Previously unreleased.

Madison and I were driving back from Utwe Marina; we had finished speaking to a group of students about the proposed protected marine park in the area. Madison was in one his rare good moods, talking about environmental issues on Kosrae always seemed to make him happy.
As we passed by his family’s land he looked out the window towards the steep green mountainside and sighed. “My father was known throughout this whole island for being a fisherman. Five and sometimes six days a week you could see him walking back from the harbor; a long string of brightly colored reef fish hanging over his shoulder. Each fish would shimmer in the reflected sunlight, red and yellow and even bright blue.
“In the spring he would come home with turtles; they would still be alive but too tired to continue to struggle. Saltwater tears would slowly drip from their eyes. And on rare occasions he would bring home a shark. Nothing huge like you see in the movies, just three or four foot long white-tip reef sharks. They’re really good in a spicy soup or smoked on the fire.
“But my father was more than just a fisherman. He also knew how to hunt wild pigs. Most people nowadays hunt for pigs with at least five dogs and rifle. But not my father. He would hike back into the mountains with just his machete. When he returned hours later, it was always with freshly killed meat.
“When I got older my father would take me out fishing in his canoe. He taught me how to fish with line, and how to fish with a spear. He taught me how to wait for the turtles to swim close by, and then steer them towards the surface with their own powerful legs. He taught me all of these things, but he would never teach me to hunt wild pigs. ‘It’s much too dangerous,’ he would say. ‘This is not a game for little boys,’ he would chide me every time I asked.
“Of course, his refusal and constant reminders of the danger of the jungle only made me want to join him so much more. Each time my father would walk off into the jungle, I would beg him to let me join him. And each time he would refuse and leave me to sulk at the house until he returned late in the day as the sun fell behind the mountain.
“And so, out of my burning curiosity, I conceived a plan. The next time he went to hunt, I would follow my father and learn the secrets to killing wild pigs. I, his oldest son, his boy who had never once disobeyed him, would finally learn how to be a man and bring home meat for our family.
“Everyday for the next week I was my father’s surreptitious shadow. When he walked down to the harbor to fish, I followed 30 yards behind. Stepping only in the shadows of banana leaves or behind the cover of creeper vines, I followed his every step. When he collected coconuts near our house, I hovered just on the edge of his vision.
“I practiced following him a few hundred yards into the jungle when he went to hunt, but quickly lost him to the increasingly dense underbrush. Even in his late forties, my father walked barefoot so quickly over the loose rocks and dirt that I was soon out of breath and nearly lost. I slowly made my way back to the house, my only consolation that no one was there to see me return from my journey so obviously dejected.
“But at last, the time was right. I still don't know if my father slowed down that day because he new about my attempts to follow him or if I had finally become strong enough to keep up. In any case, I managed to stay within sight of his trek through the jungle. Farther and farther my father climbed into the mountainside. And as he climbed higher into the dense wet jungle, I was there to learn how a man killed a wild pig.
“Almost two thirds of the way to the peak of Mount Finkol my father stopped in a small muddy clearing. He quickly grabbed a handful of small green leaves from a nearby tree. Then he crouched low, holding his machete behind his back and stared across the hill toward a grove of slender reddish trees. I strained my eyes to see what my father saw, but all that was there were more trees and more leaves and more mud.
“My father stayed perfectly still. And it was then that I heard it. A guttural grunting noise followed by the sound of crashing in the underbrush. Suddenly from the grove of trees came a black, bristled pig with two sharp tusks charging straight for my father. I wanted to shout, but no voice came from my throat. I wanted to run, but my legs were weak. I stayed on that mountainside and watched not from bravery, but because I was too scared to do anything else.
“The pig covered the ground toward my father and was almost upon him in seconds. At the last moment my father was a blur of motion. With his left hand he threw the pile of leaves into the charging pig's face. While stepping slightly to the side, he brought his machete around from his back and thrust it deftly under the pig's arm and through its ribs. He let go of his machete and allowed the pig's momentum to carry forward. I watched as the pig collapsed in the mud, exhausted and heaving, the sound of air rushing from its punctured lungs with each labored breath.
“My father sat quietly and rested while the pig's breathing slowed and finally came to a rasping stop.
“He was right. This was no game for little boys.”