The Ra Expeditions

by Thor Heyerdahl

  While we continued due west, under full sail, the Calamar zigzagged about us all night, searching. We were short of rockets, but kept a constant lookout from the mast top. The sun rose, day dawned and Norman, who had his hands full v^dth sextant, abacus and the little hand-powered emergency radio, constantly reported that the Calamar must be close by. Now to the north, now to the south. Always hidden behind endless ranks of high waves. We ate lunch. And supper. We gave up the idea that anyone would find us. The tropical sun was about to set again. Local time was only 6 p.m., though our watches stood at 9 p.m., because we had adjusted them only once since leaving Africa. It was then that the lookouts on both boats saw each other simultaneously. They reported sighting a sail and we saw an almost invisible green speck on the horizon—behind us.

  Darkness was about to fall when a proud little ship overtook us from behind. It was a great moment.

  The big, fast trawler came close up on our beam and saluted by lowering and raising the blue flag of the United Nations that fluttered from the masthead. Norman hurried over to the straddled mast and replied with our own UN flag. Only two-thirds of it were left, the rest had been ripped away in a storm. We were exultant, we all climbed on to the bridge, the roof, the mast, waving and hallooing and blowing our shrill hunting horn. The whole crew of the UN boat—brown, black and white alike—stood along the railing waving and hallooing back. The captain was standing on the bridge. He was Chinese. Beside him stood a man with a megaphone who yelled in Swedish:

  ''Welcome to the American side of the ocean!"

  When Kei saw the Chinese on the bridge his cup of joy overflowed. He crawled over to me on the roof and held out his hand.

  ''Thank you for letting me come."

  There was something unreal about the whole meeting: that a UN boat should actually be the first to meet us on the other side. I had never seen a boat flying the UN flag before, apart from the Ra. Darkness closed over the sea, the brightly lighted boat circled round us a few times, then switched off her engines to drift through the night. Her lights quickly disappeared behind us until we were left alone with the waves and our own feeble kerosene lantern. Snug, but lonely.

  Late that night we were reminded that the voyage was not yet over. A powerful squall suddenly rushed down from the north and took the sail completely aback before the watchers on the bridge could pull themselves together. The pressure of wind on the big sail was terrific, forcing the whole ship to heel over to port until the deck was under water. It was an unusual sensation for us in the cabin to tumble out on the lee side and immediately finding ourselves thigh-deep in water, water that was no breaker frothing its way overboard, but the actual surface of the sea itself, looking as if it had come to stay. For the first time on any raft I felt that we were now quite definitely on our way to the bottom of the sea. There was no more buoyancy. Yells and shouts and blinking flashlights. Madani waist-deep in water without his life line. Yuri's screen on the lee side torn to ribbons. Then the wind veered back to the east, the direction we

  were used to, and eight experienced papyrus sailors finally managed to turn the sail back into position. Ra 11 righted herself serenely as the water poured overboard; the deck returned to the level it had maintained for the last part of the voyage. But three of the many jars that had hitherto stood safely in the lee on the port side had been smashed by the masses of v^ater, and wading barefoot I cut my toes on the fragments, and Yuri had to bandage my foot. The port side had been infiltrated by a web of the thin, glistening, stinging tentacles of Portuguese men-of-war, and Georges burned himself while he was answering the call of nature. He had to be bathed with ammonia.

  Next morning the Calamar, which had switched off her engines, took some time to catch up v^th us again. No one on board the trawler had expected any great speed from a primitive reed boat. But in spite of our tribulations we had sailed seventy-five nautical miles in the last twenty-four hours.

  The Calamar delivered mail, ointment to soothe Carlo's sufferings, some bags of delicious Barbados fruit and a big carton of ice cream, which had melted to custard before it reached us in the bobbing rubber boat. The Calamar stayed near us for two days, then increased speed and went ahead vdth fresh greetings for Barbados. Now we were once again in those waters off the West Indies that are the birthplace of the Atlantic hurricanes. The weather was unsettled now, at the beginning of July. Dark walls of rain were falling on all sides, driven over us almost every day by powerful gusts of wind, often at gale force. Again and again we had to stream the sea anchor and struggle to save the sail. But wind and current remained generally in our favor and in the final days we made the best average speed of the voyage, covering up to 81 miles in a day. We frequently encountered ships now, plying between North and South America.

  On July 8 we were only 200 nautical miles from Barbados, and the island authorities sent a fast little government boat, the Culpepper, to welcome us to this little independent corner of the British Empire. Yvonne and our eldest daughter, Anette, were the only passengers on board. If they found us on the basis of our position we should meet late that same night.

  The night passed, and the day as well, while the Culpepper rolled about, over and among the waves in our immediate neighborhood,

  without finding us. The weather was far from perfect and we intercepted reports from the government boat to the land station describing the big waves and reporting that the raft sailor's wife was suffering from seasickness but bravely insisted on continuing the search. The search went on for the next night and the day too, for two days. It was near nightfall on the second day and we half expected to reach land before the government boat, for there were barely a hundred nautical miles left. Then the Culpepper appeared, also on the wrong horizon, overtaking us from astern. Flat and broad and seaworthy, a real man's boat, she maneuvered alongside, with two white women clinging to the railings, surrounded by a waving black crew. While the ladies were obviously having difficulty in sorting out all the sunburned shaggy creatures with full beards, waving wildly from the roof of the wicker cabin, the crew of the Culpepper turned their attention to Madani, whom they thought to be a sailor from Barbados. Madani, the landlubber from Marrakesh, impressed the onlookers by throwing out a fishhook baited with salt sausage and immediately pulling in five pampano and an unknown silver-green fish of the same general type. Georges the skindiver crossed to the Culpepper just as the sun was setting to negotiate a morally permissible barter: fresh fish, Egyptian bread and the ever-tasty Moroccan sello in exchange for unnecessary but very welcome oranges. He was standing on the afterdeck, about to dive for his swim back to Rd 11 with the Culpepper's searchlight playing on the waves to show him the way, when a black man stopped him and asked him if we on the Ra were not afraid of sharks.

  "No," said George grandly, but swallowed his boast when the man pointed calmly to a large man-eater, gliding slowly out of the ship's wake into the beam of light. Our own rubber raft was so worn by rubbing against the earthenware jars on board that we did not dare to launch it. Georges had to spend the night on the Culpepper and return next morning in a little oarless dinghy let out on tow from the Culpepper, and hauled back again empty.

  The Culpepper stayed on our port quarter all night. The day after, July 12, such large flocks of sea birds flew out toward us from the west that we knew land must be just over the horizon. It was Sunday, and Norman and I, who had the five to eight watch, were standing on the bridge looking forward to our relief. Soon Carlo

  and Kei would be scrambling out and unbedding our last eggs from the lime paste to be fried for the occasion: Sunday breakfast. We still had plenty of provisions, especially sacks of Egyptian mummy bread in the chests we slept on, salt sausage and ham hanging under wicker roof, and jars of sello, the honey and almond mixture that contained everything a desert traveler in Morocco needed. We had never gone hungry and were in good form. Then I noticed something and grabbed Norman by the arm.

  ''Do you smell it?" I said, sniffing up the salt sea air.
"Fantastic, a distinct scent of green, fresh-cut grass!"

  The two of us stood and sniffed. We had been at sea for fifty-seven days. Santiago, Carlo and the others came out and sniffed with us. The non-smokers among us smelt it distinctly. And damned if I didn't scent cow dung, as well, the smell of farming. It was pitch dark and we could see nothing. But the movement of the waves was strange too, a different rhythm, somehow, which must be the effect of backwash from land. We pushed both rudder-oars hard over to starboard, where the wind was coming from, and held a course as close to the north as we could. It was incredible how well the low-lying reed boat was able to sail close-hauled.

  Norman, Carlo and Santiago climbed to the masthead in turn all morning, and at twelve-fifteen our time we heard a wild yell from above our heads:

  "Hurrah!"

  Norman had sighted land, Safi screamed and the duck flapped across the roof. Like flies we swarmed up the steps of the swaying masts, every man jack of us, for Rd 11 was incredibly stable, now that most of the papyrus was under water. The Culpepper blew her siren. Then we all saw land, low and flat on the horizon to the northwest. We had steered too far south the day before, trying to counteract the current that swung north just before the islands. We had succeeded too well. So now we had to turn the mainsail and shove the rudder-oars right over in the opposite direction, otherwise we would sail past Barbados and land somewhere on the dense chain of islands just behind. That was all very well, but family and friends were waiting for us on Barbados. Ra 11 responded to maneuvering like a keeled vessel. The straight deep furrow running right along the bottom between the two reed rolls evidently acted as a negative keel. With the

  wind almost across our beam the red life buoy was being towed dead astern, showing that we were moving in the direction the bow was pointing, without any side drift, straight toward the low coastline.

  When we sat down round the poultry coop for lunch we knew it would be our last meal on board. Late in the afternoon we heard the hum of aircraft. A little private plane circled over us and waggled its wings. Soon after, a bigger, twin-engined plane came out from the islands with the Prime Minister of Barbados, and soon there were four planes circling over our mast top. One of them dived so low that its slip stream threatened to take the mainsail aback. The land mass rose higher and the sun flashed on the glass of distant windows. We saw more and more houses. Dozens of boats were on their way out through the land haze. A speedboat came bucking over the waves with Norman's wife, Mary Ann, and my two youngest daughters, Marian and Bettina on board. Boats of all sorts. Seasick faces, joyful faces, gaping faces. Some were laughing themselves silly, shouting and asking if we had really come from Morocco on "that thing." Seen from outside, we were just a wickerwork cabin floating on the water behind a majestic Egyptian sail, with two shorn-off tufts of reed sticking out of the water at either end.

  Yuri's motley rag curtain did not exactly reinforce the impression of an ocean voyager either. Over fifty vessels of every type and size finally escorted Ra II across the finishing line. We were making for Bridgetown, the capital. Sailboats, speedboats, fishing boats, yachts of many kinds, a catamaran, a trimaran, a police boat, a Hollywood-type full-rigger decorated as a pirate ship and packed with tourists, and our old friend the Culpepper, circled round us in a melee that made the peace-loving Carlo long for the solitude of the sea. Georges, on the contrary, felt quite at home; he lit our last red flare and installed himself like the Statute of Liberty on the cabin roof.

  So ended the voyages of the Ra. Outside Bridgetown harbor we lowered the bleached mainsail with its round solar orb for the last time, and furled it while the crew of the Culpepper tossed us a tow rope.

  The harbor area was swarming like an anthill. Every street was packed with people. It was five minutes to seven p.m. by our watches; we had to adjust them to Barbados time, a long awaited

  moment, for we had sailed 3270 nautical miles since last we set foot on land.

  Before putting into the quay we found an opportunity to shake hands, all eight of us. There was not one of us who failed to realize that it was only thanks to a common effort that we had come safely across the sea.

  We threw a last look back at the vanquished ocean. There it lay, seemingly boundless, as in Columbus' day, as in the golden age of mighty Lixus, as in the days of the roving Phoenicians and intrepid Olmecs. How long would whale and fish gambol out there? Would man at the eleventh hour learn to dispose of his modern garbage, would he abandon his war against nature? Would future generations restore early man's respect and veneration for the sea and the earth, humbly worshiped by the Inca as Mama-Cocha and Mama-Alpa, "Mother-Sea" and "Mother-Earth"? If not, it will be of little use to struggle for peace among nations, and still less to wage war, on board our little space craft.

  The ocean is not endless.

  We jumped barefoot ashore at the other end.

  The ocean current rolled on alone. Fifty-seven days. Fifty-seven thousand years. Has mankind changed? Nature has not. And man is nature.

  POSTSCRIPT

  JL/ry feet. Dry hair. Everything dry. Windows closed. Big trees swaying in the wind. Strong wind. Outside. But the paper on my desk doesn't flutter about, doesn't even move. My armchair doesn't move. All is stable, fixed, and firm. I am safe, back in my own workroom. Blue water is visible between the swaying branches of mighty trees. The Mediterranean. The highway of early cultures. The link between three continents which close it in solidly on all sides, except for a single vent at Gibraltar. The blue sea is white-capped but silent. To hear the surf rumble I must open the window. I don't, for the wind will play havoc with my papers. It feels unbelievably good to be safe in my cozy study again. Surrounded by books on all walls. Books and closed windows. Poor sailors who are at sea in this wind. I pull down a large rolling map in front of the window facing the sea. It shows the mighty Atlantic, the way the map-makers see it. A flat, lifeless impediment dividing a rectangular world in two. Africa to the right, America to the left. North up, and south down. What a shocking misconception of the most dynamic, vigorous, never-resting, ever-rushing conveyer that nature ever set into motion. Perpetual motion, caught in a still picture like an antelope in the air. Motionless as the Sahara. Petrified like the Alps. Only different in color.

  Printed blue, while firm land is yellow, green, white. What a perfect game board. Just suited for small markers—small men—to be moved about at the throw of dice. We can throw and move on any color until our men are stopped on blue. If you try to cross blue, you are cheating. The diffusionists couldn't care less. They are cheating. Move on blue in all directions. How amazed all players would be if the blue on the game board began revolving. Like the ocean. Revolving in wide bands, throwing the markers about, sending them from Africa to tropic America. From tropic America to Asia and back again to North America. If the maps had been made dynamic, new rules would have to be invented for the game. White and black men reaching a square off Morocco would gain an extra jump to America on the blue band of the Canary Current. Yellow men off Indonesia would hit the revolving band coming from Polynesia and be sent back there in two throws, by way of the Japan Current and Northwest America. Blue would always mean a long jump in one direction, a loss of turn in the other. Yellow deserts, white ice, green swamps, would be the new impediments in this realistic game.

  I snatched at the string that sent my stupid map up like a racing rocket. The Mediterranean moved again between the trees like a meadow combed by wind. I pushed the window open, listened for the living surf, and let the wind play havoc with all my papers, all my speculations. To hell with paper. To hell v^th "isms," dif-fusionism as well as isolationism. Open windows. Fresh air. Rain and thunder and reahty. If only the rumbling sea could speak. One thing is sure. It would have stories to tell about unrecorded voyages during antiquity that would match any of those duly recorded in the medieval age. The medieval age was a step down, not up. Men of antiquity were not chessmen. Their stupendous creations show they were dynamic, imaginative
, inquisitive, courageous, clever. Stronger than men of push-button times and with greater trust in their gods, yet filled with all the vanity, love, hate, and desire embodied in the glands and nerves of men through all ages since Adam. Sailors from ancient Egypt left the Red Sea to visit Mesopotamia and even Asian ports far beyond. From the mouth of the Nile, they crisscrossed the eastern Mediterranean to collect taxes from distant islands forced to pay tribute to the Pharaoh.

  POSTSCRIPT ^-^g

  The people of Egypt and the people of Mesopotamia, affiliated although speaking different languages and writing different scripts, bred sailors as able as their architects, and caused sea-borne civilizations to bloom, again with different languages and different scripts, on all the distant islands that form stepping stones to the north and to the west. We do not know when the Egyptians began their influence on the islands, but the Phoenicians gradually took over. We hardly know the origins of the Phoenicians and what kind of ships they first constructed. Reed boats were originally used among their nearest neighbors to the east and to the south. Even to the west: an engraved ring from the ancient culture of Crete shows a crescent-shaped reed boat with transversal lashings, mast, and cabin. From Phoenician waters, culture spread beyond Gibraltar. To Lixus, where reed boats survived. Nobody will ever be able to retrace the routes of all these vessels or reconstruct the interrelationships between all these diversified civilizations, intimately interlocked and yet clearly different as they were, partly imposed on earlier local cultures, and nourished by different lines of rulers, in different geographical environments. Who shall ever identify the mariners that carried a jar with Mediterranean gold and copper coins from the fourth century B.C. to Corvo Island in the outer Azores, nearer to North America than to Gibraltar? Seeking fortune, or refuge, thousands upon thousands of ships left their home ports during antiquity, leaving no written logs. Royal artists perpetuated the Egyptian Queen, Hatchepsut's great naval expedition down the Red Sea to Punt, but only chance made the ancient geographer Eratosthenes record the distance between remote Ceylon and the River Ganges in the number of sailing days needed by ordinary papyrus ships with Egyptian sail and rigging. No temple was raised in their honor. Only when King Hanno personally sailed through Gibraltar in the fifth century before Christ, with sixty ships stocked with provisions and thousands of Phoenician colonists of both sexes aboard, was the event immortalized on an inscribed stele raised in his honor in Carthage. Yet, the inscriptions admit that Hanno was no pioneer, for on the fourth day of coastal sailing outside Gibraltar, his fleet reached the megalithic city of Lixus, where he took local pilots onboard who knew the coast and had names for all the capes they subsequently encountered in twenty-eight days