“Once in a while you find yourself in an odd situation. You get into it by degrees and in the most natural way but, when you are right in the midst of it, you are suddenly astonished and ask yourself how in the world it all came about.”

-Thor Heyerdahl

Not all theories need be tested in the controlled, analytical way most often attributed to the scientific method: sometimes the establishment of proof happens through bold action and courageous endeavor. As such, stories of determined explorers and the epic adventures of bygone days can still enthrall a general public whose lifestyles seem anything but; generally managing to capture the average imagination more readily than greater discoveries enabled by more “clinical” means. However, sometimes this line between scientific methodology and exploration can still become blurred beyond definition: the voyage of the Kon-Tiki is just such a tale.

Now, there are many who might scoff at the very subject: Thor Heyerdahl has become a much maligned figure in the halls of academia, a man whose theories are by and large viewed as suspect (at best) and preposterous (at worst) by the gatekeepers of scientific canon. Regardless, one cannot deny the bold and unorthodox mind required to even conceive such an endeavor, let alone actually attempt it. And, in Mr Heyerdahl’s case, not only did he define the very perimeters of his difficult test, he actually succeeded in passing it (although perhaps not with the ideal outcome he had envisioned). Such seemingly foolhardy actions are generally undertaken by those not only sure of their ability to persevere but also confident in the validity of their beliefs. Perhaps one also needs to be reminded that the journey was not just undertaken by a lone individual with such strongly held conviction, but also by others choosing to become fellow participants: five courageous men who accompanied him in his experiment to sail across thousands of nautical miles of open ocean in a day when location of such a small craft so far from normal shipping lanes was considered a hopeless endeavor at best. Say what you will about his theories, but one cannot deny that all those that endeavored this bold expedition were of a rare breed, indeed.

One might say the beginning of the journey came about ten years prior, on a little island in the Marquesas group called Fatu-Hiva. Thor Heyerdahl and his wife lived there for years, studying the flora, fauna and immersing themselves in the local island culture: living a lifestyle far removed from the one they had left behind in Norway. The first stirrings of epiphany arrived upon the tropical shoreline in waves, as witnessed by way of a stronger break on the island’s eastern shore. This fact was well known by the native fishermen who used it to their advantage when fishing, and even the local seabirds could be seen to fly out easterly on their forays so as to ride such prevailing winds back to their nestlings. During his stay there, Mr Heyerdahl had also became quite enthralled with the stories of Tiki as shared by the native islanders: Tiki the god (“son of the sun”) and great chief who had brought the people to the islands from a vast continent far across the sea. His imagination was further fueled by the perceived similarity between the monumental stone figures that littered the island and the great stone monoliths he had seen depicted in the Andes of South America. As he linked these observations together, a loose pattern began to form. In time, after concluding his studies of the island, he gathered up his preserved and labelled samples for shipping back to Norway…but there was another, less tangible treasure that also traveled back with him: a compelling hypothesis.

After returning to his homeland, Mr. Heyerdahl donated his collection of species from the Marquesas to the University Zoological Museum and switched from flora/fauna to studying the people of the Pacific. As this new topic of research began, he made a rather surprising discovery: even though there were ample observations regarding the lifestyles, beliefs, populations and locations of these people collected in archives over the course of European contact, there was still no agreement as to the origin of the vastly separated group of Pacific islanders generally associated as “Polynesian.” These people all shared a common language, practices, beliefs, and customs. They had also chronicled their histories (namely the generational line of rulers), so a rough accounting could be established regarding each island’s settlement (and re-settlement). Furthermore, the first European “discoverers” of these islands found even the remotest of islands (scattered over an area four times larger than modern Europe) all equally resplendent with dogs, pigs, fowl, along with cultivated fields of sweet potato, the bottle-gourd, and of course, coconuts. All these similarities were challenged by one simple revelation born from his experience of isolation in the Pacific: such shared cultural identity couldn’t have occurred by chance, they had to have arrived from a common source. But from where had they come from?

Academics and ethnographic specialists of the time argued many different sources; Malaya, India, China, Japan, Arabia, Egypt, the Caucasus (even Germany and Norway), but each point had its counterpoint; each thesis its antithesis. Prehistoric land bridges and mythical lost continents were all proposed, only to fail the test of scientific scrutiny (the zoological evidence of the time indicated -in particular Mr Heyerdahl’s rather detailed research regarding divergent species of both snails and insects- that the islands had remained isolated throughout the “…known history of mankind”). Such compelling facts forced those of more rational mind to conclude that these settlers must have arrived by travelling across the broad surface of the Pacific: after all, not even the seemingly indestructible coconut can survive such a lengthy and immersive journey across such an expanse of salt water (from either direction, as it fouls the seed) without assistance. The one thing the experts of the time could all agree on was that the first wave of explorers arrived around 500 AD (with a newer cultural wave arriving about 600 yrs later), but a determination as to their actual origin remained elusive. While most leading academics continued looking at the presumed older (thus “more advanced”) cultures to the west for evidence, Mr. Heyerdahl turned his eyes east.

He endeavored his new subject material with the same fervor and enthusiasm that he had his last: he immersed himself in volumes of scientific works, journals from early explorers, and relics of a bygone era in order to piece together a working schema to support his growing suspicion. He couldn’t help but notice that the geographical location of Central and South America aligned them with the prevailing westward flow of both the southern equatorial current and trade winds (as had already been observed during his time on Fatu Hiva), which in his mind predisposed them as hypothetical ports of oceanic migration westward. Adding to the growing puzzle was the enigma that is Easter Island: traditional home of a culture significantly advanced enough to have had the free time to not only carve the numerous, massive Moai for which the island is famous, but also somehow move such massive sculptures (generally 20-30’ in height) out of the inert caldera from which they were carved to then be distributed and erected around the island. The mystery deepened when one considered the puzzling addition of a red capstone atop the lofty heads of these unique creations. Pondering such megaliths, Mr. Heyerdahl believed he saw the abstraction of beards in the exaggerated chins, a topknot of red hair or headdress in the capstones, and a potential connection to the so called “rainbow belt” as attributed to Andean mythology around their waists. Local legends gathered from the remote island also spoke of its original settlers having arrived from a distant land toward the rising sun: the nearest land in that direction is the American continent.

Now speculating Easter Island as the first “stopping point” for a culture migrating from the Americas out into the Pacific, the more he researched, the more he became convinced he found Polynesian connections to cultures on the Central/South American coastline: such as the common usage of names such as kumara for sweet potato (the same as in Peru), and kimi for the Polynesian gourdfruit (same as tribes in Central America). Equally puzzling to Mr Heyerdahl was the general agreement of the potato having its origins in the Americas, and yet none had a sufficient explanation as to exactly how the root vegetable managed to find its way throughout the South Pacific before European contact. He also found it compelling that both the Inca and Polynesians chronicled their history through the rather distinctive practice of knotted strings in lieu of a formal written language: it was from precisely such unique accounting that it had been determined the first settlers reached Easter Island around 57 generations prior, with another wave arriving 35 generations later. These original settlers were traditionally referenced by the name “long ears” (due to their habit of artificially “…stretching their ear lobes until they reached to their shoulders…”) while the latter arrivals became known as “short ears” (for obvious reasons). It was not lost on Mr Heyerdahl that the Moai of Easter Island all had such pronounced elongated “ears.” Local legends he gathered also told of the latter band of “short ears” arriving as invaders, which resulted in the elimination of much of the previous population in the conflict that followed. Thereafter, the practice of carving and distributing the Moai was lost, and the island settled into the state it was found in when the first Europeans arrived.

The final links in the chain, however, were found during his research into the Polynesian tribal god and great chief, Tiki. While studying various accounts of the sun-king Virakocha (who legend placed as the lost ruler of Tiahuanaco in the high Andes), he came across the following passage:

“…Virakocha is an Inca (Ketchua) name and consequently of fairly recent date. The original name of the sun-god Virakocha, which seems to have been used more in Peru in old times, was Kon-Tiki or Illa-Tiki, which means Sun-Tiki or Fire-Tiki. Kon-Tiki was high priest and sun-king of the Inca’s legendary ‘white men’ who had left the enormous ruins on the shores of lake Titicaca. The legend runs that the mysterious white men with beards were attacked by a chief named Cari who came from the Coquimbo Valley. In a battle on an island in Lake Titicaca the fair race was massacred, but Kon-Tiki himself and his closest companion escaped and later came down to the Pacific coast, whence they finally disappeared oversea to the westward…”

Equally compelling was evidence found in such legends depicting this great sun god/chief (and the aforementioned “white men with beards” he ruled over) being called “big ears” due to the practice of artificially stretching their ears so that they “…reached their shoulders.” These legends emphasized that it was Kon-Tiki with his “big ears” who had erected the statues and megaliths in the Andes, before they were driven out by those who became later known more broadly as “the Inca.” In the words of Mr Heyerdahl:

“…To sum up: Kon-Tiki’s white “big ears” disappeared from Peru westward with ample experience of working colossal stone statues, and Tiki’s white “long ears” came to Easter Island from eastward skilled in exactly the same art, which they at once took up in full perfection so that not the smallest trace can be found on Easter Island of any development leading up to the masterpieces on the island…”

Continuing with this line of reasoning, he then studied the linguistic variants regarding the original Polynesian names for the island and offered the following interpretation as to their meanings:

“…’Easter Island’ appears on the map because some Dutchman “discovered” the island on Easter Sunday. And we have forgotten that the natives themselves had more instructive and significant names for their home. The island has no less than three names in Polynesian. One name is Te-Pito-te-Henua which means “navel of the islands.” This poetical name clearly places Easter Island in a special position in regard to other islands further westward and is the oldest designation for Easter Island according to the Polynesians themselves. On the eastern side of the island, near the traditional landing place of the first “long ears” is a carefully tooled piece of stone which is called the “golden navel” and is in turn regarded as the navel of Easter Island itself. When the poetical Polynesian ancestors carved the island navel on the east coast and selected the island nearest Peru as the navel of their myriad islands to the west, it had a symbolic meaning. And when we know that Polynesian tradition refers to the discovery of their islands as the “birth” of their islands, then it is more than a suggested that Easter Island of all places was considered the “navel” symbolic of the Islands’ birthmark and as the connecting link with their original homeland.

Easter Island’s second name is Rapa-Nui which means “Great Rapa” while Rapa Iti or “Little Rapa”is another island of the same size which lies a very long way west of Easter Island. Now it is the natural practice of all people to call their first home “Great——” while the next is called “New——” or “Little——” even if the places are of the same size. And on Little Rapa the natives have quite correctly maintained traditions that the first inhabitants of the island came from Great Rapa, Easter Island to the eastward, nearest to America. This points directly to an original immigration from the east.

The third and last name of this key island is Mata-Kite-Rani which means “the eye (which) looks (toward) heaven.” At first glance this is puzzling, for the relatively low Easter Island does not look toward heaven any more than the other loftier islands—for example, Tahiti, the Marquesas, or Hawaii. But Rani, “heaven,” had a double meaning to the Polynesians. It was their ancestors’ original homeland, the holy land of the sun-god, Tiki’s forsaken mountain kingdom. And it is very significant that they should have called just their easternmost island, of all the thousands of islands in the ocean, “the eye that looks toward heaven". It is all the more striking seeing that the kindred name Mata-Rani which means in Polynesian “the eye of heaven” is an old Peruvian place name, that of a spot on the Pacific Coast of Peru opposite Easter Island and right at the foot of Kon-Tiki’s ruined city of the Andes…”

Satisfied that the source of initial migration was sufficiently established, what of the latter arrival which occurred around 1100 AD? For this he fell back on the local tales and legends he had collected in memory during his stay in the Marquesas: this cultural wave was attributed to stories told of seagoing war canoes from the Pacific Northwest “…as large as Viking ships…” and lashed “…two by two…” whose occupants also settled onto the islands, conquering and intermingling with those already established there. This latter contemplation of the puzzle drew him to the coast of British Columbia in the latter part of the 1930s, where he studied rock carvings deemed “in the ancient Polynesian style” until Nazi Germany invaded his native home. The “call to arms” instigated by the burgeoning World War compelled him to travel back across the Atlantic to Norway and volunteer for service in defense of his homeland.

Immediately after the war he left for the United States, moving to New York city in order to continue his ethnographic research of the Pacific. Believing he had established a sound enough theory sufficiently buttressed by supporting evidence, he next composed a manuscript of his findings and submitted it for review among the scientific circles he frequented. The response (when there even was one) was universally scathing. The most damning criticism however, seemed to revolve around his having derived a conclusion in a most “unscientific manner:” namely, that he had formed his theory a priori to the gathering of evidence. Some even accused him of merely “playing detective” and cherry-picking evidence to support his conclusion.

One must realize that the prevailing belief among ethnographers at the time (and even by many still today) was that the indigenous people of the “Americas” had all remained generally isolated within their regions after their initial arrival en masse across the Siberian land bridge some 10-15,000 years prior. It was also believed that the majority were extensively “primitive” and, despite rather obvious evidence to the contrary in the form of Mississippian, Anasazi, Teotihuacan, Mayan and Inca megalithic constructions, that they lacked European sophistication regarding technology: in this specific case that of transportation and navigation. Ironically, it was well known (even then) that the megalithic cultures of Central and South America had celestial observatories (they were seemingly “obsessed'“ with such, it being foundational to their cosmology), and the Peruvians (in particular) had been historically depicted as utilizing balsa-log rafts to travel up and down their coastline to conduct trade. Such rafts were described by Spanish chroniclers as using sails as well as the natural currents to propel them. They were also shown to have been steered by a both an oar in the stern as well as centerboards both forward and aft of the mast to enable maneuvering against the wind. The pressing problem however, was no one seemed able to believe something as crudely conceived as a mere raft could be sailed the roughly 4000 nautical miles required to reach the proposed destination…well, almost no one.

Receiving no quarter among his scientific colleagues, Thor Heyerdahl became increasingly frustrated by what seemed to be a lack of broader vision: each of these “dogmatic specialists” would only be moved by undeniable proof of concept. In the meantime, it wasn’t long before his rather modest personal finances found him moving from the glitz and glamour of Manhattan into a more down to earth Norwegian sailor’s hostel in Brooklyn (where he also inadvertently began his education in Nordic sea-lore). Frustratingly, during his time there he found even the “saltiest” of sailors knew very little regarding “trans-oceanic rafting” (with the exception that they were generally considered impossible to steer). Undeterred, he spent the bulk of those days in the nearby libraries/archives furthering his knowledge of Polynesian/Andean mythology, balsa raft design, patterns of oceanic current and prevailing wind: he even bought himself a Pilot-Chart of the Pacific. In time, with his research concluding such a voyage was indeed quite possible (if not probable) as the Southern equatorial currents and prevailing winds consistently moved east to west, he also found that such was deemed equally ‘improbable’ by most experienced in sail-craft due to the unknowns associated with completing such a long journey on a mere “primitive raft.” Further frustrated by the continuing lack of constructive feedback regarding his theory and with his meager savings steadily dwindling, he shifted his scope: if no one else would believe such a voyage could be successfully completed, he would prove otherwise: he would sail a Peruvian-style raft from South America to Polynesia!

Planning and preparing for such an expedition proved to be an adventure in itself. The first (and undeniably most daunting) decision was limiting the journey to that of a solo raft travelling across 4000 nautical miles of open ocean, with no outside assistance in the form of a “support boat.” The raft had to make it on its own merit in a manner that was completely self-sufficient, as it had to be an undeniable accomplishment: otherwise, it might simply be written off by his colleagues as an elaborate hoax or mere “publicity stunt.” Initially working with a fellow Norwegian friend (who was also a professional ship’s captain), together they calculated that under ideal conditions such a voyage should take around 97 days, but chose to round up to a full 4 months for planning’s sake. Thor Heyerdahl’s next step was to visit the famed “Explorer’s Club” on W. 72nd street in Manhattan (where he was a member due to his unorthodox studies in the Marquesas), in order to avail himself of the advice and much needed logistical support of his fellows. He found the latter from a new member working at the equipment laboratory of the Air Material Command who had conducted a demonstration of survival gear in development there at that time. Hearing of Mr Heyerdahl’s plan, they both agreed on the benefit of testing such equipment on an extended open sea voyage. It was also the type of practical assistance needed to mitigate some of the potential risk. The bold proposal was starting to coalesce, but time was already running short: in a mere months the hurricane season would begin and then it would be nearly another year before one might realistically attempt the journey again. Such a delay could mean the loss of this offered logistical support, and thus this newly unveiled window of opportunity lost forever. Motivated by both compelling possibility and pressing concern, Mr. Heyerdahl began the task of seeking potential crew members in earnest.

The expedition’s first official crewman was found while taking meals at the sailor’s home. He took the form of a Norwegian man by the name of Herman Watzinger: a university trained engineer specializing in hydrodynamics. He had become a regular stowaway at the sailor’s home seeking to relieve equal parts hunger and homesickness all while openly admitting to being as much a “landlubber” as Mr. Heyerdahl. After many engaging evenings discussing the proposed venture, he finally offered his services as “second in command” for the expedition, becoming an invaluable cohort in the months to come. Next, they gained a high-profile supporter in none other than the infamous Danish explorer Peter Freuchen, who was a fellow member of the Explorer’s Club. With Mr Fruechen’s enthusiastic participation, progress for the venture began picking up speed: they received a pledge from their first financier (in the form of a triumvirate of interested individuals), as well as garnering much needed publicity. Mr Heyerdahl and Mr Watzinger then obtained an informal promise from the Air Material Command for any survival equipment they required, with the stipulation that they file detailed reports after returning the tested equipment. The basic framework for the expedition was beginning to assemble, but there was still the desperate need for more crew members, as a total of 6 was considered ‘ideal’ for the journey awaiting them.

It had already been decided, however, that they didn’t want “professional seaman” involved in the journey: for one, modern sailors knew next to nothing regarding raftmanship, and furthermore, might become quite disagreeable when given direction by mere “landlubbers.” For another, they wanted to remove any possibility that might cast doubt upon the endeavor: having a “crack crew” of professional sailors involved might be enough to disparage a successful journey in the eyes of the ‘experts’ and so their selections had to be drawn from a pool of known and trusted amateurs. Of utmost importance, they desperately needed a navigator; someone who was both familiar and competent with the use of sextant and chart. They found him in a yachtsman, painter, and guitarist by the name of Erik Hesselberg: a lifelong friend of Thor Heyerdahl who had attended navigation school in Norway and then sailed around the world before setting his anchorage on land in order to further his more “artistic” side. Next on the list, they needed a radioman. They found two: Knut Haugland and Torstein Raaby. Mr Haugland was a noted war hero, involved in the sabotage of Nazi Germany’s heavy water production in Rjukan during their quest for an atomic bomb. Mr Raaby had also been a resistance fighter during the war, broadcasting from behind enemy lines to aid the Allies toward victory. They, and Mr Watzinger had met and fought together during such trying times, and thus were peerless choices for this equally dangerous but decidedly more peaceful mission. Finding that last remaining volunteer, however, continued to prove elusive.

Undaunted, they reached out to the Norwegian military attache’s new assistant in Washington (a man who Mr Heyerdahl had also served with in the war) and it was through him that they first came into contact with his immediate superior, Col. Otto Munthe-Kaas, and through him a letter of introduction to the Pentagon’s Foreign Liaison’’s office and a subsequent meeting. This formality granted them first a tour of the Quartermaster General’s experimental laboratory, and then a meeting with the officer in charge himself. After an unnerving interrogation, they succeeded in striking an arrangement: the Air Material Command would indeed supply them with whatever equipment they deemed “necessary” as could be realistically provided by the department. Next stop was the War Department’s Geographical Research Committee, where all of the necessary instruments and apparatus were acquired for the scientific measurements that were to become routine during the voyage. They then flew to the Naval Hydrographic Institute to consult the most up to date maps and charts of the Pacific. The British Military Mission also provided valuable advice as well as a selection of their own equipment in development from for use/testing during the expedition. Progress was being steadily made, but the clock was ever ticking; There was still a flight to South America to consider, and then the actual building of the raft to complete, all in three months (at the latest).

It was at this critical point that their original pledge of financial support was dissolved due to the primary patron’s unexpected illness. This created quite an untenable situation, as it had already proved quite impossible to get a grant from any academic institution in order to help prove the highly disputed theory (the very impetus for the journey itself). Further discouraged by a lack of willing private promoters or serious press backing (most of whom generally considered the expedition a suicide voyage), they finally received their first private loan from none other than Col. Munthe-Kaas himself, with other financial supporters following suit. Soon they had raised enough money to fly to South America, acquire the basic raw materials (in the form of Balsa logs and bamboo) from the coast of Ecuador, and begin construction of the raft. But they still hadn’t, as yet, received the proper permissions. For this they turned to a fellow from the now dissolved financial triumvirate who was a correspondent for the United Nations. He connected them with delegates from both Peru and Ecuador, who were quite taken with the idea that ancient travelers from their own countries might have been the first to reach the Pacific Islands. Even the Chilean Assistant Secretary for the UN was entranced by the prospect, and composed a letter for them to take directly to the President of Peru. They also met with the Norwegian ambassador (Willhelm von Munthe of Morgenstierne), who thereafter offered the expedition invaluable support. The time for planning seemed over at long last…it was now time to finally get their feet wet.

Flying out of the familiar urban confines of New York city and arriving in the decidedly rural Republic of Ecuador with little knowledge of the language (and even less regarding local customs), their first task in the port town of Guayaquil was to try and negotiate for some Balsa logs. Unfortunately, they found out that although Balsa could be easily acquired in abundance in the form of dimensional lumber, raw balsa logs in the girth required could only be found in the jungle interior of the country, and the rainy season had just begun in earnest. Local officials assured them that all roads leading to the interior would be impassable because of deep mud: in order to accomplish this first task, they would need to return in 6 months. Knowing this was not an option worth consideration, they then called upon Don Gustavo von Buchwald, but not even the Balsa King of Ecuador’s agents could find a single serviceable log in all the remaining logdecks in the country. Undeterred, Don Gustavo contacted his brother Don Frederico, who owned a large Balsa plantation in a little jungle town known as Quevedo. The brother assured the expedition leaders he could most certainly fulfill their needs, “…just as soon as the rains stopped…” Meanwhile, the seasonal clock continued ticking.

Things were beginning to look desperate again, so they began to brainstorm: they knew that the jungle stretched uninterrupted from the sea to the Andes, and they couldn’t get to the interior from the coastline…perhaps they could from the mountains? They booked a small cargo plane to take them to the capital of Quinto, residing high upon the Andean plateau at 9,300 ft of altitude. Once there, they contacted the Norwegian consul general of the country, to whom they then revealed their tentative plan to drive into the forest from the highlands. The consul general immediately declared the idea “sheer madness” due to the “bandidos” who were said to inhabit the region. His recommendation? They would have to await the dry season and removal of these “villains” before transportation and guides might be found. Increasingly desperate, and with the expedition seemingly slipping from their grasp, the two then suggested a formal audience at the nearby American embassy to see the military attache’ there. After an introduction by the consul general, and the usual diplomatic niceties, it became apparent the American attache’ was already well-aware of their planned voyage from a local newspaper article he had read. What he was not expecting was a request for either “…the loan of a plane and two parachutes.” or “…loan of a jeep and driver who knew the back country.” Intrigued by the premise, won over by the charisma of the Norwegians (and having not been offered a third option), he not so surprisingly agreed to the latter.

The next morning, they set out at last to get the old-growth Balsa logs for the construction of the raft. Their driver was a native Ecuadorian Captain of Engineers; the jeep he drove was packed full of gasoline cans, and he was described as “…armed to the teeth with knives and firearms.” By contrast, Mr. Heyerdahl and Mr. Watzinger brought along a bag of tinned food, a second-hand camera and a large bore revolver on loan from the consul general for self-defense against roaming “wildlife.” The route they followed into the mountains could hardly have been called a road: rather, it was a primitive mule track that stretched between mountain villages upon the highlands. The further along they drove, the less the locals knew Spanish, and soon a language barrier was shared between these indigenous locals and all aboard. Despite this, they continued on, the track eventually dwindling to a trail which wound its way among the snowy passes before beginning the treacherous 12,000 ft descent into the jungle below. As they carefully switch-backed their way down to the tree line the air grew increasingly hotter, more humid, and a steady rain began to fall. After pausing for food and rest at nightfall, they continued on the next day with their journey into the forest, until stopped at last by a broad, muddy river: the Palenque. Spanish speaking natives nearby informed them that their destination lay just across the swollen waterway, but they would have to be floated across (on nothing less than a balsa raft!) as there weren’t any bridges yet built that far upriver. After this obstacle was overcome, and after enduring a rather exiting “welcome” and repair of a flat in Quevedo, they finally arrived at the remote plantation of Don Federico.

Following a proper feast of welcome, they got down to business. When Don Federico heard of their plans to build a balsa raft, he became quite excited by the notion: seems he had fond memories of seeing such Peruvian rafts coming into port when he was a boy. However, as they still wouldn’t be able to reach the plantation up-forest due to the rains, they would have to settle for finding suitable trees in the vicinity of Don Federico’s bungalow. Setting out into the nearby jungle on horseback (ever wary of venomous snakes, scorpions, kongo ants and large predators), over the course of the next week they collected 12 logs hand-selected for the task. In keeping with Polynesian tradition, they christened each one after a legendary cultural figure; “Ku, Kane, Kama, Llo, Mauri, Ra, Rangi, Papa, Taranga, Kura, Kukara, and Hiti.” From these they made two temporary rafts lashed with liana vine, laden down further with all the bamboo and liana they might need for construction later. Don Federico then assigned them two local workers to operate the steering oars so that they might successfully navigate their raw materials downstream…and on the next morning they cast off into the muddy current. From their new vantage point upon the rafts, the landscape drifted by like a river tour: they saw locals of every variety, as well as local fauna both known and unknown (and even some that seemed to border on mythical). At night they were subjected to an ear-splitting foreign cacophony of sound. As they travelled further downstream, an increasing number of huts and larger villages could be seen. By the time they merged with the Rio Guayas, they also began to encounter paddle steamers, and it was upon one of these that the two Norwegians booked passage in order to save time for much needed arrangements still awaiting completion; after all, the logs would arrive in port delivered by the able skills of the native workers no sooner than the river’s pace allowed, anyway.

After arriving back in Guayaquil, the two Norwegian adventurers parted ways: Mr Heyerdahl flying down to Lima, Peru in order to find a suitable place to assemble the raft, while Mr Watzinger remained at the Ecuadorian port in order to arrange transport of the raw materials via coastal steamer to Peru. Upon arriving in Lima, Mr Heyerdahl went to the port of Callao, where it became immediately apparent that their best hope for raft-assembly would be within the concrete enclosed safety of the Naval Harbor. With his letter from Peruvian Naval attache’ in hand, he met with the Minister of Marine, where he was curtly informed that he would have to follow the “proper channels” and receive permission from the Foreign Minister first. However, due to Norway having no “local legation” in Peru, this proved to be an unlikely event; so Mr Heyerdahl set his sights instead upon the Peruvian President himself, requesting a personal audience with His Excellency Don Jose’ Bustamante y Rivero (which was promptly granted). After the usual formalities associated with such an audience (and the problem of the language barrier solved-the Peruvian Air Minister was brought in to act as an interpreter), the appeal of ancient Peruvians having discovered Polynesia compelled the President as completely as it had his fellow countrymen: he would speak to the Foreign Minister personally to grant the appropriate permissions, and would assure that the Minister of Marine would give his much needed assistance as well.

The next day, the Lima papers published a short article officially announcing a certain Norwegian raft expedition’s state-sanctioned plan to sail to Polynesia, as well as another reporting the successful conclusion of a Swedish-Finnish expedition which had studied the indigenous people of the Amazon region. That very day, Herman Watzinger arrived unexpectedly at their hotel accompanied by a tall red-haired Swede by the name of Bengt Danielsson, who had come straight from this Amazonian expedition, intrigued by the trans-Pacific migration theory. After a brief discussion, following which consideration to be included in the expedition was both requested and granted, they had found their sixth crew member (and Spanish translator) at long last. Soon after, while Mr Watzinger stayed behind to await arrival of the logs and crewman in Peru, Mr Heyerdahl flew back to Washington DC to settle any lingering issues before departure. Radio support was arranged to be provided by the Radio Amateur League of America, and all the necessary correspondence, reports, filings, and permissions were squared away for departure. It was around this time that Mr Watzinger was caught unawares by a shore breaker where he (among other injuries) managed to dislocate his neck. Broken, battered, bruised and extremely lucky to not have suffered a worse fate, his continued participation in the journey was immediately called into question by the physicians who attended him. But his unwavering commitment to the expedition would not be deterred, and he quickly returned to the Shipyard in order to continue overseeing assembly of the raft, as other crewman started arriving and assisting in the project as well, soon followed by Thor Heyerdahl himself.

In midst the state of the art submarines and destroyers within the naval yard, the newly assembled crew and 20 local Peruvian seamen constructed the primitive raft which would become the Expedition’s home for the next 3-4 months. The nine thickest logs were aligned to form the basic hull of the craft. Deep grooves were cut into the trunks to prevent the ropes which lashed the construct together from slipping. The longest (45’) of these was set as the “keel log” while the remaining were aligned in descending length to either side so that a “bow” projected out the front of the raft. They were then “squared off” in the stern, with the three center-most allowed to project a couple feet further back in order to mount a block of balsa to support the steering oar. The bow log-ends were “pointed” as per traditional practice, and low splash boards fastened to them. Lighter balsa logs were then laid/lashed cross-ways at intervals of around 3 feet. A deck of split bamboo was lain over this, and covered with mats of plaited bamboo reeds. In the middle of the raft (but nearer to the stern), a cabin built of bamboo canes was attached, plaited with bamboo reeds, left partially open to the starboard and roofed with slats of bamboo overlaid with banana leaves. Just forward of this cabin two masts leaned together in an upturned “V” and were affixed with a rectangular sail which was yarded upon two bamboo poles lashed together to ensure both strength and longevity. Where cracks between the logs afforded it, 1 inch thick by 2 foot wide fir planks were inserted down into the water to a depth of 5 feet: this was in keeping with a custom documented in Inca times, where such “centerboards” were used to prevent such flat rafts from drifting sideways under effect of wind and sea. Final touches included the mounting of a platform on the masthead for a “lookout” perch, and decoration of the sail with a Likeness of Kon-Tiki himself.

When the Minister of Marine and other naval experts and diplomats saw the craft, they were mortified. Soon after, Mr Heyerdahl was summoned to sign a paper freeing the navy of any responsibility for the craft built within their harbor, and a waiver stating that once the craft left port, Mr Heyerdahl assumed all responsibility for crew and cargo. One diplomat was even described as stating:

“…Your mother and father will be very grieved to hear of your death…”

The general consensus of available naval experts determined that the craft was simply far too small which would cause it to “…founder in a big sea.” Also of concern was the very use of balsa wood itself, which was considered “…too fragile” for the stresses it would encounter in the open ocean, and many were of the opinion that the logs would become hopelessly waterlogged before covering 1000 miles, regardless. Unsurprisingly, its very construction was also deemed “insufficient” as the lashing ropes were believed to likely wear through “…within a fortnight…” as wire rope or chain would have been the only sensible choice. And most critically, it was believed the Kon-Tiki would never receive any useful propulsion from its sail, condemning the raft to riding upon the whims of the Humboldt Current: an errant drift which could take as long as two years (assuming they managed to survive that long) to reach landfall. In the face of such opposition, it is impossible to imagine the expedition members as not having (at very least) moments of doubt as to whether they actually grasped the implications of what they were attempting. But when faced with such dire thoughts, Mr Heyerdahl and crew held complete faith in the theory: “If Kon-Tiki completed the voyage in such a craft, then so could they…”

As the day of departure approached they secured their gear and basic supplies onto the vessel. They did so by locating them beneath the bamboo mat and between the crossbeams: this included 275 gallons of drinking water within 56 small water cans. One sheltered corner inside of the cabin was set up specifically for the radio. Eight boxes were also stowed beneath the mat in the cabin; two for the scientific equipment they brought, and one each for the crew members with the agreement that each man could bring as many ‘personal effects’ as would fit within a single box. Notable examples of such ‘cargo’ were Erik Hesselberg’s which included several rolls of drawing paper and a guitar, and Bengt Danielsson’s, which was entirely filled with books to read on the voyage. Just prior to the day of launch, the Norwegian flag was hoisted along with those of countries who had given aid to the expedition, and the sail unfurled to reveal Tiki’s likeness to all present. Curious local townspeople as well as dignitaries from Peru, the United States, Great Britain, France, China, Argentina, and Cuba were in attendance, to watch the vessel officially christened with milk from a coconut.

After nearly a year of planning and labor, the Kon-Tiki was ready to sail at last. On April 28th, 1947, they were to be towed out of the harbor by tug, and left to their own devices. When Mr Heyerdahl arrived at the raft that fateful morning, however, the crew (with the exception of Herman Watzinger who sat upon a heap of last minute supplies with a caged parrot in hand) were all running last minute errands. Seeing Mr Heyerdahl’s arrival, he handed off the ship’s new mascot and then himself ran off on a last minute errand. Soon afterward, the tug Guardian Rios appeared in the harbor and sent a motor launch in to fetch the raft; which, despite Mr Heyerdahl’s linguistically-challenged protestations, was apparently to be removed from within the harbor on schedule with or without its crew. Knowing from recent experience that it was usually pointless to argue with military command, he eventually conceded. The motor-launch crew managed to coax the raft out to the military tug, where a tow line was affixed and desperate (linguistically challenged) negotiations begun again for delay until the rest of the expedition could manage to find their way on board. It was around this time that the now land-locked Kon-Tiki crew arrived back at the dock, only to find their newly christened vessel notably absent. After some frantic moments and exchange of information, arrangements were made to ferry the crew and their remaining supplies to the raft (which thankfully still awaited them out in the bay). With the arrival of the the rest of the Kon-Tiki crew (in particular the Spanish-speaking Mr. Danielsson), much of the earlier confusion was resolved: the tow out of the harbor wasn’t scheduled to begin until late afternoon (when a window clear of commercial coastal traffic was available), and it would be the next morning when they were cast off into open water. Relieved, they spent this free time stowing gear and making final preparations of the raft for their pending departure.

However, once underway that afternoon, events continued to unfold in an unsettling fashion: the hull-less design of the raft did not perform at all well under tow, and the heavy resistance from it's plowing “bow” managed to snap the tow rope. As if to further the presumed “bad luck” of the expedition crew, as they attempted to reattach a new, heavier towline, the raft was almost crushed under the larger vessel’s heaving stern! Yet another disaster barely averted, the slow tow into open water continued on into the night, with assigned members of the Kon Tiki crew taking their turns at watch (while the others tried their best to sleep) amid continuing difficulty as the raft struggled onward in the wash of the tug’s massive propellers. Eventually all coastal references disappeared from view, and by the light of daybreak the coordinates of their casting-off point were finally reached. After a brief delay exchanging farewells and best wishes with the tug’s crew, the balsa raft was released into the embrace of the Humboldt Current at long last.

(Continued in Part II)

Sources:

• “The Kon-Tiki Expedition: Across the Pacific in a Raft” (Chicago: Rand McNally & Company 1950)

A Selection of Other Books By Thor Heyerdahl:

• “Fatu-Hiva: Back to Nature” (Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, Inc. 1975)

• “American Indians in the Pacific: The Theory Behind the Kon-Tiki Expedition” (Chicago: Rand McNally & Company 1952)

• “Aku-Aku: The Secret of Easter Island” (Chicago: Rand McNally & Company 1958)

• “Sea Routes to the Polynesia: American Indians and Early Asiatics in the Pacific” (Chicago: Rand McNally & Company 1968)

• “Early Man and the Ocean: The Beginning of Navigation and Seaborn Civilizations” (Garden City NY: Doubleday & Company, Inc. 1979)

• “The Maldive Mystery” (Alder & Alder 1986)

• “Pyramids of Tecune: The Quest for Peru’s Forgotten City” (London: Thames & Hudson 1995)

Special thanks to:

The Kon-Tiki Museum

Bygdøynesveien 36, 0286 Oslo

https://www.kon-tiki.no/

Kirk Torren Smith

Legendary Explorations

A group created to facilitate the exploration of legendary figures and events in history from ancient times through to the present day.

View Group