66 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE 09/10.19
Journal entry
November 15, 2018
North Sentinel
Rendezvoused successfully last night with
the friends. Currently on the boat, waiting to
make contact. Left around 2000 and arrived
around 2230 but as we went north along the
eastern shore, we saw boat lights in the dis-
tance and turned around, headed south and
evaded them. All along the way, our boat was
highlighted by bioluminescent plankton—
and as fish jumped nearby, we could see them
like darting mermaids shimmering along.
The Milky Way was above and God Himself
was shielding us from the coastguard and
navy patrols. At 0430, we entered the cove
on the western shore and as the sun began to
light the east, me and two of the guys jumped
in the shallows and brought my two pelicans
and kayak onto the northern point of the
cove. The dead coral is sharp and I already
got a slight scratch on my right leg. Now we
see a Sentinel islander house and are waiting
for them to come out. We also saw three large
fires on the eastern shore last night.
Soli Deo Gloria
Seventeen years ago, I also went looking
for the tribes of the Andamans. Like John,
I’d been a backpacker in my twenties. In my
thirties, I became a foreign correspondent
as a way to stay on the road and get paid
for it. In 2002, I moved to India and met an
anthropologist who told me an astonishing
story about a group of Neolithic tribes still
living on remote Indian Ocean islands.
Meeting them became my obsession.
As John had, I hoarded information about
the Andamans. Like him, I was less inter-
ested in the science or history of indigenous
peoples than in the adventure they promised.
For several years, I made repeated furtive at-
tempts to reach them. I was questioned by
officials in Port Blair, had a shoving match
with a policeman who was following me, and
was eventually asked to leave the islands. I
gave up only after I moved to Africa in 2006.
One reason, I think, that Patrick and a
handful of John’s friends spoke with me in
the months after his death, breaking a si-
lence they imposed in the face of the cov-
erage he received, was that I had my own
experience with the islands. I recognized
the giddiness in John’s journal, the way the
islands seemed to offer something big and
difficult and dangerous and extraordinary.
Where John and I differed was that while
I had been a reporter pursuing a story, John
wanted to be the story. By his late teens, he
had progressed far beyond Robinson Crusoe.
He devoured books on iconic missionaries
like David Livingstone in Africa and John
G. Paton in the New Hebrides. Jim Elliot,
speared to death at age 28, along with four
other Americans, by the Huaorani people
in Ecuador in 1956, was a particular role
model. The missionary was raised within
walking distance of the Chau family home,
just across the Columbia River in Portland,
Oregon. As John grew up, the legend of the
local hero killed by savages swelled. Elliot’s
story was told in several books, a documen-
tary in 2002, and a movie in 2005.There were parallels, too, between the
Huaorani and the Sentinelese. Both tribes
had almost no contact with the outside
world. Both seemed to have ambiguous at-
titudes toward outsiders. Before killing El-
liot and his friends, the Huaorani exchanged
gifts with them, and one tribesman even
took a ride in their plane. The Sentinelese
reputation for aggression was reinforced in
1981 when dozens of armed warriors tried to
surround a beached freighter that had run
aground, forcing the crew to radio for an air-
lift. (Metal salvaged from the ship is thought
to be the source of the iron tips on the Sen-
tinelese’s arrows and spears.) In 2004, a lone
bowman tried to shoot down a coast guard
helicopter, and two years later the Senti-
nelese killed a pair of Indian crab fishermen
who drifted ashore. But John also knew that
since 1967, Indian anthropologists had been
enjoying brief, nonviolent excursions, pull-
ing up close in boats and dropping coconuts
in the surf. The Sentinelese would approach
unarmed, scoop up the coconuts, and even
briefly board the boats.
Despite these encouraging signs, there was
no doubt that an expedition to North Senti-
nel could be fatal. There was no question,
either, that this was what made the idea so
heroic. The power of Elliot’s legacy stemmed
largely from his murder. A passage from his
journal in 1949 is taken by many missionar-
ies as proof that Elliot knew the risks and
went anyway, regarding self- sacrifice as
virtuous and even logical. “He is no fool whogives what he cannot keep to gain that which
he cannot lose,” he wrote.
John found such sentiments inspiring.
To Patrick, they were alarming. One day in
2009, when Patrick overheard his 17-year-
old son telling friends that reaching North
Sentinel was his calling and his mission,
Patrick’s heart sank. He knew that his son’s
calling was based on fantasy.Journal entry
November 15, 2018
North Sentinel Island, South-
west Cove
Around 0830, I tried initiat-
ing contact. I went back to the
cached kayak and built it up,
then round to the boat and got
two large fish—one barracuda
and one half GT/tuna. I put
them on the kayak and began
waving to the house we had
seen. As I was about 400 yds
out, I heard women looing and
chattering. Then I spotted two
dugout canoes with outrig-
gers. I rowed past one, then saw
movement on shore. Two armed
Sentinelese came rushing out yelling at me—
they had two arrows each, unstrung, until
they got closer. I hollered “My name is John.
I love you and Jesus loves you. Jesus Christ
gave me authority to come to you. Here is
some fish!”
I regret I began to panic slightly as I saw
them string arrows in their bows. I picked
up the GT/tuna and threw it toward them.
They kept coming. I slid the barracuda off. It
started to sink but my thoughts were directed
toward the fact I was almost in arrow range.
I backpaddled. When they got the fish, I
turned and paddled like I never have in my
life, back to the boat.
I felt some fear but mostly was disap-
pointed they didn’t accept me right away. I
can now say I’ve been nearly shot by the Sen-
tinelese and I’ve walked and cached gear on
their island. Now I’m resting in the boat and
will try again later, leaving gifts on shore
and in rocks. Lord protect me and guide me.As John entered his twenties, Patrick
had reasons to hope that his son would
change course before it was too late. John
followed the family example by heading to
ORU to study health and physical education,
and he hinted to his parents that he was
considering a career in medicine.
But John’s preoccupation was hiking,
climbing, fishing, and kayaking. In Tulsa he
would escape whenever he could, fishing on
his lunch break and on weekends bouldering,
trekking, and paddling around the Ozarks.AS JOHN GREW OLDER, HE WAS
INCREASINGLY DRAWN TO THE
SENSE OF THE DIVINE THAT HE
FELT WHEN SURROUNDED BY
UNTRAMMELED WILDERNESS.
“WHY DO I HIKE?” HE WROTE
YEARS LATER. “TO SEE BUT A
BRIEF GLIMPSE OF THE GLORY
OF THE CREATOR.”