But Dad and I, sitting on the front deck, were not bothered. We talked about wave patterns and ocean currents, figurative language associated with the sea, signs to look out for when in the ocean. Boat-building ruled our conversation.

We described a patchy history: the London Missionary Society, Kwato boat-building and that visionary man, Reverend Charles Abel.

We talked of Suau, Logeia and Sariba Island uncles who trained at Kwato and in the Wakowakoko Slipways. We were reminded of Yuhisala, the Suau culture of ‘near-perfection’ and the kalampa, boys who developed the skill from working in the boatyards.

Then we turned to discussing individual designs as trademarks. Kwato designs, the famous Madati of Sanaroa Island and the Salamo SPAN slipways, Catholic Mission boat-builders on Sideia Island, MV Telita, MV Yelangili, the list was unstoppable.

We jumped to engine models; Yanmar, Suzuki, as if we were Japs. But our combined knowledge on marine engines was not as sharp as the Samurai sword. We talked for the love of the sea.

As we approached the north-western tip of Duau (Normanby Island), the sun bowed to us and tucked itself into the mountains of Wedau.

Whiterock Point was a one-stop point for Suau seafarers. The jungle trees seemed to be racing each other for who would be the first to touch the salt water. We anchored.

Students and some parents were ferried to the shore for a stretch. As a gesture of honour in a new area with unseen staring eyes, I cupped salt water into my hands and splashed it on my face.

Then a high pitched flute sound greeted us from the jungle. I asked dad what it was. His only answer was: ‘We don’t have that bird back in our forests.’ I believed him as he was my biology bush-teacher.

Dad had been this way before, ferrying uncles and my elder brother to the same school. So here I was, following those ‘wave prints’. I filed the bird song in a space I could later find in my memory.

We slipped into the Dobu passage. Nearing Gomwa Point, the smoke from Deidei stood tall and gave us a sulphide welcome. I kept silent for a long time, as dad would be leaving the following day.

Wesley High School was a place for a baptism in ‘self-reliance’. Rules are rules. One couldn’t bend them and I was no exception. I would appear on Saturdays’ disciplinary lists.

My interest to go-bush overshadowed my interest in classes. One Saturday morning on a term break, I left for the bush before the sun was up to check bandicoot traps I had set.

I carried a pole with rubber tubing tied to it over my shoulder, a machete in my left hand and few round stones in the back pocket of my shorts. As I crossed the airstrip, the flute sound echoed in my ears.

Eyes and feet collaborated. Above a tree, a pair of glossy black birds were singing, perhaps to greet the new day. I watched in awe, and they robbed my minutes.

One reared back before filling its lungs to call, and slowly lunged forward. As one called, the other flapped it wings and turned in all directions. Probably a ritual. ‘This was the bird that greeted me at the Whiterock Point,’ I thought.

My memory tempted me to file this species into a Torresian crow folder. Then, when their eyes caught me, they disappeared deep into the jungle. Their flight behaviour seemed to twist the tail plumage and burden them in flying. I was half-satisfied.

At the end of the academic year, I told dad what the bird was. I said it’s got a relative in my forest but the songs and flight behaviour vary.

Decades later, I revisited the file. I dusted the song and shoved the information into the worldwide web. There it was, a manucode. The curl-crested manucode (Manucodia comrii)belonging to the bird of paradise family.

This species is native to the D’Entrecasteaux Archipelago and the Trobriand Islands. Unlike their relatives, though, manucodes are monogamous. And both parents care for the young. They are also frugivorous, feeding on fruits and figs. Male and female look alike, or monomorphic, except the female is smaller.

A pair lives together till death doth them part. Their anatomy is also a fascination. In other birds, the windpipe leads straight to the lungs. With this species, the windpipe is longer and goes into the chest cavity and abdomen before bending back to the lungs, hence the movement they make when singing.

We call ourselves the intelligent species, yet this species teaches something that I believe is deficient in our societies.

If our societies lean towards monogamy, if we care for those we brought into this world, if we do not differentiate between our own kind, if we do show the respect that our opposite sex deserve…. imagine then what our Papua New Guinea will be.