Spectators line the rocky shore watching a single flicker of light pacing above the shallow reef in the dark moonless night. Suddenly, a patch of the water lights up and a group of five or six people rush into the salty water with buckets and homemade nets comprised of mosquito netting. Soon, there’s a frenzy of activity and the shallow shore is dotted with flashlights bobbling with the waves like fireflies. I too join the frenzy, ending my two day wait for the palolo rising.
Palolo are the sperms and eggs packets from worms that live within the reefs in the South Pacific. Once a year, sometime twice, worms that burrow within the shallow reefs release their gametes in one gigantic orgy. However, the exact timing of the rising is a mystery. It’s rumored that the ancient Samoans acquired a taste for the spaghetti like annual treat and were able to predict the annual spawn. Although that forecasting knowledge has been lost, experts think the spawning follows the lunar cycle, pointing to the seventh day following the full moon between October and November.
It’s October and the moon was full seven days ago. My alarm sounded at midnight. I stumble a bit as I reluctantly pulled myself out of bed because it’s abnormally late for me to be awake on a school night. I woke up Kelsey, my housemate, and quickly stuffed a headlamp, a strainer, and some Ziploc bags into my bag.
The streets of American Samoa are usually deserted after 8 P.M., but that night there’s an unusual amount of traffic, confirming that we were not alone in the quest for palolo. We don’t have a vehicle and the buses stop running at 5:30 P.M., so we went by foot. I don’t mind the walk, since one thing I enjoy about living on this remote island is the night scenery. It offers solitude long extinct in the industrialized parts of the world. The air is cool and breezy, any drowsiness is erased after a few breath of the refreshing air; the street is empty except for the occasional vehicle and the only sound is the crashing waves; when the moon is out, the shallow harbor glows as if lit by an expansive underwater lighting system; without the light pollution, the Milky Way faintly glows behind the starlit sky.
There were already plenty of trucks parked by the beach when we arrived. The emptiness in the water indicated that the rising has not started. Neither of us knew anything about palolo, so we decided to let the experienced locals lead the search. There’s no telling how long the wait was going to be, so Kelsey and I attempted to take turns dozing off. But the excitement of the hunt injected our systems with an extra boost of adrenaline thwarting our nap strategy. Instead, we laid eyes wide open on the grassy shore gazing at the heavens. The moon was still making its nightly journey to this part of hemisphere, making the stars appear especially bright in contrast to the black backdrop. I have often stargazed back at the states, but this time the experience was completely foreign and novel. Not only because of the different constellations that inhibited the bottom side of the world, but because of the clarity of the picture. Even from relatively sheltered skies of Madison’s arboretum during the annual Perseid meteor shower, the light pollution from the surrounding areas reduced the majestic annual light show to only a couple of shooting stars an hour. In the time span that I was gazing upward instead of scanning for activities in the water, I saw two bright shooting stars flash across the sky. I am one of those who childishly believers in folk lore. It defies my logic, but somehow the mix of mystery and fantasy spurs my imagination, thus I took the rare opportunity to make two wishes, hoping that the palolo would rise soon.
As the waiting game prolonged, the moon began to slowly crawl up from the mountain ridges. The water seemed to come alive as the countless undulation reflects the beams from the moon. I checked my equipments preparing myself for the impending harvest. The worms are thought to release their precious cargo in response to light. Strangely, the rising moon had an unexpected effect on the spectators lining the shore. The truck parked next to me was the first one to leave. Within the next half hour, Kelsey and I were left with an empty beach. The next day that I found out the palolo normally stop spawning after the moon rises.
With a fruitless, or rather palolo-less, night behind me, I was confident that tonight would be the night. Our Samoan host family shared my confidence. Albert and Foa offered to take us along for the gathering. Their expertise became immediately evident when they suggested a meeting time of 1 A.M., which would give us plenty of time to reach Fata Ma Futi, the beach where the spawning has been strong in the past, in time for the normal spawning hour of approximately 2 A.M. This would save us some unnecessary down time waiting around, but more importantly, it would give us an extra hour of much needed sleep. Despite being able to survive days on little sleep in my wilder college days, two years of office job have a way of taming my sleeping habits. I was already red eyed after the previous night.
After a quick snooze helped me recover some of my energy, I found myself again awake in the wee morning hours. As much as I enjoyed late night strolls, I was glad that Albert had a motorized vehicle. For some reason, I was offered the cabin seat, while the women, Kelsey and Foa, were cast off to the bed of the truck. I had offered to sit in the bed, since I always welcome a face full of freshly squeezed breeze, but my suggestion was shot down. When we arrived at Fata Ma Futi, it was full of life like a block party with an unspoken invitation. Taking a quick scan of the surrounding, we were the only foreigners around. This fact made me feel snug as if I have graduated from my “visitor” status and have been accepted into a secret Samoan fraternity.
Being a secret fraternity meant making new connections. I was introduced to a respected Samoan tattooist and fishermen, Wilson, and got unfettered anecdotes and commentaries about the palolo gathering. I learned that the ancient Samoans, without the modern day flashlights, burned leaves to trick the palolo into releasing their eggs and sperms. There’s a sense of loss as Wilson explained that the ancient Samoan were able to accurately predict the palolo rising without the aid of modern technology, but that knowledge has been long lost. In a way, he’s trying to preserve the cultural erosion by practicing his trade of traditional tattooing and sustainable fishing. In fact, a hand carved outrigger canoe laid beside him; he has carved the canoe in preparation for this year’s palolo rising. There’s a sense of resentment as he reminisced on the past gatherings, in which the palolo were so bountiful that they can be scooped up by hand. But the harvest has been steadily decreasing, which he attributed the bleaching of the coral reefs due to global warming. Even though this island is thousands of miles away from the Western world, it still can not completely escape the effects of the Western influence.
As we sat talking and waiting, I heard a generator starting in the background. Suddenly, a section of the rocky shoreline lights up and the previously empty water is sprinkled with lights blobbing in waves. The palolo are rising!
