We were walking along Beach Number Five at Havelock Island. The tide was low and the sea had retreated far into the horizon, leaving little pools teeming with life. Local boats that had been bobbing peacefully on the water only hours earlier were now marooned on the seabed. “I’ve never seen the sea recede this far,” said I worriedly, “Is it normal?” Seeing a young fisherman tying his boat to a rock, I went across to ask.
Raju, for that was his name, grinned at my question, and assured me that this low tide was perfectly normal. “And don’t worry, if there’s anything amiss at sea, we fisherfolk will be the first to sound the alarm!” They spent more time in the sea than on land, he said, and while he was young and inexperienced, his father and uncle used to study changes in wind direction, currents of water, colour variations in the sea, to paint an accurate picture of what lay beneath the waves.
“My father was illiterate, but often said that the only ‘book’ he could read was the sea,” he said. His understanding of the sea was legendary. “For example, whenever he spotted dark, rippling patches in water, he’d predict there were probably good-sized shoals of mackerel beneath,” said Raju, “and he was usually right.” And when they saw prawns and fish jumping in the water, Raju’s father and uncle would pull out all their large fishing nets, anticipating a huge catch. The increased activity of prawns and other fish usually indicated big predators on the prowl. To escape them, smaller fish would be driven upwards only to find themselves netted by Raju’s savvy relatives. “And so we learnt over the years, that whatever father forecasted, usually came true,” said he.
This deep connectedness with the sea, stood locals in good stead when the 2005 tsunami hit these islands. “Many of our elders just knew that something bad was going to happen before the immense waves hit the coast,” said Raju. Over 2,000 people died on Havelock Island, but the numbers could have been much higher, given the force and sheer volume of the tsunami. Raju also told me the story of how the ancient, still isolated tribes on the Andaman and Nicobar islands — the Jarawa, the Onge, the North Sentinelese and the Great Andamanese — survived, almost to the last man, the tsunami that devastated their homes. “Nobody knows the sea better than these ancient tribes. Apparently, as soon as they felt the first deep shudders of the earth, they moved to higher areas and forests,” said he. Others chose to climb certain trees and miraculously, these were the only trees that survived the onslaught of the tsunami. “How did they know that a tsunami was coming when they’d never experienced one before? How did they know which trees had the deepest roots that would withstand the battering force of the waves? These unanswered questions have made the story of their survival into a new local legend here,” said Raju.
We walked on the seabed, looking at fat sea cucumbers and jelly fish stranded by the tide. Even though he’d assured me the low tide was normal, I found myself keeping a wary eye at the horizon where the sea lurked. “It mustn’t have been easy for you all to return to the sea after the tsunami,” said I. Raju looked sombre: “It wasn’t. What’s worse is that a momentary winter squall claimed my father and uncle barely days later…. Just goes to show that a man can read the sea, but when it’s time for the sea to claim him — well, it just does….”