“What kind of boat is that?” I asked.
“An out-rigger boat. Some people call it a dug-out boat,” replied Filippa.
“I’ll tell you more about it,” added Fil. “The boat itself is half of a solid log, hollowed out by fire and axe and knife. It is chipped and scraped smooth on the outside, and the ends are pointed. If the wind dies down, the sailor has to paddle the heavy boat home. Then he sits over on the side opposite the out-rigger, so as to balance it. But when he has hoisted sail, he sits on the out-rigger, as the sail balances the boat on the sailing side, opposite the wind. The boat easily rolls over, because it has no sharp keel going down into the water. But it is swifter before the wind, just because it has no keel to keep it back.”
“Very clever are your Filipino sailors,” I admitted. “Tell me if the boats are used for other purposes than sport.”
“Oh, yes,” said quiet little Favra, Filippa’s chum. “The sailors fish in them and bring us home fish with names as wonderful as are their colors.”
“Tell me the names, please,” I asked.
Favra slowly thought of three and replied: “The pompano, all silver, gold, and purple, and as wide as it is long; the fighting barracuda, so hard to bring in to the boat; and the leaping tuna, that jumps out of the water and out of the boat perhaps.”
Fil added: “Then there’s the bonito, as big as a pig, though its name jokingly means ‘good little one’; the sail fish which lifts its fin into the wind; and the garoupa.”
“Wonderful names,” I admitted.
“And all wonderfully good to eat,” added Moro, who was often thinking of dinners and feasts.