Maisu Log '26: Sing Your Song, April 30
Wind Voyagers of Changbin
Original version in Chinese
✐ Isin (Guanyuu) ✐
Once again, there was no need to steer today—our second day with the rudder raised. Maisu has a remarkable quality: when the rudder is pulled up and the jib sail is tightened to a certain angle, the canoe begins to converse with the wind. Because the winds of the open ocean are generally steady, she holds a fixed course entirely on her own. During these hours, almost everyone can rest. Only one or two crew members remain on watch, keeping a vigilant lookout and periodically pumping water from the bilges.
At present, the breeze blows from roughly taen Sarepwol, keeping our heading locked toward Machemeas.
I call this “autopilot.” With the canoe sailing herself, everyone on board has finally relaxed. Those off-duty have scattered to find comfortable spots—some sitting, others lying down. Some wash clothes or bathe, while others simply lose themselves in the seascape or play the ukulele. The sturdier crew members busy themselves with preparing meals, and occasionally, a few gather in a circle to play cards. They also play a popular Palauan card game adorned with elegant, Japanese-style illustrations of flowers and birds.
We have two ukulele masters on board: Clyde and Edson. Clyde has a rugged, imposing build, yet his touch on the strings is incredibly delicate, and his singing voice is remarkably tender.
Edson is my watch partner. Night after night, we talk about the stars and life, sharing stories of everything. He is passionate about music and exceptionally talented. When he plays, his rhythm is so fluid and driving—it is the unmistakable sign of someone whose very cells are alive with the joy of music. Whenever he has a spare moment, he picks up his ukulele to sing. He plays Carolinian folk songs and Micronesian pop hits I have never heard before, and all kinds of classic Western ballads.
Captain Sesario also loves to sing and play. His style is wild and unrestrained, the posture of a man completely at ease. Yet I noticed that during the voyage, perhaps due to the constant pressure of command, he rarely sang or played. He would only truly let his guard down to sing when we were close to making landfall.
In the afternoon, I decided to crawl into my hammock in the cabin for a quick nap. The sun was bright, a steady breeze swept through, and the air was pleasant—truly a day made for music. As the hammock swayed gently, I grew drowsy. Soon, the sound of a ukulele drifted from the rudder at the stern, followed by voices. They were singing Carolinian folk songs loved by all. When the opening notes of “Eew Maram” (One Bright Moon) rang out, the others began to harmonize. Though I couldn’t see them, I could hear Captain Sesario’s voice rising above the rest, distinct and instantly recognizable. The lyrics went like this:
Eew maram la ekke ttétá
That one bright moon is slowly rising
Eghil mwamwaay
So beautiful
Eghil mwamwaay
Tillil llól lingil maram
The moonlight spills down, lighting up the heart, so beautiful
E asarama ló yey memengúgh nemin
This moonlight brightens my thoughts of you, my dear
Igha u wa lighiti yey ló schagh
When you leave me behind
Nge meta ibwe feri
What am I to do?
Igha use lo
tillil Maram la eya wa la
Ló yey fárágh
On the long journey ahead
I will follow that fallen moonlight
It is a song of beautiful, lingering melodies, hummed softly, yet carrying an unspeakable sorrow. I could not help but wonder if this is the very spirit nurtured by the culture Captain Sesario comes from. I suppose only those who truly know the ocean—who understand it as something both generous and merciless, beautiful and cruel—can compose a song so deeply moving. The notes are as gentle as the moon, yet like the moonlight reflecting on the waves, they carry the heavy tide of loss and longing.
“Ka~~zu~, sing your song,” Captain Sesario calls out to Kazu, our Japanese sister. “Sing your favorite one.” “Why like that?” Kazu protests playfully, pretending to refuse. “Why are you making me sing?” But she says it with a smile.
The ukulele starts to play—it must be Edson. He has been trying to figure out the chords to this song for days. Kazu clears her throat loudly, making everyone laugh. Then, in her simple, unadorned voice, she begins to sing the song she so often performs on the canoe:
上を向いて歩こう
Ue o muite arukō
涙がこぼれないように
Namida ga koborenai yō ni
思い出す春の日
Omoidasu haru no hi
一人ぽっちの夜
Hitoribocchi no yoru
上を向いて歩こう
Ue o muite arukō
にじんだ星をかぞえて
Nijinda hoshi o kazoete
思い出す夏の日
Omoidasu natsu no hi
一人ぽっちの夜
Hitoribocchi no yoru
幸せは雲の上に
Shiawase wa kumo no ue ni
幸せは空の上に
Shiawase wa sora no ue ni
上を向いて歩こう
Ue o muite arukō
涙がこぼれないように
Namida ga koborenai yō ni
泣きながら歩く
Nakingara aruku
一人ぽっちの夜
Hitoribocchi no yoru
As the music loops, everyone joins in, singing along in fragments for several rounds. Eventually, someone asks, “What does this song mean?”
“It’s difficult to translate,” Kazu says, “but it’s something like this...” Kazu dramatically tilts her head back, taking a few stumbling steps forward on the rocking deck. “If you walk like this, your tears won’t fall. Even if you are lonely, you keep moving forward.”
“You see, happiness lies above the clouds. Happiness lives in the sky.”
I look up as I walk
So my tears won’t fall
Remembering those spring days
On this lonely night
I look up as I walk
Counting the blurred stars
Remembering those summer days
On this lonely night
Happiness lies above the clouds
Happiness lives in the sky
I look up as I walk
So my tears won’t fall
Walking through my tears
On this lonely night
Afterword (July 13, 2026):
The captain, navigator, and Master Navigator of the Alingano Maisu, Sesario Sewralur, successfully guided his crew of 14, dodging multiple typhoons to complete the 2026 voyage around the Western Pacific. On July 10, nearly two months after returning to his home port of Palau, he passed away peacefully. I was fortunate enough to be part of Captain Sesario’s final ocean voyage. Though our paths crossed only briefly, I offer these humble recollections to honor the legacy of a great voyager, Sesario Sewralur.
Post-edited by Yulun Huang (Yaya)