To appear in Oceanic Linguistics 54(2) East is not a ‘big bird’: The etymology of the star Altair in the Carolinian sidereal compass Gary Holton,a Calistus Hachibmai,b Ali Haleyalur,c Jerry Lipka,a Donald Rubenstein d a U OF ALASKA FAIRBANKS, bYAP STATE DEPT OF EDUCATION, c YAP TRADITIONAL NAVIGATION SOCIETY, dU OF GUAM We argue that the Micronesian constellation centered on Altair, known in Lamotrek as Mailap, has been mistakenly identified in previous literature with another constellation centered on Sirius, known as Mannap. The latter is literally the “Big Bird” and is well known in parts of Polynesia as well. Confusing this “Big Bird” with Altair has led to much confusion in the literature on Carolinian navigational arts. We trace the history of how this error arose and why it has persisted over time, and we also suggest an alternate etymology for Mailap. 1. THE BIG BIRD.1 The title of Thomas Gladwin’s (1970) well‐known book on Carolinian navigational arts, “East is a Big Bird,” asserts an etymology for the star known in English as Altair. Here we re‐examine that proposed etymology in order to explain how the appellation Big Bird came to be associated with East throughout much of the literature on Pacific voyaging and navigation. Unraveling this mistake requires a careful recounting of the history of the study of Micronesian navigation as well as the historical linguistics of the Chuukic languages. Gladwin writes that “on Puluwat the cardinal direction is east, under the rising of Altair, the ‘Big Bird’” (1970: 148). This gloss is found also in David Lewis’ book “We, the Navigators,” which recounts the author’s voyaging with Puluwat navigator Hipour (D. Lewis 1972: 130). Neither Gladwin nor Lewis cite a Puluwatese form, but it is clear that they intend the gloss ‘big bird’ as a literal translation of the Chuukic name for the star Altair. Subsequent authors are more explicit in asserting a Chuukic form. Stephen Thomas’ book “The Last Navigator,” based on his work with Satawal navigator Mau Piailug, describes Altair as “the cardinal direction, east, under Mailap, the ‘Big Bird’” (1987: 83). Ben Finney also cites a Satawalese form, noting that “the compass is not oriented on due east, but on rising Altair (Mailap: 'Big Bird')” (2007: 160) [italics original]. The sidereal compass is widely used throughout the Caroline Islands, and the names for the navigational stars are largely cognate through the Chuukic languages of Western Micronesia. Goodenough (1953) provides names for the star 1 This research was supported by National Science Foundation grant NSF‐OPP 1203194 (PI Jerry Lipka) and NSF‐OPP 1317245 (PI Gary Holton). 1 To appear in Oceanic Linguistics 54(2) Altair in several Chuukic language varieties, including Satawalese mailap; Puluwatese mailap (Elbert 1972); and Woleaian mailap (Sohn & Tawerilmang 1976).2 The name reconstructs as Proto‐Central Micronesian *mati‐lapa (Bender, et al. 2003a). The final element ‐lap is a common morpheme meaning ‘primary, main, big’; the star mailap is thus the ‘main or big mai’. So in asserting ‘big bird’ as a gloss for mailap, these authors implicitly assert a gloss of ‘bird’ for the morpheme mai and its cognates. But in none of these languages is the morpheme mai recognizable as meaning ‘bird’. Instead, the general term for ‘animal, bird, living being’ is Satawalese and Puluwatese maan and Woleaian mal, regularly reflecting Proto‐Micronesian *manu (Bender, et al. 2003a). In particular, *‐n is never lost. So what then is this mai and how did it come to be glossed as ‘bird’? To unravel the story the mai and mailap requires a brief review of the rather vast literature on Carolinian navigation. The star mailap (Altair) forms the central focus point of the Carolinian sidereal compass, which in turn forms the basis for a system of navigation which facilitates regular voyaging throughout a vast archipelago of small islands. Altair is one of 17 navigational stars and asterisms whose names and declinations are committed to memory at a very early stage of learning the art navigation. The stars Polaris and Crux, fixed in the northern and southern horizons, respectively, form an axis around which the other stars rotate, rising predictably in the east and setting 180 degrees opposite in the west. Of these only the star Altair traces a path directly overhead at the latitude of the Caroline Islands. (A star will appear directly overhead when its declination is equal to the latitude of the observer, and the declination of the star Altair is roughly the same as the latitude of the Caroline Islands.) The rising and setting positions of Altair thus define a second axis orthogonal to the north‐south axis defined by Polaris and Crux. Seven navigational stars rise to the north of Altair, and seven more rise to the south. Although the Carolinian compass is usually depicted in the literature with north at the top (e.g., Alkire 1970, Gladwin 1970, Ward Hunt Goodenough 1953, Ward H. Goodenough & Thomas 1987), Carolinian navigators invariably lay out the compass with east at the top, marked by the star Altair. Goodenough is among those authors who depict a north‐oriented compass, but he also clearly acknowledges that “[t]he rising and setting of its main star, Altair, indicate due east and west on the central Carolinian compass, in which east, not north, is the basic direction” (1953: 12). Moreover, Altair is “the base star in the native compass” (1953: 5). In teaching, the navigator represents the star positions with small rocks, laying out first the rising of Altair in the east, then the setting of Altair in the west, then the location of Polaris in the north, and finally the upright position of Crux in the south. The remaining intermediary positions of the compass are filled in by a process of repeatedly finding the centers of these axes until all 32 positions are marked. In describing the use of waves for navigation Lewis notes that “the Big Wave from approximately east has special significance as coming from ‘under the Big Bird’—Altair, the cardinal direction 2 The Chuukic languages form a dialect continuum. Those varieties with which we are most concerned here are those labeled by Ethnologue (M. P. Lewis, Simons & Fennig 2015) as Woleaian [ISO 639‐3 woe], Satawalese [stw], Puluwatese [puw], and Chuukese [chk]. Co‐ authors Hachibmai and Haleyalur are native speakers of the Lamotrek variety of Woleaian. 2 To appear in Oceanic Linguistics 54(2) star in the Carolines” (D. Lewis 1994: 130). Additional evidence for the primacy of east comes from the directional system, which equates east with ‘up’ and west with ‘down’. East is also the source of the primary navigational wave, the steady swell which provides a reliable steering guide. The present authors are part of a large, interdisciplinary research project whose objective is to compare ethno‐mathematical knowledge across five cultures. In this work we are especially interested in common principles of symmetry and centering which might be used to improve indigenous math education (cf. Lipka 1994, Lipka, Andrew‐Ihkre & Yanez 2011). The Carolinian sidereal compass provides an ideal exemplar of these principles, so we naturally spent some time investigating navigational knowledge. We were fortunate to have among our team the well‐known Carolinian navigator, Ali Haleyalur, from Lamotrek. Mr. Haleyalur is the son of Jesus Uripiy, the Satawal navigator who revived the pwo ceremony for teaching traditional navigation in 1990 after a half century hiatus (Metzgar 1996). He was one of five initiates in this ceremony, and he has since gone on to lead voyages from the Caroline Islands to Guam and Palau. Haleyalur is thus among a handful of key leaders currently reviving the Carolinian navigational arts in Micronesia. During our most recent work in Yap in March 2015 we spent several evenings stargazing and learning the names of the Carolinian stars and constellations. Mr. Haleyalur pointed out the location of the large constellation Mannap, which is centered on the star known in English as Sirius. The Woleaian name Mannap means literally ‘big bird’, and this is indeed a large constellation. The head of the bird is located at Sirius. One wing extends to Procyon in the east, while the other wing extends to the star Canopus in the far southern sky, an arc of more than 58 degrees. But Mannap rises not in the east but rather in the southeastern sky. This observation prompted one of us to ask, if Mannap is the big bird then why do people also call Mailap the big bird? Had these two constellations, Mannap and Mailap, been confused in the literature? Native speaker Haleyalur responded with a quizzical look and replied, “you know, I’ve always wondered that myself.” Although the possibility of a simple error cannot be ruled out, it would be difficult for even a novice observer to confuse Mannap and Mailap. The latter is both the name of the star Altair and the name of a very small constellation composed of three closely spaced stars centered on Altair. These are the same stars which comprise the western constellation Aquila. The stars Altair and Sirius, on which the constellations Mailap and Mannap are centered, are located far apart in the celestial sphere. The declinations of the two stars differ by approximately 26 degrees. Altair (declination δ = +8°52’) rises just north of east, a direction which is perceived as approximately east from the latitude of Yap (9°31’ N); whereas Sirius (δ = ‐16°43’) rises well to the south. Moreover, Sirius (right ascension RA = 06h45m) rises more than 13 hours before Altair (RA = 19h51m). On March 9, 2015 we observed Sirius and the constellation Mannap at approximately 50 degrees above the horizon in Yap at sunset (see Figure 1), whereas Mailap did not rise above the horizon until approximately 4:00 AM the following morning (see Figure 2).3 Thus, not only are Mannap 3 These observations were confirmed using Stellarium 0.13.2 (www.stellarium.org). 3 To appear in Oceanic Linguistics 54(2) and Mailap located in different parts of the sky, they are rarely visible at the same time. Only at certain times of year will Mailap be visible setting in the west for about an hour while Mannap is rising in the southeast. From an observational point of view, there is almost no possibility to confuse these two constellations. FIGURE 1. View of the constellation Mannap, looking south from Yap (9°31’ N, 138°08’ E) on February 15, 2015 at 8:00 PM local time (UTC+10). One wing extends east to Procyon; the other “broken” wing extends south to Canopus in the far southern sky. Due to its negative declination Mannap traces a course across the southern sky. Mannap FIGURE 2. View of the constellation Mailap, looking south from Yap on February 15, 2015 at 6:00 AM local time (UTC+10). At the latitude of Yap the constellation Mailap traces a course from east to west passing directly overhead. Due to its much later right ascension, Mailap is visible only after Mannap has set. Mailap As Mr. Haleyalur went on to explain, to him Mailap has nothing to do with a bird. He had previously asked several outside researchers about this but had never received a satisfactory explanation. His intuition was later confirmed by other speakers, none of whom recognized ‘big bird’ as a valid gloss for mailap. Indeed, when we asked how to say 4 To appear in Oceanic Linguistics 54(2) ‘big bird’ speakers offered two possibilities, maliulap and mannap, the second being the preferred form and not coincidentally also the name assigned to the bird constellation centered on the star Sirius discussed above. The first possibility maliulap retains the final vowel in the combining form maliu of mal. Compare maliugach ‘good person’ < maliu ‘living being’+ gachiu ‘good’ The second, preferred form, reflects a regular phonological process by which sequences of laterals are reflected as a geminate alveolar nasal. Neither of these forms for ‘big bird’ equates with mailap. So how did the star Mailap come to be incorrectly associated with the ‘big bird’ in the literature, and what then is the correct etymology for mailap? The first of these questions is easier to answer. One possibility which must be considered is the association of Mailap with the western constellation Aquila, the eagle, comprised of the three stars Altair, Tarazed and Alshain. For many Carolinian constellations the central star lends its name to the entire constellation. This is true of Mailap, which is both the name of the star Altair and the name of a constellation known in English as Aquila. Seen from the point of view of western mythology Mailap (i.e., Aquila) would be a bird. Gladwin alludes to this western interpretation when he refers to Tarazed (ɣ Aquilae) and Alshain (β Aquilae) as the “wings” of Mailap (1970: 154). Here Gladwin is evidently offering a translation of the Puluwatese names for Tarazed and Alshain, Pááyefáng and Pááyéér, respectively, meaning literally ‘of the north’ and ‘páá of the south’. Gladwin evidently interprets the term páá as meaning ‘wing’, but it could equally be translated as ‘arm’. For example, páá could refer to one arm of Pwupw, the Southern Cross. Alkire (1970: 44) avoids both ‘arm’ and ‘wing’ and instead offers the translations ‘line to the north’ and ‘line to the south’ for Tarazed and Alshain, respectively. Gladwin’s ‘wing’ gloss is clearly biased toward an interpretation of Mailap as a bird and cannot be taken as evidence supporting that etymology. A more likely possibility is that Galdwin’s original gloss may have been made based on a linguistic misunderstanding. Gladwin’s description of Carolinian seafaring culture and navigational arts was based on 2.5 months of field work conducted on Puluwat in 1967, during which time he worked with the navigator Hipour. The contact language used by Gladwin was not Hipour’s native Puluwatese but rather Chuukese, a language which he asserts all Puluwat men were familiar with. In spite of this claim, some of Gladwin’s observations hint at communication difficulties encountered during his research. In a short time I regained the fluency in Trukese [Chuukese] which I had acquired twenty years earlier, but the combination of minor dialectical differences and the fact that Trukese [Chuukese] was a second language for both me and my Puluwat informants made it more difficult to talk with some people than with others. (Gladwin 1970:134) As this passage makes clear, Gladwin was working in a second language which he hadn’t spoken in two decades. That he could regain fluency in such a short period of field work is remarkable but may not have been sufficient to overcome the language barrier. The degree of fluency of the Puluwat men in Chuukese is also questionable; a functional ability to 5 To appear in Oceanic Linguistics 54(2) communicate is the not the same as the ability to convey complex navigation concepts. If both Gladwin and his Puluwat consultants were communicating in a language over which they had an imperfect command, the margin of error for etymological interpretation would be greatly increased. Gladwin’s 2.5 months in Puluwat in 1967 overlapped with that of two other researchers, Saul Riesenberg and Samuel Elbert. At the time Riesenberg was studying the cognitive organization of navigational knowledge, while Elbert was documenting the Puluwat language. By his own admission, Gladwin deferred to these other researchers in regards to linguistic information. “Samuel H. Elbert prepared a dictionary and syntax of the Puluwat language which among other things relieves me of the need to reproduce native terms and phonetics. Accordingly, I use only English equivalents for Puluwat terms.” (Gladwin 1970:vi) Gladwin never cites the indigenous term for the star in his book, so presumably the ‘big bird’ gloss is intended as an “English equivalent” of Elbert’s (1972) Mááyláp. Given Gladwin’s lack of knowledge of Puluwatese and asserted fluency in Chuukese, it is likely that he based his English equivalent not on Puluwatese Mááyláp but rather on Chuukese Máánap (see Table 1). Although Puluwatese and Chuukese are indeed closely related, they differ in at least one respect which impinges crucially on the etymology in question. While Proto‐Chuukic *l is retained in Puluwatese as l, in Chuukese *l > n, merging with n < *n. Thus, in Chuukese both Máánap ‘Altair’ and mannap ‘big bird’ have an alveolar nasal inter‐ vocalically. TABLE 1. Reflexes of *l and *n Proto‐ Chuukese Chuukic ‘bird, living *manú maan being’ ‘big, main’ *lapa nap ‘big bird *manú‐lapa mannap ‘Altair’ *maati‐lapa Máánap Puluwatese Satawalese Woleaian maan maan maliu lap mallap Mááyláp nap/lap4 mannap Mainap lap mannap Mailap The Chuukese form Máánap shows irregular loss of original *i with concomitant fronting of low vowel *a > áá (Dyen 1949: 433).5 As a result of this irregularity the Chuukese forms for 4 Roddy (2007) lists Satawalese nap ‘big’, whereas Bender et al. (2003a) cite Satawalese lap ‘big’. When this morpheme is combined to form the name for Altair, both sources show an alveolar nasal: Mainap (Roddy 2007) and Maai‐nap (Bender, et al. 2003a). Bender et al. (2003a) note that roughly 25% of Satawalese forms show a unconditioned reversal *l > n, *n > l or else show both variants, *l > l~n, *n > l~n. 6 To appear in Oceanic Linguistics 54(2) ‘big bird’ and ‘Altair’ appear deceptively similar to the casual observer. When Gladwin was conducting his field work on Puluwat there was no standardized orthography for Puluwatese, and the Chuukese orthography in use at the time by the church and the colonial administration was heavily influenced by Mortlockese. In particular, this orthography did not distinguish the fronted vowel á. If Gladwin were relying on written transcriptions it would be very easy to incorrectly parse Máánap as máán‐(n)ap and then equate the first syllable máán with maan ‘bird, animal, living being’. In this way Máánap would become the ‘big bird’. Since Gladwin was explicitly using “only English equivalents” he would have thus associated the ‘big bird’ gloss directly with Altair, the English equivalent of both Chuukese Máánap as well as Puluwatese Mááylap. If Gladwin did indeed misinterpret the initial máá‐ of Chuukese Máánap as maan ‘bird’, he is not alone in this mistake. Other authors have also been misled by the diacritics on this form. Johnson and Mahelona (1975: 46‐7) list the Micronesian calendar stars “Maanap, the Bird” and “Maan, the Bird,” which they identify with “Altair (Aquila)” and “Castor, Procyon, Pollux,” respectively. These authors cite Goodenough (1953: 33) as a source for these star names and identifications. Yet Goodenough transcribes the name for Altair as “määnap” using the diacritic umlaut, equivalent to the orthographic <á>.6 Moreover, Goodenough identifies “maan” with “Sirius and Procyon.” How Johnson and Mahelona managed to insert Castor and Pollux (in the western constellation Gemini) into the Micronesian constellation Maan is unclear. This identification most certainly does not come from Goodenough (1953). Although Johnson and Mahelona do not cite another source for this identification, they were aware of the astronomical problems which follow from it. Indeed, they go on a few pages later to correctly identify Maan, ignoring their original identification of Maan with the stars in Gemini. The name [Maan] appears as the base for the Micronesian month corresponding roughly to August‐September and makes a formation of a big bird composed of three stars: Sirius, Canopus, and Procyon. The identification of the Twins [Gemini] as belonging in Maan does not make good sense, since Canopus lies south of the celestial equator and the constellation of Gemini is far to the north of it. Since the Polynesian star lists construct the Big Bird as formation with Sirius, Canopus, and Procyon … it follows that there must have been a carry‐over from Maan as Aquila to Sirius, Canopus, and Procyon. (Johnson & Mahelona 1975: 51) Here, by a simple dropping of diacritics Johnson and Mahelona have inferred that the Big Bird constellation was originally Altair and only later was transferred to the constellation Maan, centered on Sirius. Having asserted a correspondence between Micronesian and Polynesian constellation names, these authors then assume that literal translations of 5 Bender et al. (2003a: 54) suggest that Chuukese Máánap may be an old loan from Marshallese. 6 Curiously, in the catalog of Pacific star names which appears later in their book, Johnson and Mahelona cite the form for Altair using Goodenough’s diacritics: Määnap (1975: 91). 7 To appear in Oceanic Linguistics 54(2) Polynesian names for Altair must also apply to names for that star in the Chuukic languages. They cite Goodenough as providing the literal translation ‘pillar of heaven’. In fact, Goodenough does not ascribe this meaning to Altair in Micronesia but instead cites this literal translation from Polynesian as evidence of the importance attached to Altair. As he wrote, “while the same name [määnap] does not appear in Polynesia proper; such epithets as ‘pillar of heaven’ reflect a similar importance attached to Altair.” (Goodenough 1953: 12). So what Goodenough was arguing was that Altair played an important role not only in Micronesia but in Polynesia as well. But it is not the importance of Altair which is in question but rather its etymology. Johnson and Mahelona show just how easy it is for linguistically naïve observers to equate Chuukese Määnap with Maan, based on a perceived orthographic similarity. It is likely that Gladwin made a similar equation in order to arrive at his gloss of Altair as the big bird. Whatever led Gladwin to assert the ‘big bird’ etymology, it is important to note that at least some authors are more circumspect. Reviews of Gladwin’s book were extremely favorable (cf. Ward H Goodenough 1971, Richey 1974), though none attempted to explain the motivation behind Gladwin’s choice of title. Both previous and contemporary authors avoid offering an etymology for Mailap. Goodenough, from whom Gladwin draws heavily for both star names and the layout of the sidereal compass, says merely that “the meaning of the name is obscure. It is the main *maa, ….” (1953: 12). Alkire (1970: 44) does not offer a translation for the star Mailap but does suggest that the companion stars Tarazed and Alshain in the constellation Mailap have names which translate as ‘line to the north’ and ‘line to the south’, respectively. Riesenberg, who was with Gladwin in Puluwat in 1967, makes no attempt to gloss Altair in his detailed study of Puluwat navigational knowledge (1972). If the big bird etymology is not correct, then we must also ask why it has persisted for so long, with continuing citations in the literature up to the present day. Part of the reason surely lies in Gladwin’s choice, deliberate or not, to encapsulate this etymology in the title of his 1970 book. East is a Big Bird was published by a university press and likely received limited distribution. Yet many more people are familiar with the title than have actually read or even seen the book, and a simple citation to this book is sufficient to convey the ‘big bird’ etymology. Gladwin’s book also appeared during the height of the revival of Pacific voyaging. The maiden voyage of the Hōkūle‘a sailed in 1975. The simple characterization of East as a Big Bird offers a powerful image for a system of knowledge which had largely been forgotten outside Micronesia. The big bird Mannap (i.e., the constellation centered on Sirius) is an important Carolinian constellation, while the direction east marked by Altair is fundamental to the Carolinian sidereal compass. Conflating these two concepts is thus very tempting and has even passed into popular culture in the form of t‐shirt designs and graphic imagery. Gladwin provided a compelling, accessible and accurate description of Puluwat navigational knowledge which was well‐received by both academic and lay audiences and has continued to inspire readers. Given the richness and thoroughness of Gladwin’s description, it is easy to tacitly assume that he has applied the same level of precision to the linguistic details. 8 To appear in Oceanic Linguistics 54(2) Finally, an additional factor contributing to the persistence of the ‘big bird’ etymology is the lack of a plausible alternate etymology. Bender et al. reconstruct Proto‐Central Micronesian *mati‐lapa ‘Altair, constellation in Aquila’ (2003a: 54). They also reconstruct *mati‐ciki ‘a star’, containing the same morpheme *mati. This latter form designates a star in the western constellation Hercules (cf. Woleaian Maishig, Chuukese Mááchik) which can be literally glossed as ‘little *mati’. This Maishig is not a navigational star, but it does lend its name to a month in the Carolinian calendar. We thus have reconstructions for ‘big *mati’ and ‘little *mati’, but Bender et al. (2003) do not offer a gloss for *mati or even assert that it occurs as an independent form. Two contemporary possibilities suggest themselves as a source for Woleaian mai. The first is the homophonous Woleaian form mai ‘breadfruit’, and the second is the very similar form mmaiye ‘taut’, which can also mean ‘sail into wind’. This latter meaning is ostensibly derived from the practice of hauling the sail tight in order to tack. Given the prevailing east wind, an association of this mmaiye with east and the star Altair is at least plausible. However, Lamotrek speakers, including authors Hachibmai and Haleyalur, reject both analyses as folk etymologies. Moreover, comparative evidence argues against these putative etymologies since both forms reconstruct without the original *t found in *mati: Proto‐Micronesian *mai ‘breadfruit’ (Bender, et al. 2003a: 49) and Proto‐ Chuukic *mai(a) ‘taut’ (Bender, et al. 2003b: 301). Here the research focus of our current project on ethnomathematics may provide some additional insight. Among the indigenous mathematical concepts we have been exploring is the concept of “centering” through repeatedly finding the center and verifying. Centering forms the basis for symmetry and turns out to be a significant organizing principle for daily activities in many cultures, including Micronesian. Caroline Islanders make use of centering in the design and execution of architecture, navigation, handicrafts, and art (cf. Alkire 1970). For example, the highest form of traditional weaving employs “a nine‐strand pattern with the midline and borders accentuated, and the successive bifurcations dividing the space into halves, quarters, and eighths” (Rubinstein 1993). The result is not only symmetrical but also evenly divided through halving. The domain of navigation also makes extensive use of this centering algorithm. For example, the northern and southern points on the sidereal compass define an axis of symmetry dividing the rising star points from the setting star points. Within the context of this discussion of symmetry authors Hachibmai and Haleyalur immediately recognized Woleaian mailap as referring to the center of the abdomen. Specifically, mailap denotes a region below the umbilicus which is treated in a certain kind of traditional massage. In this practice the term mailap is used to refer to a central area of the abdomen under the umbilicus which is massaged as a part of healing. This definition is not found in the standard lexical sources for Woleaian, Puluwatese, Satawalese, or Chuukese. However, in the closely related Mortlokese language variety mailap is glossed as both (i) an alternate term for ‘navel’ and (ii) ‘a certain form of massage’ (Odango, pers. comm.). We were not successful in our attempts to contact a traditional massage expert prior to leaving Yap, so an elaboration of the semantics of mailap as a form of massage must await 9 To appear in Oceanic Linguistics 54(2) further research. It is difficult to speculate as to whether the star Mailap has any association with this traditional massage. The best we can do at present is to note that both senses of mailap as the star Altair and as the umbilicus draw on a shared concept of symmetry and centering. As Daiber observes, “the interest Caroline peoples have in Altair … can best be interpreted as an awareness and interest in the zenith” (1986: 373). The star path of Altair divides the sky into two equal halves, just as the umbilicus defines the center of the body. Finally, an additional possible source for mailap is the place name Meilap, located on the extreme west end of the island of Pohnpei. Bender et al. (2003a) do not list a Pohnpeian reflex of *mati‐lapa; however, Pohnpeian meilap follows the expected sound correspondences, with loss of the intervocalic stop and regular raising of the low vowel. Though a well documented place name, Meilap does not refer to the star Altair in Pohnpeian (Panholzer & Mauricio 2003). One can then justifiably ask how a place on the west shore of Pohnpei came to be associated with the East. The most economical interpretation is that the place Meilap serves as a point of reference for Central and Western Micronesia navigators when sailing to the east. Meilap was the place to which sailors steered when sailing east. 7 An extension from the place name Meilap to the star which marks the East is entirely plausible. Of course, none of these possible sources for the name mailap bring us any closer to unraveling the mystery of the cranberry morpheme mai < *mati. However, we can be more certain in our conclusion that Puluwatese mai, Chuukese máá, and Proto‐Central Micronesian *mati from which they derive do not mean ‘bird’. East is indeed associated with Altair, the big máá/mai, but the latter morpheme does not mean ‘bird’. Thus, East is not a Big Bird. 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