The coil of rope, thirty to fifty fathoms in length, to which the harpoon dart is attached, is laid ready at the bow of the boat, and a spare rope coiled midship.
All hands next look out for the dugong, and the chief takes his place at the further end of the bowsprit, the harpoon being placed where it can be seized without a moment’s delay. Now we are scudding along over the sea, the dirty green colour of which shows that we are above the reefs, the waves being crested by the continuously blowing south-east trade wind; the lavender-coloured sky is studded with clouds which ever belie their pluvial appearance.
Fig. 15. Dugong Harpoon and Dart
There is a shout of “Dungal!” (“Dugong”), but the sea-cow is a long way off. Then the cry of “Waru!” (“Turtle”) is heard as one of these reptiles lazily floats on the surface of the water.
After cruising about for a long time and sighting but few dugong, we at length arrive at a spot where they are plentiful, and all round they are repeatedly to be seen as they rise up to breathe. A soft grunt is heard, a glimpse caught of a brown rounded back followed by a fan-shaped tail, and the beast again disappears beneath the waves, unless one happens to float for a short time on the surface of the water. This is the hunter’s opportunity, and the boat is put through movements which remind one of the method of progression of a learner on a bicycle, as it dodges about in the helmsman’s endeavours to approach the floating beast.
When distant from the prey the natives shout and chatter in a very lively manner, and go through a pantomime of harpooning a dugong; but when one is observed close by, a sudden hush falls upon the crew, who are by this time in a state of highly strung and barely suppressed excitement. Directions are given to the steersman by signals only, not a word is said. The chief stands at the end of the bowsprit grasping the narrow spar with his bare toes, harpoon in one hand, and with the other steadying himself by the rigging, and well he may, for the boat is pitching and tossing considerably. Behind him in the bow stands a man whose business it is to look after the rope and see that it does not get caught anywhere. Perched a short way up the foremast is the look-out man, who makes the signals; and behind are the rest of us, following with glistening eyes the movements of the dugong, and making at most a subdued whistle or the clacking sound so characteristic of these islanders.
All of a sudden the chief springs into the water, harpoon in hand, using the latter after the manner of a leaping pole, and plunging the dart into the animal. The aim is good, and the dart is firmly embedded in the dense, thick skin of the dugong, who is by this time tearing along, followed by the trailing rope.
The repressed excitement of the spectators finds vent in shouts and in various other manifestations of delight, for my comrades are a demonstrative people. Their enthusiasm was contagious, and more than once I found myself adopting their clacking and whistling in addition to the ordinary British methods of expressing delight and surprise.
The chief regains his harpoon and clambers up into the boat, where he manifests his satisfaction by a very broad grin. Shirts are doffed, and even the universal “calico” is in many cases dispensed with, as several men dive into the water. The spare rope is thrown overboard, and the men strike out for the dugong. Amid great shouting they endeavour to make fast a rope round its tail, swimming up to it when it comes up to breathe, and diving after it in its descent, their power of holding their breath under water appearing almost to rival that of the dugong itself. The main object of tying the rope round the creature’s tail is to prevent it from raising its nostrils above the level of the water by bearing down upon the rope during the animal’s ascent. In time these manœuvres are successful, and death by drowning results. The lubberly carcass is towed towards the boat, and after much effort and more noise it is hauled on board.