Anchored on the corner of Bakat in Maloelap we are down to our last teaspoons of sugar. We have been anchored along the current line enjoying the ebb and flow of the full moon tidal changes. Mostly kiting and swimming here for the last two weeks after sailing down from Ailuk and previously reaching the northern most tip of this trip, to Utirik and Taka. Utirik was amazing and had the most magical little aquarium, a varying theme of phenomenal underwater villages throughout these atolls, and this only the tamer lagoon side, no telling what the deeper ocean side has in store. As I swam from the beach across the Sahara of underwater sand on my way to the small reef cropping’s, I glanced back at the three or so dozen children standing on the shore smiling at me, then grinned as they laughed shouting up at Philip as he kited through a jump suspended in the air. Halfway to the deeper channel a small black tip reef shark swam by silhouetted perfectly against the omnipresent white sand. With beautiful dips and pockets of varying water depths, color and cascading sand down to small quarries, add in schools of white goat fish, finger coral and viola an exquisite village of life under the sea. I finished my swim and no sooner had I lifted my head out of the water to remove my pink cap and mask then the army of small children (I counted 46) started singing to me some local rhythmic song, serenading me out of the water with their little falsetto voices. Another magical moment in the outer atolls. Taka, at a mere 15 miles away was a new story. We had two different anchorages in Taka. The first was in the north, where the only dry ground was a sand bar at high tide. The horizon was awash in white mist from the outer edges of the atolls perimeter, about one and a half miles away which managed the swell and provided us calm water. Our anchor was in 2-3 meters of water, depending on the tide, the nearest island was a binocular distant away. Our stern sat just off the edge of the ever present navy blue lagoon. Solitude at its best. The second anchorage was near the two small islands we saw at the end of the binocular’s glass. Here we knew we would have company. While in Utirik we found out that two boats with about 8 men were coming to Taka to fish and gather food for the celebration of the opening of their new community hall, probably donated by some or another country. We were invited to go turtle hunting with them, I declined, and instead, I inquired about the expedition and what they were after. So I knew when I saw the large colony of sea birds gathered on the smaller of the two islands that the birds were in for an unwelcomed surprise. In the future I will need to leave my empathy behind and part ways with my anthropomorphizing or pay the price with distorted truths when sympathy arises. As soon as the anchor was set I got my camera and headed over to, what I dubbed, Sooty Tern Island. I wanted to visit the birds before the Utirik men came. I caused a wave like pattern of squawking hovering birds as I walked around the perimeter of the island, each abandoning their chick in great distress, many feigning a broken wing. The island was nearly covered with eggs and peeps. The speckled brown eggs were everywhere, plopped down with seemingly little care, as there were no nests enclosing the single egg. The peeps all seemed about the same age, dark fluff with small spots. I am encased in my neutered view of how one provides food for oneself, I can hardly escape my own disinfected heritage. I had the privilege of a National Geographic kind of day on Thursday and then on Friday I watched as the men harvested what seemed to be the entire island of eggs, stressing out the birds to high pitched incessant squawks that we heard from our anchorage, ceasing for a short while and then abruptly starting again after dark with the men returning to club the adults for more food for the feast. We went ashore the next day to the larger island and checked out their hunting camp while they were away in their boats. Their camp was a tarp over a jumble of bushes, an open fire and instant coffee. They probably had their catch for breakfast lunch and dinner. I just ate some imported oatmeal and toast while I typed this out on my computer comfortably sitting on the soft suede cushions. There were drying giant clams in huge buckets, black in their demise, so opposite from the vivid neon electric blues when alive underwater. Many lines of drying fish, and a shark jaw swinging in the afternoon breeze, its jawless head and guts wafting in the surf nearby. Down the beach, I forced myself to look at the five upturned tethered turtles helplessly swimming through the air as they sensed our presence nearby, only digging canals in the sand where there flippers made purchase, the rising tide just beginning to wet their back flippers. I felt my inner vegan rise rapidly to the surface. Bearing witness to the everyday business of survival of these peoples and the implicating death involved challenges the way I look at the world outside my western comfort zone. The grit of survival here is so diametrically opposed from the processed, preserved and packaged nation, the distance from the critical moment of life and death so great. I think I want to feel the connection by removing the separation that stores like Whole Foods so ironically distributes as whole food you have to wait in line to pay for. I think I do, but know I am from western affluence and Pandoras box is open, I am left to watch the Marshallese instead. In as much as we see traditional hunting, probably unchanged for thousands of years, there is now a large influx of imports from the west. Cargo ships come bringing copious amounts of bagged enriched rice, white sugar, and instant coffee, interspersed with occasional bags of Kellogg’s, Oreo’s and Lay’s potato chips. I do prefer the more sacred than profane sightings, the simple bird desecration over the neon orange plastic wraps from Cheetos brand Cheese puffs floating away in the outgoing tide. Funny that even in my sentiments alongside the killing I would rather see the rawness in the wild interactions of man. Forget that I open up tins and bags to obtain my meal, I want to see Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom here. I will continue to gasp at the contrast of turtle meat mixed with packaged foods, and will simply have to endure both kinds of flotsam and jetsam as I experience my way through. We left the next day to sail back south to Ailuk. We picked up our beautiful custom made baskets from Emily but I didn’t want to leave Ailuk until we had a chance to sail on one of their canoes. Ailuk is one of the strong holds in the RMI for their continual use and expertise in sailing outrigger canoes. We arranged with Emily, the Presbyterian preachers wife, to meet her at the dock the next morning to go out with her nephew on her brother’s canoe. Wet, fast and exciting. Philip and I were on guard on the ama making sure we didn’t huli (Hawaiian for capsizing) by balancing our weight against the force of the lift as the gusts came through. Easily 17 knots of speed, not as fast as our kites but exciting and fun. Not sure how to stretch the teaspoons of sugar any further, thank goodness there is still beer, either way it is time to start thinking about going back to the big city, Majuro, and replenish our stores so we can head out again, south this time to Mili atoll.