If you had no compass at all, and certainly not a GPS, and not even a
chart, could you navigate a small boat to an island that's beyond the horizon and
that you don't even have a heading for?
The ancient Polynesians could.
At least those among them trained in wayfinding could.
Or so we've been told.
Is this all truth, all fiction, or a mixture?
And that's coming up right now on Skeptoid.
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listening to Skeptoid.
I'm Brian Dunning from Skeptoid.com.
Facts and Fiction of Polynesian Navigation Part One.
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Welcome to the show that separates fact from fiction, science from pseudoscience,
real history from fake history, and helps us all make better life decisions
by knowing what's real and what's not.
Today I have the great pleasure of presenting an episode on a topic
that has fascinated me for almost my entire life, which is how the ancient
Polynesians were able to navigate their way to islands that were either beyond
the horizon or that were completely unknown as they were exploring
where nobody had ever gone before.
Somehow they did it.
And moreover, maintained routes between distant island groups for many centuries,
all without any instruments at all.
And suspiciously, there's always been a bit of a cloak of magic or
a sixth sense over this subject.
So today we're gonna dive in, no pun intended, and separate the
science from the sensationalism surrounding Polynesian navigation.
Traditionally, the term Polynesia refers to a 10 million square mile region of
the Pacific Ocean, bounded by Hawai'i in the north, New Zealand in the
Southwest, and Rapa Nui in the east.
Beginning around 1000 BCE and completing around 1250 CE, Polynesia was completely
settled on every habitable island and land mass by humans who represented
hands down the very best skilled navigators on the planet at the time,
perhaps at any time, because they did it all without instruments of any
kind, not even a system of writing.
They had only experience-driven knowledge to go on, and as we'll discuss
today, this was not trivial to learn.
To navigate these vast distances safely, required decades of training from elders.
But for the past couple hundred years, there has been little need for the
traditional skills, and given how difficult the skills were to develop,
they'd become almost entirely lost.
European authors had documented what they did, but with only
a certain level of accuracy.
As far as actual Polynesians who still possessed master-level
wayfinding abilities, they had become almost completely extinct
by the middle of the 20th century.
Not entirely, but nearly.
This allowed mythology to fill the gap.
Beliefs arose that the ancient Polynesians had had some kind of sixth sense -- an
almost magical ability -- things like all they had to do was stick a
hand or a foot in the water and could glean all the information they needed.
In part, this readiness to believe in some kind of metaphysical superiority
of an ancient race had its roots in the western esotericism movement,
which saw the rebirth of New Age and a hunger in western cultures
for all things ancient and mystical.
Within such a context, it seemed almost a given that an ancient people would have
a superior connection to Mother Earth.
One that eluded the corrupted materialistic westerners -- as the New
Agers of the day might have put it.
And so, the passage of time, and the loss of the need for the skills, saw them
fade away among 20th-century Polynesians.
Regardless of whatever perceived elevated skills the western/European culture
of the day wished to confer upon them.
However, there was at least one aspect of traditional wayfinding that
survived this erosion of information.
It was a detail from the true histories of wayfinders that,
probably due to its bawdy nature, also resonated with Western readers.
Some refer to it as testicular navigation, and it is exactly what it sounds like.
Navigators would hang off the side of the canoe and drag their testicles in
the water sensing temperature and wave movement, or would sit on the bottom
of the canoe with their testicles in direct contact with the boat's hull.
The idea being that testicles as extraordinarily sensitive parts of the
anatomy were the best organs to use to detect the subtlest of movements.
Testicular navigation first came to the attention of Europeans with the
1972 publication of the book We, the Navigators by Dr. David Lewis, who
spent two years sailing the Pacific with two traditional navigators from
the Santa Cruz and Caroline Islands.
He documented all their techniques, including this one.
Although Lewis's book was popular enough to bring the subjects to the
public's attention, it certainly wasn't the first, and Lewis
extensively referenced earlier texts.
One of these was a book that also served as the inspiration for the title We,
the Tikopia, A massive 1936 Chronicle by anthropologist Sir Raymond Firth.
Ever since, testicular navigation is found in virtually all modern writing
on the subject; its presence today is blatantly outsized and sensationalized.
We do have documented evidence that this was a real technique.
However, it's not clear at all that it was either widely used or
even played a significant role.
In fact, there's some debate on whatever role it did have was merely an attempt
to keep women out of the profession.
If so, it was not successful.
It's widely documented that women were equally represented
in the crews of voyaging canoes.
Regardless, the technique does hint toward one of the most important
skills needed in wayfinding: the precise sensing of the directions and
magnitudes of multiple ocean swells.
More on that later.
There's another really interesting bit of quasi-pseudoscience called te lapa.
Te lapa means a flashing light, and it's the one thing that some
wayfinders talk about, but that modern science does not confirm.
The claim is that on some nights an underwater ray of light will flash
out to sea from an island indicating its direction, and some say this can
be visible up to 150 kilometers away.
David Lewis, who did report seeing such lights himself on rare occasions
speculated -- and it was pure speculation -- that perhaps the
light was created by bioluminescence close to shore, focused into a beam
by a sort of natural lens formed by waves refracting around an island.
Some modern researchers have spent considerable time searching for te
lapa and have always come up empty handed, but even the staunchest of
its believers state that it's very rare and as such could hardly be
considered a useful tool for navigating.
Regardless, it can't be said that any replicable observation exists,
so any attempt at even hypothesizing an explanation is premature.
The real problem with preserving the unique knowledge base of
wayfinding was misinformation that became far more popular.
The source of a lot of this was Thor Heyerdahl, a darling
of National Geographic.
Heyerdahl was a Norwegian botanist, and while living in the Marquesas, developed
a pseudoscientific conjecture that the South Pacific had been populated not
eastward from Southeast Asia as we know today, but westward from South America.
He believed people from Peru made rafts out of balsa wood and other
native materials and floated across the Pacific to populate it.
Rafts driven west by the southeast trade winds and the south equatorial current.
To prove his notion was possible, Heyerdahl made the voyage himself in
such a raft, the Kon-Tiki, in a 1947 voyage that was widely publicized.
He also did the same thing across the Atlantic with the Ra and the Ra II to
prove his other pseudoscientific belief that Egyptians sailed across to South
America to become its founding population.
If Ancient Aliens had been on TV in the mid 20th century, Thor
Heyerdahl would've been a regular.
What National Geographic conveniently glossed over was that in Heyerdahl's
pseudohistory, these founding populations were white-skinned,
bearded, God-like characters.
Only the whites were wise enough to voyage from Egypt to South America, and
only the whites were wise enough to sail thenceforth westward across the Pacific.
In Heyerdahl's day the skills of wayfinding were already almost
entirely lost, and seeing their lack of ability, he reasoned that for Polynesia
to have been populated, a higher intelligence must have been responsible.
So it all fit neatly together in his mythology: the generally west-moving
trade winds, his white supermen from Egypt there to take advantage,
and Heyerdahl's own semi-successful experiments with the Ra and Kon-Tiki
boats to convince him of his correctness.
Luckily, before National Geographic could persuade the world that Thor
Heyerdahl was right and all the world's anthropologists were wrong, a movement
arose in the 1960s that came to be known as the Hawaiian Renaissance, a
period of reclaiming and celebrating the Pacific Islander identity and culture.
To mainland Americans, this manifested as surging interest in hula dancing and luaus
with leis and famous Hawaiian musicians.
And while all this played out fine on The Brady Bunch, much more serious aspects
were brewing on the islands themselves.
It was a time of political unrest and even some violence of battles over
land ownership and usage, and renewed calls for Hawaiian independence.
This Renaissance was one driver of the 1973 formation of the Polynesian
Voyaging Society, founded to perpetuate the art and science of
traditional Polynesian wayfinding and to teach it to the next generation.
In 1975, they launched Hōkūle'a, a traditional double-hulled voyaging canoe.
For safety, it was built with more durable modern materials such as fiberglass -- in
fact, it still sails today -- because its primary purpose was to reintroduce
traditional Polynesian navigation, and it even now has a sister ship the Hikianalia.
Toward this end, the society cast a wide net over Polynesia and finally located
one of the last surviving wayfinding masters and made him the ship's navigator.
He was the Micronesian traditional Voyager Mau Piailug.
Using no navigational equipment at all except Mau's knowledge, Hōkūle'a made
its inaugural voyage from Hawai'i south to Tahiti, an estimated 2,500 nautical miles
traveled in 34 days, much of it upwind.
The scientific impact of this voyage shouldn't be understated because
it brought us out of the era of pseudoscience and pseudohistory about
Polynesian wayfinding and Polynesian history in general, and into an era
where solid science explains and confirms the real techniques that
were used and can still be used today.
Through our refreshed knowledge of these techniques, thanks in large part to the
Polynesian Voyage Society and Mau Piailug and many others like them throughout
Polynesia, we now have yet one more line of evidence supporting the known
history of the peopling of Polynesia.
Originally, I had no thought that this might expand into a rare two-part episode,
but once I got into the techniques of wayfinding, I quickly saw that they would
take up an entire episode by themselves.
And really, they obviously deserve far more than that, which would've left
no room at all for discussion of the pseudoscience or the historical context.
And once I got into those, I quickly saw the same thing.
All that stuff is a minimum of one full show.
So that's what I gave you today, which saves the best part for last.
Next week in part two, we're gonna talk about all the real
tricks of the wayfinding trade.
There are so many ways to obtain knowledge about which way is the nearest
island, where you're located, how far you've come, and how far you have to go.
It is a weird and wonderful science, and taken altogether, it becomes
completely unsurprising that the ancient Polynesians were able to do what they did.
They expanded throughout the ocean, sailing off into directions nobody
had ever gone before until they filled every single habitable land
mass, which was a bit of cruel irony.
Accomplishing this feat made the feat unnecessary.
There was nowhere left to find.
We continue with a look at an early western advocate for the reality of
te lapa and her experiences with it and theories to explain it in the
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