During my former visit to Mabuiag I had an opportunity of witnessing the method of catching dugong. It was a morning in October, 1888, when I accompanied the Mamoose on a dugong expedition; the crew of his lugger numbered some dozen men, all natives of his island. A few of the most wealthy of the Torres Straits islanders own, wholly or in part, craft of that particular type, as these Australian-made vessels are more convenient than their own dug-out canoes. All the natives appear to be good sailors, and they can handle boats of European rig with considerable dexterity.

On our way to the fishing-ground, which was on the extensive and uncharted Orman’s Reef between Mabuiag and the New Guinea coast, the gear was put in order. This consisted of the dugong harpoon and its rope.

The harpoon is a handsome weapon usually some fourteen feet in length, and made of a hard and heavy wood. One end is ornamented with the sable plumes of the cassowary, the other extremity is swollen, and into a terminal hole is loosely inserted a dart to which the rope is lashed.

The dart was formerly always fashioned out of hard wood, but since the arrival of the white man it has usually been replaced by one made out of a file. The latter is softened by heating in a fire, and is allowed to cool slowly; the angles of the triangular rasping end are then cut into barbs by means of another file. As the bright surface would speedily rust when exposed to the action of the salt water, the cut file is again heated so as to obtain an oxidised film over the new surface.

The rope may be either plaited or twisted, each kind being made from a different plant. Home-made rope is preferred to that of European manufacture, as it is light and floats upon the surface of the water, whereas hempen or manila rope sinks.

The coil of rope, thirty to fifty fathoms in length, to which the harpoon dart is attached, is laid ready at the bow of the boat, and a spare rope coiled midship.

All hands next look out for the dugong, and the chief takes his place at the further end of the bowsprit, the harpoon being placed where it can be seized without a moment’s delay. Now we are scudding along over the sea, the dirty green colour of which shows that we are above the reefs, the waves being crested by the continuously blowing south-east trade wind; the lavender-coloured sky is studded with clouds which ever belie their pluvial appearance.

There is a shout of “Dungal!” (“Dugong”), but the sea-cow is a long way off. Then the cry of “Waru!” (“Turtle”) is heard as one of these reptiles lazily floats on the surface of the water.

After cruising about for a long time and sighting but few dugong, we at length arrive at a spot where they are plentiful, and all round they are repeatedly to be seen as they rise up to breathe. A soft grunt is heard, a glimpse caught of a brown rounded back followed by a fan-shaped tail, and the beast again disappears beneath the waves, unless one happens to float for a short time on the surface of the water. This is the hunter’s opportunity, and the boat is put through movements which remind one of the method of progression of a learner on a bicycle, as it dodges about in the helmsman’s endeavours to approach the floating beast.

When distant from the prey the natives shout and chatter in a very lively manner, and go through a pantomime of harpooning a dugong; but when one is observed close by, a sudden hush falls upon the crew, who are by this time in a state of highly strung and barely suppressed excitement. Directions are given to the steersman by signals only, not a word is said. The chief stands at the end of the bowsprit grasping the narrow spar with his bare toes, harpoon in one hand, and with the other steadying himself by the rigging, and well he may, for the boat is pitching and tossing considerably. Behind him in the bow stands a man whose business it is to look after the rope and see that it does not get caught anywhere. Perched a short way up the foremast is the look-out man, who makes the signals; and behind are the rest of us, following with glistening eyes the movements of the dugong, and making at most a subdued whistle or the clacking sound so characteristic of these islanders.

All of a sudden the chief springs into the water, harpoon in hand, using the latter after the manner of a leaping pole, and plunging the dart into the animal. The aim is good, and the dart is firmly embedded in the dense, thick skin of the dugong, who is by this time tearing along, followed by the trailing rope.

The repressed excitement of the spectators finds vent in shouts and in various other manifestations of delight, for my comrades are a demonstrative people. Their enthusiasm was contagious, and more than once I found myself adopting their clacking and whistling in addition to the ordinary British methods of expressing delight and surprise.

The chief regains his harpoon and clambers up into the boat, where he manifests his satisfaction by a very broad grin. Shirts are doffed, and even the universal “calico” is in many cases dispensed with, as several men dive into the water. The spare rope is thrown overboard, and the men strike out for the dugong. Amid great shouting they endeavour to make fast a rope round its tail, swimming up to it when it comes up to breathe, and diving after it in its descent, their power of holding their breath under water appearing almost to rival that of the dugong itself. The main object of tying the rope round the creature’s tail is to prevent it from raising its nostrils above the level of the water by bearing down upon the rope during the animal’s ascent. In time these manœuvres are successful, and death by drowning results. The lubberly carcass is towed towards the boat, and after much effort and more noise it is hauled on board.

As we are in the thick of a “school,” the chief intends to have a try at another before returning, although it is near sundown and we are far from home. After some skilful steering, and the rise and fall of several vain hopes, we bear down upon another dugong. A sudden leap, a splash, and the deed is done. Away swims the dugong, rising and diving, vainly endeavouring to rid itself of the painful dart. When the ungainly brute has gone to the length of its tether and then doubled, the slack rope is hauled in, and so for a short time it is “played” as a fisherman plays a salmon. Some of the crew now dive into the water, and following the struggling dugong in its movements of ascent and descent, tie a rope round its tail, by means of which it is towed to the boat. The poor beast is, however, still alive, so by main force it is held up by the tail, head downwards in the water, until it is suffocated. This second specimen is a young female, 6 feet 9 inches in length. The previous capture is a not quite full-grown male with a length of some 8 feet 6 inches, and a girth of 6 feet 10 inches.

The dugong, or sea-cow, is an animal that looks something like a porpoise, but it has a square muzzle, and there is no fin on its back. The skin is provided with very short scattered hairs, and the flippers have a distinct elbow joint, which is absent in the porpoise and other whales. The abrupt head, with its thick, bristly lips, and horny pad on the lower jaw, is very characteristic. With these the dugong nips off the marine flowering plants (Cymodocea) upon which it feeds, and this vegetable food is masticated by means of grinding teeth—very different from the pointed conical teeth of the flesh-eating porpoise.

Porpoises that feed on swiftly-swimming fish have light porous bones, so that their own weight may not be excessive; whereas the dugong never swims far with great rapidity, and as it lies on its side on the bottom of the sea when browsing on the sea-grass, its bones are very dense and heavy, heavier, in fact, than those of any other animal.

This is not the place to compare the anatomy of these two animals, which, although both live in the sea and have somewhat the same appearance, are in reality extremely different from one another.

The skin of the dugong is very thick and tough, and as it is an inch thick on the back it is not so surprising that the small dart can hold fast. Before I had actual optical evidence I could scarcely credit the statement that this was the only weapon the natives employed. Still, it must be remembered that the harpoon is only used to secure the animal; death invariably ensues by suffocation. One day during my visit it happened that two boats went out, and several darts were broken without capturing a single dugong; in the olden days of wooden darts this probably would often happen.

Formerly dugong were harpooned from canoes, or from a bamboo platform (nēĕt) erected on the reef. Both practices are now discontinued in the Straits. As I wished to know exactly how the platform was erected, I induced Waria to make one for me. This was speedily done with six bamboo poles lashed together, and surmounted with the steering board of a canoe. Plate XI., B (p. 123) is a drawing from the photograph I took of this erection.

The nēĕt was erected at a spot where it was evident dugong had been feeding, for they habitually return to their pasture until the supply of eel-grass in that place is exhausted. It was built end-on to the wind, so that the wind, by blowing through it, should not make a noise and frighten the dugong away. The harpoon was also held in the same direction. The nēĕt was used at night, for it is only then that the dugong approach the shore; in the daytime they keep to the open, or on the large isolated reefs.

Charms which were supposed to ensure the approach of the dugong to the platform were often suspended to it, or hung on to a canoe. I have obtained several very small and neatly carved models of dugong at Murray Island that were employed for this purpose, but those I obtained from the western islands were of much greater size. A fine one from Moa is a foot and a half in length. This has a cavity hollowed out in the back, which, when in use, was filled up with red earth and various plants, including some eel-grass which had been chewed by the sorcerer who employed it; dugong fat completed the mixture. A bunch of eel-grass was tied to the tail, and along its back were lashed the thin leg-bones (fibulæ) of the sorcery man who carved the image. These were added after his death, to render the charm more effective. The whole was painted red, and fastened to a dugong platform, as in Plate XI., B (p. 123).

About the mouth of the Fly River, and I believe along the New Guinea coast and islands as far as Saibai, queer carved pegs called agumanakai are stuck in the canoes when going turtle or dugong hunting. I believe the word agumanakai means “the spirit (manaki) of the trophy;” the agu is a platform on which the carapaces of turtle are arranged as a trophy. A dugong trophy may possibly also be called agu, but I am not sure of this. Some have the end carved in the form of a bird’s head, while others represent a very conventional dugong’s head; they were decorated with feathers. Seligmann collected a very interesting specimen of the latter class, which, in addition to the dugong, had carved on it a representation of a sting-ray, which was evidently the totem of the owner. This particular specimen not only acted as a charm to make dugong come to be harpooned, but it would turn round towards where the dugong were swimming, and thereby indicate to the owner the direction in which he should steer.

The sorcerers were credited with the power of compassing the death, by strangulation, of a dugong harpooner. In leaping into the water to harpoon a dugong care has to be taken not to get entangled in the rope. It has happened that the head of a man comes up within a coil, and as the rope is rapidly drawn out by the retreating dugong, the luckless harpooner is speedily strangled. Not unnaturally the sorcerer would claim such an accidental death as being due to his own powers of magic, and thus increase his reputation. This could be the more easily asserted, since all disease and death, even from old age, were firmly believed to be due to sorcery, and not to natural causes.

The dugong naturally enters into several of the native legends. One of them relates how Sesere of Badu, who was afterwards transformed into a bird, first discovered the dugong as an article of food and how to catch it, by divining with the skulls of his parents. I have already alluded to the fancied resemblance of the hill of Gelam, in Murray Island, to a dugong, for which there is, as usual, a myth of origin.

Like the dugong the turtle is an important article of food in Torres Straits. There are two periods for turtle-fishing, really lasting all the year, the one during October and November, which is the pairing season, and when turtle are easily speared, owing to their floating on the surface of the water. The pairing turtle is called surlal, and that season is called surlangi. The other turtle season extends throughout the remaining months of the year, when the turtle, then called waru, frequent the deeper water and the channels between the reefs.

The western islanders have a very remarkable method of obtaining turtle, which, strangely enough, is said to be also employed at Mozambique in East Africa. There is a fish belonging to the family of mackerels called the “sucker-fish,” that has a large sucker on its head, by means of which it attaches itself to sharks and turtles. The species in Torres Straits is called Echeneis naucrates by zoologists.

When going on a turtling excursion a gapu, or sucker-fish, is caught, and the more experienced natives appear to have no difficulty in procuring one when required. A hole is made at the base of the tail-fin, through which the end of a very long piece of string is inserted and made fast. A short piece of string is passed through the mouth and out at the gills, securing the head. By means of these two strings the fish is retained in the water, while slung over the side of the canoe. On sighting a turtle in deep water the front string is withdrawn, plenty of slack being allowed in the hind string. The sucker-fish on perceiving the turtle immediately swims towards it, and attaches itself to the reptile’s carapace. If the turtle be a little one, it is hauled in by means of the tail string of the gapu; but should it be a large specimen, another mode of procedure is necessary.

A man, with the end of a long rope attached to his right upper-arm, dives into the water and follows the clue. On reaching the turtle the man gets on to its back and passes his arms behind and below the fore-flappers and his legs in front of and below the hind-flappers, thus securing a firm grip on the slippery beast. By means of the rope attached to his arm the man is rapidly drawn up to the surface of the water bearing the turtle with him. Other members of the crew dive into the water, and seizing hold of the turtle, capsize it into the canoe.

On the arrival of the diver the sucker-fish usually shifts its position from the upper to the under surface of the turtle. I was informed that at the end of the day’s fishing the gapu was eaten, which seems hardly fair.

The natives have a great respect for the gapu, and firmly believe it to have supernatural powers. For example, they believe that when there is something the matter with the bow of the canoe, the gapu will attach itself to the neck or to the front shield-plate of the turtle; that when the lashings of the float of the outrigger of the canoe are insecure, the gapu will not stick fast to the turtle, but will constantly shift its position; that if the strengthening cross-ties in the centre of the canoe are faulty, the gapu will attach itself to the turtle, and then swim away before the turtle can be secured. More than once I was gravely assured, “Gapu savvy all same man, I think him half devil.”

Formerly the shells of the captured turtle were placed on a long platform (agu), each canoe having its separate agu, and the crew that had the greatest number at the end of the season would acquire the greatest glory. Hanging round the platform were large and small bull-roarers and wooden human effigies (wauri).

Before going out turtling the men marched round the agu and whirled the bull-roarers, always circling clockwise; if they marched widdershins, the turtle would go away from them. The captain would call out, “Come along, all our crew; come with me fellow.” Then they would take some bull-roarers and wauri to the canoe, and the captain invoked the spirits of the wauri that remained on the agu to give them luck in their enterprise so that they might get plenty of turtle.

When the canoes were expected to return, a man would station himself on a hill to look out for them. In due time he would see the under sides of the captured turtle gleaming in the successful canoes while yet a long way off; then he whirled a small bull-roarer, and the women knew that the fishers had been lucky.

On the arrival of the canoes the men first went to the agu before cutting up the turtle. They marched round and swung the bull-roarers, and returned them and the wauri to the platform.

Several dugong and turtle were caught one week of our stay, and we had some of the meat, and found it a most welcome change. The native method of cutting up living turtle is a ghastly sight. The poor beast lies on its back and beats the air with its flappers, boys and girls, even naked little things that can scarcely toddle, stand round fingering and patting the bleeding flesh, or poke their fingers in the eyes of the turtle, or scoop up handfuls of clotted gore, ladling it into large shells. The natives have names for the various joints and for regions of the intestine much as we have; the liver and gall-bladder and some other parts have the same names in the dugong and turtle, but the heart of each has a different name. Seligmann and I noted down the names of various parts of both dugong and turtle, while Wilkin photographed some stages of the butchery.