he explained in a low, intense voice, “a dolphin stays here. Over here is a fish—I don’t know what you call it in America, the kind we call aiunn [crevalle jack, Caranx hippos]. When you see one you know you are not on the road to the island.” Then he fell silent, the muscles in his jaw twitching and jerking.
“Are these birds and fishes there all the time?” I asked.
“Yes. I have seen them,” he answered. “It is just special birds and fish. They do something special: Fly close to the water, have special marks on their back or sides [slapping himself on the back and sides], swim a certain way in the water.” He grew reflective: “I don’t know; it is said that when they die another bird or fish will come to take their place. But I know the creatures live in their place for a long time.” He was astonished when I told him we didn’t use such signs.
This was pwugoff, one of the most intriguing elements of Micronesian navigation, a system which charts the range and star course to a ring of sea creatures around each island. That certain birds and fish returned to the same feeding grounds day in and day out seemed quite plausible to me. I had been captain of a yacht whose owner frequently treated his guests to whale-watching expeditions. We always found the humpbacks in the same spot on Stellwagen Bank, off Boston.
But pwugoff seemed to be more than a catalogue of fauna. Micronesians I had talked to during my preliminary research referred to it guardedly, and looked surprised that I even knew of it.
The ship continued on to Eauripik. At sunset I stood with Piailug at the rail, the raking light modeling the sharp folds of his frown, the squint of his eyes, and his high, full, almost sensual cheekbones. He watched the water intently, his hand resting lightly on the rail, his body seeming to merge with the rolling steel deck at his feet.
I asked where the current was coming from. He pointed toward the setting sun and continued to watch the water. “From there,” he said matter-of-factly, “from the west.”
The pilot charts showed it was the time of year for the Equatorial Countercurrent to set in. During the winter months, when the North Pacific High—a vast area of high barometric pressure that dominates the weather patterns of the whole northern Pacific—moves south, the North Equatorial Current flows from east to west through the Caroline Islands. As winter shades into spring, the High migrates north, with the North Equatorial Current tagging along. During the summer and fall, the Equatorial Countercurrent flows through the Caroline Islands from west to east.
For me to measure the current, I would have had to take bearings on an island—but we were out of sight of land—or take sextant observations of the sun, stars, or other heavenly bodies. Piailug had done neither; he had simply been watching the waves.
I knew from the literature and our earlier discussions that he could determine the current from the ocean swells. But this evening there were no swells, merely wavelets too small even to form whitecaps.
“How can you determine the current when there are no swells?” I asked.
“You look at the water and it is tight,” he answered. “The small waves go like this [pushing in one direction] and then—how can I explain?” He extended both his hands and pulled them back as if stroking the keys of a piano. He claimed this sign was now present and that it indicated a weak current from the west, flowing against the light northeasterly wind.
I had never read about such a sign in the literature and I pressed him for a more articulate description. He tried to get me to see a kind of “tightness” in the water—tiny ripples flowing on the surface, almost like the wrinkles on a weatherbeaten face. If I watched carefully enough, he said, I would perceive the ripples flowing against the wind and wavelets. I stared at the shimmering water until my eyes hurt, but could detect nothing, just the wavelets, glittering like a multitude of fishes caught up in the nets of the sea.
In the morning we anchored off Eauripik. I asked the captain the direction of the current during the night. He glanced at the ship’s track penciled on the chart and at the sextant shots the first mate had plotted. It had been weak, he told me, from the west.
I had been told by other researchers not to expect anyone to discuss navigation for at least six months. But now, two days after I had met Piailug for the first time, he was freely discussing elements I understood to be secret.
LOOSE CANNON covers hard news, technical issues and nautical history. Every so often he tries to be funny. Subscribe for free to support the work. If you’ve been reading for a while—and you like it—consider upgrading to paid.
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The author shapes planks for a sailing canoe with an adze, a tool he likely never used in his future career as host of “This Old House.”
First of two parts.
Loose Cannon: When your book was first published in 1987, I had just spent the better part of a decade trying to keep my 28-foot wooden sloop from sinking and trying to learn navigation at the same time, including a course in celestial at the Boston Sailing Club. Reading about how the Polynesian navigators did it, was, in the parlance of those days, mind-blowing. “The Last Navigator” project was an enormous undertaking for a 30-year-old. What were you thinking?
Thomas: Yeah, well my wife, Evy, also wondered the same thing, although we met in Bequia while I was bringing a 43-foot RORC racing sloop from England to San Francisco, (ostensibly to sell and make some money. Never made any dough.) We were engaged by then, living in Salem, Massachusetts, and I was both fixing up an old Greek Revival to sell to raise the money to buy another boat and continue around the world, and skippering a rich doctors ULDB (ultra light displacement boat).
I had written a manuscript about my journey from England to San Francisco and through a friends brother submitted it to an agent. She, kindly, acknowledged that it had some lovely writing but was not particularly an original theme. She asked what else I was working on, and I sent her a proposal for The Last Navigator. That was a great idea, she responded, and the somewhat generalized dream to go do this project came clearly into focus.
As I say in the preface to the new edition the dream to go to the Pacific and study with a navigator was a young man’s dream, and I had the supreme good fortune to be able to realize that dream as a young man. Evy was fully supportive, even though it meant I would be disappearing to the wilds of the Pacific (pre sat phone, internet, etc etc) for six months at a time.
I was fully committed to the project, and I knew I could pull it off. That commitment created its own dynamic, and opened up a new set of possibilities. I met Dr. Ben Finney (of the Hokule’a project, then at University of Hawaii), Dr. Ward Goodenough (University of Pennsylvania), Sam Low who just came back from shooting a PBS doc with Piailug among other locations in the Pacific. Things opened up. I got some funding, got my research visas etc., did my extensive preliminary research and in 1983 was on the plane headed to the Pacific.
Looking back, it is amazing I pulled it off. But, I had an uncanny certainty that I could, and would. And, I was absolutely determined.
L.C.: Question: Just so the readers know: Pialug is the main character, the “last navigator” himself. How would you describe the guy?
Thomas: Yes, Piailug is the main character and the unfolding relationship between a young American navigator, and an older Carolinian Navigator is the spine of the story. Piailug was complex —all smooth curves and jagged angles. Youngest of the fully initiated Paliuw and from a “clan of the people” and not a chiefly clan, he had earned his fame by his fearless voyaging in Micronesia, his willingness to teach the hitherto secret arts of navigation and, of course, by his navigating the Hokule’a twice, from Hawaii to Tahiti. He more than anyone, understood the cultural devastation the West would wreck on Carolinian culture—it would mean the death of navigation, and the core of traditional society.
L.C.: Yes, your description of Piailug as “all smooth curves and jagged angles” is quite memorable.
We are following up this interview with a excerpt from the book later this week, and the passage we chose really demonstrates the sheer amount of memorization that this kind of navigation entails. I think most of the readers would regard our celestial navigation as a challenging skill to learn. Polynesian navigation, I have no doubt you agree, is orders of magnitude more difficult.
Thomas: Absolutely. It is a staggering amount of material the paliuw has to memorize and have fully present in his mind as he navigates. And he has to hold everything in his head. In traditional Western navigation with charts, sextant, sight reduction tables, plotting sheets, taffrail log, ships log and even a more or less comfortable nav station, the navigator has a lot of support. You can look back over your notes, your previous sights, see the ships course on the chart of plotting sheet (obviously GPS is a total game changer you can just drive the video game). But the paliuw had to hold course, speed, drift, steering errors, leeway, current offset etc etc in his head, and never ever forget the mental plot, because you can’t go back over your notes, or your plot on the chart. It is, as I way in the book, “one of the great accomplishments of the human mind and spirit”
L.C.: And yet, despite the absence of instruments and logbooks etc., the process is highly scientific…to a point. My take has been that the process was 90 percent science and 10 percent (for lack of a better word) mysticism. I’m talking about their seemingly unshakeable faith that a dolphin would show itself precisely where a left turn was needed or some other creature. What is your take on this? Is it just the codification of luck?
Thomas: In the education of a paliuw, there comes a time when he starts to be taught that he will have to manage both physical world of way finding at sea, and the metaphysical world, the world of spirits, magic, black magic, spiritual healing, calling the spirits of breadfruit, floating logs under which fish swim, octopus, weather magic to ward off the spirits of strong winds, typhoons, etc.
Before Christianity this was a complete cosmology. As Catholic missionaries established missions in Truk (1912 or so) the Carolinians began to “throw away our magic” This might not have been the full responsibility of the Catholics, as they urged the Carolinians to only throw away the black magic, which was commonly practiced. But the misconception took hold that all magic, even good magic, should be discarded. The navigational systems which incorporated magic or spiritual beliefs were much more resistant to erosion than some of the other systems, like healing magic, weather magic, and the rites that called breadfruit, fish et al to the island. Ewiyong, Pwitaag and chief Otolik were the last of the old guard, the last generation to have a comprehension of the full scope of traditional cosmology.
Chief Otolig taught me:
Yaliulwaei and Yaliummwaeresi are considered sons of Paliuwlap (the great navigator). Paliuwlap and Yaliummwaeresi stay on the giyoa (outrigger crossbeams), and Yaliulwaei stays on the taam (the outrigger itself). They watch the paliuw to make sure he has “brightness” (wisdom, attentiveness, focus, energy, clear thinking) in his body. If he thinks poorly, then they help him to find the island. Originally they came from the sky. They stay inside the mast until they are called.
The Ppwo initiation ceremony, by which a student became a full fledged navigator brought “the heat of Yaliummwaeresi into the initiates body to make him “bright”
There is, in the extensive interviews I did with the elders, and which did not find their way into the book, the belief that the navigator became a spirit while he was sailing the canoe, and upon reaching land was transformed back into a human. I just caught the very tail end of this world. When the aforementioned elders, and then Piailug, Urupoa. Fortunately the extensive material in my archives at the University of Hawaii, Mano’a contain all that I recorded, and with the Satawalese we are working on a monograph, a kind of cultural handbook, to return this cultural legacy to Satawal.
It was also a documentary. Canoe Aningana, at sea during the 1988 filming of The Last Navigator, during which time Mau Piailug and his crew were joined by Steve Thomas for a six-day crossing between Satawal and Saipan.
L.C.: You said somewhere that Last Navigator was changed for the latest edition. Could you please elaborate on that?
Thomas: I edited this edition very lightly, removing unnecessary references to my own family and personal feelings at the time. I also put into a more nuanced context the narrative of the rivalries between Piailug, a man of great force, courage, and renown, and some of the other navigators. We also changed all the pseudonyms from the first editions back to the original names, and with Raffipiy and his brothers confirmed all questions they had about navigational points by going back to the original source material.
I do go into this in some detail in the preface to the revised edition. We also, of course, added many more photographs from my collection.
L.C.: I don’t think Port Clyde could be as bad, but here in Green Cove Springs—with the towers of Jacksonville looming on the horizon—the light pollution is so prevalent we barely see anything but the moon and Venus. Sailing star paths in the South Pacific must have been like flying through space itself.
Thomas: It was indeed, especially with Mau Piailug as a guide.
L.C.: How do you think those guys would have handled fog?
Thomas: There is a technique call Meafiy, which means “to feel”. The navigator feels the roll and pitch of the canoe in the seaway, and can maintain his course using that. It is of course extremely difficult. When the Germans introduced the magnetic compass to Micronesia it quickly supplanted both “wave tying” and meafiy.
L.C. Rereading the book, I was reminded that it wasn’t all you dressed like Tarzan dancing through a stack of National Geographics. There were some down moments, too. For a while, your relationship with Piailug was troubled. How long did your “apprenticeship” last and what was your worst experience?
Thomas: I was in Micronesia for six months in 1983 and five months in 1984. I returned in 1987 and 1988 to do the film. Aside from loneliness and feeling very much out of the Western world (in terms of world view, not material goods, which I didn’t care about) the toughest moments were toward the end of the second year. This of course leads up the rapprochement just as I was leaving Satawal.
Of course. the other dicey moment was when I was told the young men were going to kill me because I picked up the Chief by his feet.
L.C.: Haha. Okay I’ve got a question that has nothing to do with navigation or your state of mind. A little while after your book debuted, there was another book about the South Pacific called “The Happy Isles of Oceania” by Paul Theroux, who was obviously pretty unhappy when he wrote it. One fact I retained was the omnipresence of Spam. This was a legacy of the American military in World War II and, according to Theroux, was on every menu, breakfast lunch and dinner. I don’t remember any mention in your book. Did the Carolines manage to escape this legacy?
Thomas: Yes for the most part. But when the fishing was bad we ate canned mackerel. Spam is what won World War II. My father, who served in the pacific on merchant vessels (bad eyesight) loved spam until the end of his days.
L.C.: Air Force family here, same same. In fact, my father and his buddies chartered a sailing canoe for a few days during the war. (As for Spam, I can’t believe I used to like it.) Another dumb question, which you must endure as the price of celebrity. You probably didn’t get to use an adze too often on “This Old House,” but was there anything from your Pacific adventure that helped make you a better TV handyman?
Thomas: Yeah. A boatbuilders slick is pretty close to an adze. I use it whenever I can find the pretext to do so!
A slick.
L.C.: Readers will probably be curious what you’ve been doing since the television show. Any new plans or projects?
Thomas: After “This Old House,” I was host and producer on “Save Our History” on the History Channel, then host and producer on Renovation Nation with Steve Thomas (Discovery’s Planet Green). Then, I worked for Habitat for Humanity International for five years doing some work in Africa and all across the U.S. Then, I went back into “private practice” with Steve Thomas Builders. We’ve done all kinds of challenging and cool projects.
L.C.: If you want to see how not to build houses–writ large–come visit down here in Florida. Make it a tax deduction. Plus, I’ll happily buy you a beer or two. Do you have any final thoughts, or an answer to a question I didn’t think to ask?
Thomas: In 1983, I casually mentioned to Piailug that my wife loved conch shells. In my absence he buried some on Pigeeleo in a secret spot. When we sailed there in 1984, he dug them up for me, pristine and beautiful from their time under the sand. Now, when I put one to my ear, I can still hear the “Talk of the Sea.”
Tomorrow: An excerpt from “The Last Navigator.”
LOOSE CANNON covers hard news, technical issues and nautical history. Sometimes he tries to be funny. Subscribe for free to support the work. If you’ve been reading for a while—and you like it—consider upgrading to paid.
Cruisers Net publishes Loose Cannon articles with Captain Swanson’s permission in hopes that mariners with saltwater in their veins will subscribe. $7 per month or $56 for the year; you may cancel at any time.
Poor fishermen off Honduras, or pirates-waiting-to-happen.
In the Caribbean, they’re all fishermen. Drugs smugglers in go-fast craft—fishermen. Pirates stalking you on a night passage—fishermen. And, in between all the shennanigans, some of these fishermen might actually go fishing.
So when Colombia says we killed a fishermen, and the U.S. says, no, we killed a smuggler, both sides may be telling the truth.
The Caribbean Safety & Security Network (CSSN) recently reported an encounter with fishing boats that is illustrative:
A yacht transiting from Guanaja, Bay Islands, Honduras to Grand Cayman altered course due to easterly winds and a developing tropical weather system, redirecting to Isla de Providencia, Colombia. The revised route traversed the Thunder Knoll area.
At position 16°00’34.4”N 81°02’31.3”W, approximately 145 nm northeast of the Honduras/Nicaragua border, at 1300 hours, the southbound yacht encountered three traditional lobster fishing boats. The yacht passed the first vessel without incident. As it approached the second boat, the lobster boat altered course, turning eastward on an intercept course. The third boat, (also west of the yacht), was moving southward in parallel.
Concerned about these maneuvers, the yacht executed a 180-degree turn northward and increased separation to approximately one nautical mile. The second vessel subsequently repositioned itself southeast of the yacht’s location.
Faced with deteriorating sea conditions (two-plus-meter waves) from the east, the yacht turned southward planning to pass between the first and second lobster boats, which were separated by over one nautical mile. As the yacht came closer to the second vessel, it again altered course toward the yacht. Simultaneously, the third boat turned and maneuvered northward, attempting to block passage between the first and second boats.
The yacht immediately turned hard to port (SE) and proceeded at maximum speed on a beam reach in 18-20 knot winds. While the first vessel did not pursue, vessels two and three followed for approximately three to four hours before discontinuing pursuit.
The yacht had been scanning VHF continuously and no transmissions between the three boats were heard, and none of the lobster boats attempted contact with the yacht. There were no injuries and the catamaran continued its passage without further incident. A report was made to the Colombian Coast Guard on arrival in Isla de Providencia.
When I was seminar manager for TrawlerFest, we had a class on firearms regulations along the American Great Loop and in the various Caribbean nations. Taught by a pair of lawyers, the class was agnostic about whether carrying guns was a good idea; it’s goal was only to summarize differences in laws and other factors worth considering.
The lawyers projected two different images in succession on the screen. One showed a pirate gang on a boat, the other showed a group of Caribbean fishermen on a boat. The audience was asked which they would unload their ARs upon, and, of course, no one could tell the difference. Pirates are as pirates do, not as pirates look.
The picture at the top of this story was taken when I was delivering a trawler from Isla Mujeres to the Panama Canal. The most direct route took us through shallow waters at the eastern tip of Honduras, where we anchored next to a cay to get a night’s sleep.
When I saw them approaching in the morning, we started the engines and raised anchor. They were scruffy looking and paddling with planks, but there were four of them and only two of us, and we didn’t have a gun. They hollered that they had marijuana for sale. I laid on the throttles and headed for deep water at full speed—8 knots—slow but more than enough to outrun that skiff.
My fear was that these four fishermen might have decided that this remote area was a perfect place to try out a new robbery gig.
To state the obvious, poverty is the reason fishermen are so easily recruited by criminal organizations. Even we in America are not immune. During the heyday of the “cocaine cowboys,” saying you were a commercial fisherman in South Florida was like wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with, “I smuggle coke in my boat.”
So, they know how to handle a boat. They’re not afraid to go to sea. And they need more money. They are fishermen.
Alejandro Andrés Carranza Medina was 26 when he was killed.
No fan of the Trump Administration, Colombian President Gustavo Petro declared that the United States had murdered a humble fisherman recently when it blew up a boat from under Alejandro Andrés Carranza Medina and his fellow mariners. Trump’s people responded that Carranza was smuggling drugs on behalf of a terrorist organization that threatened national security.
One should always check local news in Latin America for a better understanding of this kind of issue. The Informador of Santa Marta, Colombia, reported that Carranza was a more enterprising young man than Petro had given him credit for.
(Carranza’s) name is linked to a high-profile case that occurred in 2016 in Santa Marta, when he was captured along with five National Police officers for the disappearance and theft of 264 firearms that were allegedly sold to the criminal organization “Los Pachenca”…While the prosecuted officers pleaded not guilty, Carranza was identified as a key player in the arms trafficking plot that strengthened the criminal power of the aforementioned gang in the Caribbean region.
The port motor—if that’s what it is—appears to be in the up position. Carranza’s mother had said the boat her son was fishing in was experiencing engine probems when hit.
While it is difficult to be certain, it appears the boat in which Carranza was riding had twin outboards and was a dark color. Most panga-type open boats in the Caribbean are white or brightly colored and sport a single Yamaha for power. Fishermen may use their own boats to commit robberies at sea, but when carrying drugs, they are apt to use someone else’s go-fast (or a submersible “narco-sub.”)
So, circumstances suggest that Carranza’s income mosaic did indeed include a smuggling component.
Meanwhile, today’s Washington Post contained a well-sourced story noting that the boats we’ve been blowing up were almost certainly part of operations delivering drugs to Europe and West Africa, not North America.
LOOSE CANNON covers hard news, technical issues and nautical history. Every so often he tries to be funny. Subscribe for free to support the work. If you’ve been reading for a while—and you like it—consider upgrading to paid.
Trick, Treat & Trail Family Fun Run and Festival on Oct. 25 Get in the Halloween spirit with a fun-filled event for the whole family!
From: Sarah Reynolds <Sarah.Reynolds@ccprc.com> Date: August 25, 2025 at 1:00:00 PM EDT To: Sarah Reynolds <Sarah.Reynolds@ccprc.com> Subject:Trick, Treat & Trail set for Oct. 25: Family Fun Run and Festival at Wannamaker County Park
Trick, Treat & Trail Family Fun Run and Festival on Oct. 25 Get in the Halloween spirit with a fun-filled event for the whole family!
{NORTH CHARLESTON} — Get ready for a spook-tacular time at the second annual Trick, Treat & Trail Family Fun Run and Festival! Hosted by Charleston County Parks, the event will be held on Saturday, Oct. 25, beginning at 10 a.m., at Wannamaker County Park.
Check-in for the event and trick-or-treat bag distribution will be held from 9 a.m. – 12 p.m. at the Tupelo Shelter at Wannamaker County Park. The fun run begins at 10 a.m. The course closes for runners at 10:45 a.m. The course will re-open for trick or treating from 11 a.m. – 1 p.m. The Festival will be open for the entirety of the event 10 a.m. – 1 p.m. A costume contest will be held at 12:15 p.m. Registration includes a custom trick-or-treating bag, finisher medal, and candy.
Participants are invited to dress in costume. Prizes will be awarded for the best Halloween costume in the following age categories: Under 6, 6-8, 9-10, 11-15, 16-20, and 20 and up. Awards will also be presented for the best pet costume, best duo costume, and best group costumes of 3 or more. The costume contest will be held shortly after noon.
Admission to the race and event will be charged per vehicle of up to 15 people. Advance registration is $20 per vehicle and ends Wednesday, Oct. 23. If not sold out, registration will be available on-site for $25 per vehicle only until 12 p.m. Advance registration is recommended. Register for the event on the event webpage at https://www.ccprc.com/3715/Trick-Treat-Trail.
The fun run is open to runners and walkers of all levels, including beginners. Accessible parking and restrooms are available. The route includes a grass meadow and paved trails. This is a loop course with water stations and an optional shortcut route. Dogs are allowed at this event but must remain leashed and under control at all times.
This event is hosted by Charleston County Parks. For more information about this event and to register, please visit https://www.ccprc.com/3715/Trick-Treat-Trail or call (843)-795-4386.
Owned by the Charleston County Park and Recreation Commission, Wannamaker County Park is located at 8888 University Boulevard in North Charleston, SC (Hwy 78). The mission of CCPRC is to improve the quality of life in Charleston County by offering a diverse system of park facilities, programs and services. The large park system features over 11,000 acres of property and includes four land parks, three beach parks, three dog parks, a skate park, two landmark fishing piers, three waterparks, 19 boat landings, a climbing wall, a challenge course, an interpretive center, a historic plantation site, an equestrian center, cottages, a campground, a marina, as well as wedding, meeting and event facilities.The park system also offers a wide variety of recreational services – festivals, camps, classes, programs, volunteer opportunities, and more. For more information, call 843-795-4386 or visit www.charlestoncountyparks.com.
Charleston County Park & Recreation Commission / 861 Riverland Dr. / Charleston, SC 29412 / (843) 795-4386
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