Voyage of the Kon-Tiki Part II: establishing the theory

“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

As the Guardian Rios steamed away after successfully delivering craft and crew into open water, the Kon-Tiki unfurled its sail…and waited. Slowly the raft began to move as a steady SE wind blew in, the steering oar was set, and the process of learning the finer art of ancient Peruvian raftsmanship begun. Because the sail of the raft was essentially a ‘fixed’ design, they soon found that unless the prevailing wind was placed near directly astern, the craft would simply rotate until the sail filled again with the bow and stern having switched places. This rendered them at the mercy of a limited angle of wind and the prevailing currents flow as it would be impossible to tack a longitudinal course-heading in order to significantly change their latitude. As if to emphasize this point, by late afternoon of that first day the trade wind had picked up to full strength, carrying a storm upon its back that whipped up the seas, and delivering the balsa raft and crew their first real test of sea worthiness. It also marked the moment of “no return:” from this point onward they would no longer benefit from the onshore/offshore winds as one might receive nearer shore, and thus there would be no turning back to the mainland.

With the escalating increase in wind came a corresponding increase in seas, and they soon found their most immediate concern was trying to keep the wayward steering oar on course: even with four men set to the task, it proved nearly impossible to manage as had been set up within the calm of the harbor. So, to compensate, they ran ropes from each side of the steering oar’s blade to limit its effective sweep-radius, and then used another short-line which lashed it down to the thole-pines of the steering block to keep it from being forever lost overboard by a breaking wave. In spite of such difficulties, even caught in high seas with an inexperienced crew, the raft performed surprisingly well. Unlike a traditional displacement-hulled boat, waves that crashed onboard were not captured by a hull at all (which always increases the risk of foundering), but rather, just passed harmlessly through the lattice of logs. The balsa logs proved to have more than sufficient buoyancy (at this stage of the voyage at least) and due to the waves not being “displaced,” the structural stresses on the craft were deemed to be rather minimal: it simply “floated atop” the surface as easily as a piece of cork might. After some lengthy trial and error, it soon became apparent that the oarsman’s primary job, rather than “staying true to a set course” as was the norm with other types of sailing craft, was to simply keep the raft’s sail “square to the wind.” In the meantime the rest of the crew accustomed themselves to life on board the raft, settling into a basic pattern that would become their routine for the foreseeable future.

This “test by storm” lasted for days, and each designated 2-man turn at the steering oar proved nearly more than any man on board could bear. The two hour on/three hour off rotation rescheduled to one on/one and a half off (with ‘relief’ staggered so that each ‘fresh’ watchman overlapped one already on station)…and still the seas continued to grow. Everything on board was now quite sodden. Their arms, legs and backs ached, their collective will was sorely tested, their spirits were at an ebb, and they had only just begun. As if to add insult to injury, one dark night they were struck unawares by a rogue wave which almost tore the cabin off and violently spun the raft, making reorientation impossible in such rough conditions. Beaten, raw, and temporarily defeated, they furled the sail and huddled together in the damaged cabin until daybreak. When they awoke at mid-morning however, the sea had calmed some, and the sun was out. Taking their position for the first time by sextant, they realized that they had been mostly traveling northerly before the push of the storm, and were still only approximately 100 nautical miles from the coastline. Calculating the wind (SE) and the current’s prevailing westward pull, they decided that they were still sufficiently ‘on course,’ and after discussion agreed to continue. They reoriented the craft with the wind to its stern and unfurled the sail again, sincerely hoping that they would not continue on their thus far prevailing NW track and end up prematurely running aground in the Galapagos Islands. Inspecting the post-storm condition of the raft, the logs had indeed absorbed seawater (to a depth of about 1”), but they still had high hopes their buoyancy would last for the duration. They also noticed that the Kon-Tiki, lashed as it was, moved reciprocally with the swells (akin to breathing perhaps), while the liana ropes holding it all together steadily swelled over time, tightening and digging into the soft wood (which also helped protect them from chafing).

In the following weeks as the seas calmed, the good weather held, and they all had much more time for such things, they began to notice the abundance of sea life that accompanied the Kon-Tiki on its journey; tunnies, bonitos, dolphins, sardines, sharks (along with their entourage of pilot fish), squid, sea turtles, all followed their current path. Flying fish literally invited themselves on board, landing on the Bamboo mat of the deck with such persistence that it quickly became the cook’s morning duty to collect all that had come aboard the previous night (anywhere from 6-26) to be fried for breakfast. They soon realized that much of the food rations they had brought were largely superfluous, and if it wasn’t for the need to test such prepared foodstuffs as per arrangement (and culinary preference of a few on board), they could likely have gone mostly unused. Thereafter they made the gathering of as much as they could from the sea for consumption (including plankton) a matter of habit. But there were other, more mysterious denizens of the sea who made themselves known as well: at night phosphorescence could be seen both upon the surface and at depth -and on one memorable dark and overcast night, three submerged glowing shapes as big as whales were witnessed in the deep. On a following day, they were startled by the rare appearance of a whale shark, who seemed intent upon investigating such an equally unique apparition upon the surface of its home: a noteworthy moment they even managed to capture in grainy photographs.

Life on board the vessel settled into an increasingly familiar, more comfortable routine as they sailed into clearer weather to the west. With weeks upon weeks steadily gliding past in their wake, so did the worries of “civilization” (all now seemingly “false and illusory perversions”) as they became “as one” amid the harmony of elements upon the vast Pacific. With the arrival of good weather, the 2-hour turn at the steering oar became more a time for idle daydream. Those “off watch” might have been witnessed distracted from such meditations by using and/or fixing the radio, reading any one of a number of 73 sociological books on board, entertaining the crew by singing and/or playing guitar, developing photographic film and/or reloading the cameras, preparing a meal, drawing sketches, diving underneath the raft to check its condition, collecting specimens, adjusting the rigging and/or centerboards, fishing, taking notes, making meteorological and/or hydrographical measurements, writing in the ship’s log, or just gleefully bobbing about in the rubber raft for a change of pace. All commonly-held chores such as steerage and cooking were handled by a duty roster; with every man on board having two hours during the day, and two hours at night on the steering oar, regardless.

With their broad arc westerly occurring now almost effortlessly, it seemed availability of fresh water was the the only remaining limiting factor regarding such a voyage in the distant past. However; if the tradition (as had been historically witnessed among the seagoing Peruvians) of using thick bamboo canes filled with water, plugged and lashed below deck had been utilized, 30-40 of such “containers” would have provided twice as much water supply as the Kon-Tiki crew used (with each man rationed a full quart every day) on their entire voyage, and such estimation didn’t account for any rainfall that might also have been encountered en-route. There was also the possible invigorating/restorative effect of medicinal leaves to consider: Polynesian tradition spoke of plants their earliest forefathers chewed which alleviated both fatigue and thirst while at sea (even allowing them to drink modest amounts of sea water if needed): need it be mentioned that the only plant known to have such effect(s) was the coca which grew only in Peru? The trans-Pacific migration theory was indeed increasingly plausible with every new discovery and nautical mile covered.

Daily sextant readings continued to plot their steady progress westward. The first major milestone was successfully exceeding the speculated “balsa wood saturation point” at 1000 miles. Next, on the 45th day of the voyage, they reached the halfway point of the journey as such readings indicated they had achieved the 108th degree of longitude (which placed Easter island due south of their position by a distance of roughly 500 miles). In that month and a half they had also rediscovered the ancient skill of Peruvian raft-piloting as had been rather enigmatically detailed in the old manuscripts: although the rafts unsophisticated design rendered most modern sailing techniques moot, over time it began to reveal some of the ancient Peruvian secrets. By trial and error, the crew learned the true use of the seemingly spurious centerboards (rather than akin to a sailing crafts keel) acted as a tool for finer navigation: experimenting while the craft was on a steady course (the tiller being ‘fixed’ in place) they found inserting a plank aft tacked their course several degrees to port (W from a heading NW) and pulling it half the way up lessened the course change by half, with centerboards nearer the mast having less effect than those furthest. They became so confident in this knowledge that it was further speculated that course changes via the steering oar were mostly unneeded (and hence the steerage duty roster mostly unnecessary), although weeks of duty and discipline were not so easily discarded by a crew of ex-servicemen.

They had by then grown quite accustomed to this new routine (even the nearly constant maintenance required to keep the radio in working order), as the Kon-Tiki had become a “home away from home:” they even found a great deal of comfort in the rather symbolic protection of its bamboo cabin. However, when in the course of such routine a crewman did become “restless,” he could simply “take leave” upon the rubber dingy (ever tethered to the raft after nearly stranding two members adrift early on) and paddle out for an epic view of their balsa refuge alone upon the vast blue. Contemplating this humbling scene, they could sometimes imagine themselves amid a presumed prehistoric flotilla of such vessels spread in a fan formation in order to better spot land. Having at last become comfortable to life at sea, even the sharks they encountered no longer instilled the same fear they once had: in fact they began playing games with them by teasing them with morsels drug behind the raft by ropes. With practice, they found they could lead them right upon the raft itself as if a mere sea-dog begging for a scrap. This play eventually developed into something akin to “grabbing a tiger by the tail” (only with a shark substituting for the absent feline). While attempting to haul such “sea-tigers” up on deck, the parrot (now an excellent sailor in its own right, and long since considered the crews lucky 7th member) would become quite animated from its higher perch upon the cabin roof calling out “Haul! Haul! ho ho ho ha ha ha!” However, this luck seemingly ran out in the 2nd month when their avian fellow was lost overboard to a rogue wave. This sad event was a wake-up call for a growing sense of complacency: one misstep, one thoughtless moment might find another crew member tragically following in the wake of the lost, as the raft could neither be stopped nor turn back to rescue any overboard. Once again fearing such, they relocated the life ring to a more accessible location astern, and employed new safety lines for those on the night watch.

Disaster nearly struck again one night in early July, when, while drifting in calm seas, they were overcome by three huge breaking waves that spanned the horizon. These rogue waves violently tossed the craft, and nearly tore the cabin free. Two days later they found themselves tested by a storm again amid fifteen foot seas, although their growing confidence in both sea-skill and craft had them generally welcoming rather than cursing this new round of challenges. During a brief lull in the storm, however, their confidence was sorely tested again; while taking storm measurements with an anemometer, as a sleeping bag was being blown overboard by an errant wind gust, Mr. Watzinger instinctively tried to catch it, misstepped, and also went overboard. As he vainly struggled to swim back to the raft, the dinghy was hastily readied for launch, and failed attempts made to toss him the life ring (the wind was too strong and merely blew it back aboard), Mr. Haugland snatched up the tethered ring and boldly dove headlong into the seas astern, swiftly swimming toward and reaching the second in command just before he was forever beyond reach. While the crew hurried to haul the lifeline in they could also see a menacing shape in pursuit just beneath the surface, which then seemingly accepted the sleeping bag as its “sacrificial offering” after both men were safe aboard once again. But they hadn’t much time for consolation or congratulation, as the storm soon unleashed its full fury again, this time rending the sail, breaking the steering oar, and irreparably chafing/stretching the ropes that lashed the whole craft together. Upon the storms passing (and after repairs to sail and oar), an inspection found the vessel still seaworthy, although the great balsa beams now bumped and banged together, and any future centerboard-enabled steering was rendered ineffective by such constant movement.

Tried and sorely tested (but still seaworthy), they continued onward within the persistent push of the Humboldt current. However, due to the influence of this last storm, it was now unsure where they might ultimately end up: the Marquesas lay 300 sea miles NW, while the Tuamotu group 300 miles SW. Coincidentally, the nearest island to the NW was none other than Fatu Hiva; Thor Heyerdahl already knew the islands of that group were generally scattered, mountainous, and would prove difficult to land ashore due to their scant, narrow beaches and strong shore-break. The latter, less-known island group was composed of a series of broad coral atolls rising on average only 6-10 feet above the tide line and surrounded by treacherous submerged reefs. Even to those ignorant of sextant and chart, however, the evidence of land nearby was already quite evident with the new appearance of frigate birds and large boobies flying distant.

Soon, the fickle South Seas made their “port of call” decision for them, as a persistent NE winds blew them into the southerly current: concluding that there would not be a reunion with the island which had inspired the adventure. Within days, they began seeing stacked, stationary clouds on the distant horizon; another indicator of islands in the open sea. The new, near-constant clamor of seabirds now accompanied the old, familiar ensemble of creaking ropes. On July 30 the squat silhouette of their first South Pacific island was spotted on the horizon, but the strong swirling of local currents deterred any chance of actual landfall. Regardless, they oriented the steering oar hard towards this point of reference, wanting to set eyes upon it in order to confirm their location: as it glided past they identified it as Pukka Pukka, the first outpost of the Tuamotu Group. After it had passed into their wake, they spotted another pair of clouds rising above the horizon to the south, and set course to intercept them. A check of the chart indicated this next island as Angatau, and unlike the last, it began steadily growing into view directly in their path. As they drew close enough to see local detail, they set the tiller to intercept the Southern point of the island, hoping to make landfall within its lee. With two men at the oar and one atop the cooking box at the cabin calling directions, they carefully tacked along the reef while another two went out in the tethered dinghy to scout the reefs-edge. It didn’t look promising: the coral seemed to form an impenetrable defensive wall against sea-born intrusion. As they neared the Western end of the island they then spotted a cluster of huts around an inland lagoon. Distant shapes descended to the beach, took to the water, darted through an apparent opening in the reef and approached: they were Polynesian canoes!

With the meeting of distant nationalities came another language barrier, and thus another desperate lack of communication. With the aid of some universal sign language and a few shared words for reference, the locals made it known that they couldn’t understand why the Kon-Tiki didn’t just fire up its motor and idle into the safety of their lagoon. Meanwhile, the raft continued its steady drift down-reef as Mr Heyerdahl tried, with his incomplete knowledge of local dialect, communicate their distinct lack thereof. To make things worse, the wind picked up, forcing them to furl the sail (which still remained their most probable means of countering the prevailing current). With the sun now setting, and their options becoming increasingly limited, each crewman grabbed a paddle and set themselves to the desperate and laborious task of reaching the island. At such time the locals, seeming to at last grasp the pressing need, leapt into their canoe and paddled back ashore. They returned with three more canoes offering additional manpower. Lashing these more nimble craft to the bow of the raft via a long rope like a sled dog team (with Knut Haugland also launching out into the dinghy to offer assistance/relay information) and accompanied by a spontaneous chorus of Polynesian and Norwegian folk songs, in unison they rowed toward the gap in the reef. But the wind and current stubbornly conspired to force the raft ever southward, and the shoreline drew no closer.

Soon the singing grew quiet. They needed more manpower. Unfortunately, there were only four seaworthy canoes upon the entire island…perhaps they could fetch more paddlers in the dinghy to help break the stalemate? After a frantic brainstorming session on board the Kon-Tiki, Mr. Haugland paddled off into the darkness to find the leader of the native “rescue party” in order to arrange just such a gathering of more islanders. After some initial negotiations, he then decided (unbeknownst to those on board the Kon-Tiki) to accompany the leader ashore in order to continue his appeal there. His fellow crewman, finally realizing what had transpired and seeing the increasingly dire state they found themselves in, fetched the Morse lamp and signaled “…come… back…come…back…” to no avail. Even with this slight change in manpower, the raft began to steadily lose ground to the drift, and soon the bonfire on the beach that had become their beacon of hope disappeared completely from view. Not long after the tow-rope slacked and the native canoes returned to the raft. Untying themselves, they made it quite clear their intention as they pointed and announced “…Iuta” (land). After some desperate pleading and even unsuccessful attempts at bribery, Mr. Heyerdahl relented, and quickly composed a note to be delivered to their now potentially castaway crewman:

“Take two natives with you in a canoe with the dinghy in tow. DO NOT come back in the dinghy alone”

Knowing it was pointless for so few to try to continue to resist the wind and current when so many had failed, they set a beacon-light upon the masthead, and waited. No one wanted to sleep, and all vowed to remain at vigil until their lost friend returned. At roughly an hour before midnight they heard distant voices again on the water: they shouted a welcome -a Norwegian voice answered- Knut Haugland had returned! After a hearty welcome, there was little time to waste: the islanders had a hard push back to their home-fire against wind, current and in dark seas. Provisions of surplus food and gifts were granted to the local islanders by the crew, heartfelt thanks expressed, goodbyes made, and then the outriggers slipped back into the night homeward. It was the the end of the 97th day of the voyage, matching the estimate for landfall to the day that had been suggested so many months prior. After an exited recounting of his brief “shore-leave” and “return to duty” (where it became apparent that escape was managed only through sheer pluck and determination, as few islanders were willing to return to the raft under such conditions), the crew turned in for a well deserved rest, together again within the comforting shelter of the bamboo-thatch cabin.

For the next three days they continued their drift without any sight of land. However, Angatau’s inhabitants had made it quite clear (despite the language difficulties) their concern for the raft’s survival on its current course-heading: it seems they were drifting towards a series of dangerous reefs known by the names of Takume and Roroia. Together, they composed a line of shallow hull-rending obstructions extending 40-50 miles across the current path. Their biggest concern was that despite their best efforts to steer clear, a change in wind was propelling them straight toward the shoals of Takume. After a lengthy late night emergency planning session, they came to the following conclusions:

1. Should shipwreck become imminent, no one was to abandon the raft, so as to not be held at the mercy of breaker and reef

2. None should climb the mast once committed ashore, as its structural survival was questionable

3. The dinghy was to be made ready with a watertight radio, a stash of food provisions, water and a medical kit, with the hope it would manage to make its way ashore independent of the crew and raft

4. A coiled long line attached to a float was prepared so that a tow/rescue rope might also manage to find its way ashore

5. A sea- anchor was to be fashioned so as to allow some control over the craft’s heading/speed as they approached the reef

With the steering oar set to hopefully carry them north of these dangerous shoals laying out of sight below the horizon, they skirted their fringes until the wind once again shifted to an easterly and their heading changed: it now promised to take them just clear of the southernmost point of the Raroia reef. On their one hundredth and first day at sea they spotted another distant line of palm-studded silhouettes ahead. These were the coral islands that lay scattered behind the reef, and the raft fell under the influence of a swirling northward current which drew it directly toward them. With loss of the centerboard’s current-countering influence, they could no longer tack against this persistent push, drifting steadily in toward this reef regardless of where the bow was pointed. As shipwreck now seemed inevitable, they set themselves to the assigned tasks and secured the raft as best as they could manage; they stowed the gear, covered the cabin with a sheet of canvas, and made the agreed upon emergency preparations. As they steadily approached the frothing turmoil of waves demarcating the open ocean’s break upon the Raroia atoll, Thor Heyerdahl made some final entries in the Kon-Tiki log:

-8:15: We are slowly approaching land. We can now make out with the naked eye the separate palm trees inside on the starboard side.

-8:45: The wind has veered into a still more unfavorable quarter for us, so we have no hope of getting clear. No nervousness on board, but hectic preparations on deck. There is something lying on the reef ahead of us which looks like the wreck of a sailing vessel, but it may only be a heap of driftwood.

-9:45: The wind is taking us straight toward the last island but one we can see behind the reef. We can now see the whole coral reef clearly; here it is built up like a white and red speckled wall which barely sticks up out of the water as a belt in front of the islands. All along the reef white foaming surf is flung up toward the sky. Bengt is just serving up a good hot meal, the last before great action! It is a wreck lying on the reef. We are so close now that we can see right across the shining lagoon behind the reef and see the outlines of other islands on the other side of the lagoon.

-9:50: Very close now. Drifting along the reef. Only a hundred yards or so away. Torstein is talking to the man on Rarotunga. All clear. Must pack up log now. All in good spirits; it looks bad, but we shall make it!

Putting on their shoes for the first time in months, the crew tossed their makeshift drag anchor off the stern and held on fast. The craft crept maddeningly slowly toward the breakwater, and the crew became increasingly anxious, contemplating their fate. As they were pulled into the heavy swell and the pendulum swing of crest and trough, each crewman found a guy-rope or point of purchase that he thought offered the best chance for his survival. When all were ready, they cut free from the anchor and launched themselves upon the mercy of the swell. The Kon-Tiki was lifted upon the shoulders of a rolling wave, and quickly accelerated shore-ward, but not quickly enough: a cresting wall of water caught it astern and crashed over. They hung on desperately, and all managed to survive this first onslaught, but another followed…and another…and another…and then the raft hit the reef. After the next towering wave thundered past, the home they had known for months was transformed into a shattered wreck. Thor Heyerdahl, still doggedly clenching one of the mast-stays, could see only one man remaining on deck: Herman Watzinger laying pressed against the roof of the ruined cabin. The starboard mast now lay broken across this roof, while the steering block was twisted, its crossbeam broken and the steering oar rendered into splinters. The decking was torn up forward the cabin along with any boxes, cans, canvas and other cargo it once covered. Bamboo poles, bits of rope, now-loosed cargo and general chaos ensued upon the surface of the water. A shouted roll-call confirmed that all the crew were still technically on board: none had been lost to the swell, but a backwash began drawing them back out to sea again…the next wave pounded through as the previous, but this time managed to drive them further upon the reef. After it had passed and was followed by a sequence of others in progressively diminishing intensity, the raft and crew at last found themselves upon the relative safety of the shallow coral atoll, some twenty yards in from the break line. As a whole largely unharmed (Mr. Danielsson had suffered a mild concussion when the broken mast collapsed upon him) they began to immediately salvage most all the equipment and personal items (including a newly sprouted coconut) from their now wrecked home. These items they relayed to a small palm island 6-700 yards distant, where they gathered together and made an assessment of their current plight: little had been lost, and they had all survived the ordeal. As a whole, they were all quite overcome with the realization that the voyage was actually over, and they had both succeeded and survived. As far as what the future now held in store for them, Bengt Danielsson seemed to sum up the feeling best when he stated:

“…purgatory was a bit damp, but heaven is more or less as I’d imagined it…”

They set up camp on this uninhabited island, which measured barely 200’ across and rose only a mere 6’ above the lagoon. Exploring its modest breadth, on the north side of the island they found the remains of an old wooden cross, and from there, looking northward, they could see the stripped remains of the wave-worn wreck spotted previous. Further beyond that lay another small palm-dotted island, and to their south lay the bluish outline of another, much larger land mass, more thickly forested than the one they currently resided on. As they slowly regained their land-legs, they ate a meal, and then Knut Haugland and Torstein Raaby began the tedious process of disassembling in order to dry out the now soaked radio. The others spread the salvaged main sail between two large palms, and propped one trailing end with two bamboo poles that had washed ashore from the raft. This allowed them a makeshift shelter of a roof and three walls, around which they hung their equally soaked articles and sleeping bags to dry. At some point they also found time to ceremoniously plant the newly-sprouted palm they had brought ashore. Once the sun had set below the horizon, they all settled into a blissfully sound sleep, finally freed of the duty roster that had ruled their lives for so many months.

The next day, the necessary repairs to the radio continued in earnest, as a check-in call to operators in Rarotonga was expected before authorities were alerted and a search/rescue operation launched (it had been previously agreed that lapses of no longer than 36 hrs should occur between such calls). Even with such pressing concerns, the rest of the Kon-Tiki crew couldn’t help but spend the morning exploring their new place of residence; its coral shoals, lagoon, and sea-inhabitants. However, it wasn’t long into the day before all gathered around the increasingly tense and frantic efforts to make the radio operational again; taking turns cranking the tiny hand generator, and lending what assistance they could, as the deadline from their last radio contact steadily approached. This race against the clock continued down to the wire: seven minutes…five minutes…and then the receiver crackled back to life. They overheard what appeared to be rescue coordination with operators in Tahiti, but frustratingly still had no ability to transmit out. They tried the Morse keys and although they appeared to work, Rarotonga seemed not to hear. In desperation, they expanded the call out to all amateur stations on the frequency, finally managing to somehow reach a Ham operator in Colorado. But after receiving a “full report of the Kon-Tiki’s current status,” he (not surprisingly) assumed it was a prank by his friends and signed off the air. Frustrated, but undeterred, the military-disciplined radio operators kept at it and continued broadcasting into the night until assured they had not only successfully reached Rarotonga but also received confirmation of their simple but critical message: “all well.”

Contact having been successfully re-established with the outside world, over the following days they conducted broader explorations of the lagoon, and settled into their new environment. After a week’s time the Kon-Tiki had managed to make it mid-way across the reef, but no amount of pulling/pushing by the crew could bring the raft the rest of the way into the relative shelter of the lagoon. After a few more days spent as castaways, white sails were then spotted approaching from the largest island at the most distant southern portion of the atoll. The crew hoisted the French and Norwegian flags in welcome as first one Polynesian outrigger landed (carrying two men dressed in modern western clothing), and after a quick greeting was joined by another carrying three more. They had come from their village across the lagoon on a mission to look for survivors of a presumed shipwreck after seeing the Norwegian’s distant campfire over the previous nights. They were also quite curious after having found items from the raft’s rather violent arrival (specifically box fragments) washing ashore with the name “KON TIKI” written on them. After introductions and a brief attempt at explanation, it was decided Bengt Danielson should return with the canoes to the village that night as a “Cultural Envoy” while the rest made use of the remaining daylight readying their gear and personal affects for relocation.

The very next day a literal flotilla arrived from the village, bearing Tepiuraiarii Teriifaatau: the chief of both Raroia and Takume. After proper introductions, the gathered locals were taken to see the “boat” that had (contrary to expectation) somehow managed to deliver all of its crew across the reef alive. Once the villagers got a closer look at the now crumpled raft, they became quite exited, stating as means of explanation:

“…Kon-Tiki isn’t a boat, its a pae-pae!”

“Pae-pae” was an old Polynesian term for “raft” or “platform” (as well as being the Easter Island word for canoe) and although none existed in local use any longer, the elders of the village could still relate the ancient tradition as had been handed down over the generations. This profound cultural connection seemed to prompt a shift in how the islanders viewed the crew from that point forward. An impromptu celebration followed as evening settled upon the expeditions rather modest landing-place: the newly renamed “Fenua Kon-Tiki” (Kon-Tiki island). The next morning, with the combined help of the assembled islanders enthusiastic effort and a king-tide, the raft which had journeyed across the wide Pacific inspired by its namesake was finally pulled into the safety of the lagoon, beached, and moored upon the small island that now also shared its name. The crew then set to loading all of their salvaged gear into the outrigger canoes to be shuttled across the lagoon to the distant village: Bengt Danielsson and Herman Watzinger were assigned to accompany them back, in order to attend to a local boy who appeared in dire need of the penicillin which they had brought in abundance among their first aid supplies. The four remaining crew members spent the meantime inspecting, repairing and (as best able) returning to sea-worthiness their loyal but battered vessel, while awaiting a proper weather window which would permit the outriggers return. Upon their eventual arrival at the village later that week, the four remaining castaways were made most welcome via a ceremonial greeting by vice-chief Tupuhoe, and joint assembly of the island’s entire population of 127 villagers. Once the whole crew had been reunited again, a grand celebration was held long into the night, with lavish feasting, singing and dancing as decreed by ancient Polynesian tradition.

Over the following days the primary focus of the Kon-Tiki crew fell upon curing the desperately sick boy, who had abscessed wounds on his head and a temperature peaking 106 degrees. Contacting a doctor via radio stateside, they were carefully guided through the procedure of lancing the abscesses and administering the proper dosage of penicillin to return him to health. Thankfully, all went as planned, and within a week the boy was well on his way to complete recovery. After this seemingly miraculous event, another formal ceremony was conducted, where the Kon-Tiki crew received Polynesian names. Mere days afterward, the expedition’s radio operators were informed that a French colonial schooner (Tamara) had been sent to deliver them to Tahiti: the only island in the region at that time which had any regular contact with the outside world. This would mean a return to civilization, and eventual delivery to their distant homes in Nordland. In the meantime, the nightly Polynesian festivities continued until interrupted one night by a distress call from the local two-masted inter-island supply vessel, which (despite her normally uneventful completion of the route), had foundered on the reef just outside the lagoon entrance. With the timely arrival of their arranged transport to Tahiti soon afterward, this supply vessel was first unloaded, then removed from the reef, and finally made ready for escort back to the dockyards of Tahiti for more extensive repair. After also retrieving the Kon-Tiki from within its sheltered moorage, final farewells were exchanged between Roroia native and adopted Nordlander, with heavy hearts felt at their departure.

Upon arrival in Tahiti the crew of the Kon-Tiki were greeted with all the Polynesian pomp they had come to expect from their time on Roroia: their battered raft was given an honored berth on full display in the promenade, and formal celebrations were held in honor of their successful voyage. Mr. Heyerdahl was also reunited at this time with his old friend from his previous studies on Fatu-Hiva; grand chief Teriieroo, head of the 17 native chiefs of all the islands. After the passing of more blissful weeks in paradise, the Norwegian steamer Thor I glided into harbor early one morning to bring both the Kon-Tiki and her crew aboard in order to begin the return to their homeland. It had already been a long journey (nearly a decade since the inspiration for the grand experiment itself) and the return trip to civilization seemed all too brief in comparison. In the weeks, months, and years that followed a groundswell of excitement and media fervor grew around the expedition’s success, helped in part by a general public craving distraction from the lingering memories of loss and tragedy that the last war had produced. Perhaps the still shell-shocked populous so desperately craved a simpler time, that they eagerly embraced the fantastical tale of raw adventure and courage that didn’t involve solutions requiring ultimate sacrifice and incomprehensible destruction.

Regardless, the tale of the journey took the world by storm: Thor Heyerdahl’s bestselling book “The Kon-Tiki Expedition: By Raft Across the South Seas” (as first published in 1948) sold tens of millions of copies worldwide. A documentary composed of footage taken during the expedition also won an Academy Award in 1951 for “Best Documentary Film.” A virtual rogue wave of merchandise followed this success, and the term “Kon-Tiki” (and related variants) quickly became a globally-known reference, entering into the popular lexicon. And, despite prevailing academic wisdom’s contrariness regarding the expedition’s fundamental premise, it still managed to have some influence: at the very least lending credence to the modern Diffusionist Model of cultural development. Adding to the seemingly unending ripples of controversy that resulted -and continue to result- from the expedition’s success among ethnographic circles, blood sample testing conducted in 2011 on Easter Islanders (those specifically lacking known European ancestry) did appear to substantiate South American DNA sequences (although there is still disagreement between those who assume “modern contact” contamination of the samples, and those believing the findings indicate “decidedly more ancient” bloodlines). Regardless, emboldened by this initial success, Mr. Heyerdahl would continue to pursue proof of his ever-expanding trans-oceanic hypothesis throughout his life, and further criticism would result from other, equally bold adventures (and the subsequent books/documentary films); such as the trans-Atlantic Ra expeditions, his early archaeological work on Easter Island, similar work in the Maldives, his search for the lost city of Tecune in Peru, and his various research books, lectures, and memoirs. Thor Heyerdahl died in Italy on April 18th, 2002, at the age of 87.

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/

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