I was 25 when I first set foot on Pulau Duyong in 1971. A Frenchwoman with a restless heart, I’d come to Malaysia chasing whispers of adventure, drawn by the sea and the stories it carried. I didn’t expect to stay, not at first. But then I saw the boats—those elegant, handcrafted wooden vessels, each one a testament to patience and skill, rising from the hands of artisans who seemed to speak to the timber itself. I was captivated. The way they shaped the planks, the rhythm of their tools—it was like watching a dance, ancient and alive.
That’s when I met him. Wan Othman but he preferred me to call him Awi. He wasn’t loud or showy, just a quiet man with salt-weathered hands and eyes that held the sea’s secrets. He was a boatbuilder, born into the craft, his family tied to the trade for generations. I’d linger by the workshops, sketching the curves of the hulls, asking questions in my clumsy Malay. He’d answer with a nod or a few soft words, showing me how they chose the wood—cengal, he said, strong and unyielding—how they bent it with heat and care. I fell in love with it all: the process, the tradition, the way it felt like time itself was carved into every boat.
I didn’t realise I was falling for him too, not right away. It crept up on me, subtle as the tide. We’d sit together in the evenings, the air thick with the scent of sawdust and salt, and he’d tell me stories—of his grandfather’s boats, of storms they’d survived. I started helping, clumsy at first, sanding edges or holding tools. He’d laugh, gently, and guide my hands. “Like this,” he’d say, his voice steady, and I’d feel the wood come alive under my fingers. This was only meant to be a temporary sojourn but I got kidnapped… by love…
Years passed, and I never left. We married quietly—no grand ceremony, just us and the sea as witness. Together, we poured ourselves into the boats. The world was changing—fiberglass and engines were creeping in—but we held fast to the old ways. I learned to love the labor, the ache in my arms after a long day, the pride in seeing a finished hull glide into the water. Awi said I had a gift for it, that the wood listened to me too. I think he was just being kind, but it made me want to keep going, to preserve what he’d taught me.
We weren’t rich, not in money. The orders dwindled as modernity took hold, but we had enough—enough to live, to keep the workshop alive. I’d write letters, talk to people, anyone who’d listen, about the beauty of these boats, how they were more than vessels—they were history, art, a way of life. Awi would smile and say, “You’re the voice I never had.” And I’d tell him he was the heart of it all.
He’s gone now, my Awi. The years took him too soon, leaving me with the echoes of his hammer and the boats we built together. The young ones come sometimes, curious, and I teach them what he taught me—how to listen to the wood, how to honour the craft. It’s my way of keeping him near.
Yesterday, I sat by the shore, watching the sun sink into the waves. One of our boats was out there, its sails catching the last light. I thought of him, of the life we carved from this island, and I smiled. The boats carry us still, don’t they? In every plank, every curve, he’s there—quiet, steady, forever mine.
