On a quiet night in July 2014, as the clock inched past 11 p.m., Effendy Soeleman drew his last breath. His heart, weakened by years of illness, finally surrendered. At his bedside, his wife Gustianingsih held their six-year-old son, Mala, whispering gentle words of comfort. For many, his death meant the loss of a father, a husband, a friend. But for Indonesia’s maritime spirit, it was the departure of a man who had spent his life convincing young people that the sea was not a boundary — it was a calling.
This is not simply an obituary. It is the story of a dreamer who believed that sailing in a small, fragile boat made of wood and rope could awaken a nation to its roots. It is the story of a man who, even when battered by storms and weakened by illness, never stopped chasing horizons.
Effendy, or “Pendy” as friends called him, was not born into a family of sailors. His obsession with the sea came later, almost by accident. In the early 1980s, he stumbled upon the story of Norman Edwin, an adventurer who had sailed to Madagascar on a traditional Indonesian boat. For most readers, it was a tale of daring exploration. For Pendy, it was a revelation.
“If Norman could do it, why not me? Why not start from our own shores and prove that we, too, can cross seas the way our ancestors once did?” he once said.
It was as if a compass inside him had suddenly found its direction. The sea was calling, and he could not ignore it.
The First Voyage: Learning to Trust the Waves
In 1983, he set sail with Yamamoto, a Japanese partner who shared his thirst for adventure. Their vessel was simple, fragile by modern standards. Out there, with nothing but the horizon in front of him and the wind tugging at the sails, Pendy learned the first lesson of the sea: humility.
The ocean was not something to conquer. It was something to respect, to negotiate with. Yamamoto taught him the rhythms of wind and current, the patience of waiting for a good tide, and the courage to hold course when everything inside screamed to turn back.
That first voyage planted a seed. Soon after, Pendy named his own vessel Cadik Nusantara. It was more than a boat. It was his statement — that Indonesia’s outrigger crafts, often dismissed as outdated, could still carry dreams across oceans.
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By 1990, Pendy’s wanderlust had grown bolder. He sailed solo from Jakarta to Bangka aboard Cadik Nusantara II. No backup crew. No safety net. Just a man, a boat, and the endless water. People thought him reckless. He called it necessary.
“To sail alone,” he explained, “is to listen to yourself without distraction. The sea strips you down to who you really are.”
The voyage hardened him, and by the time 1998 arrived, Pendy was ready for something bigger. That year, as Indonesia convulsed with political change, he quietly launched one of his most daring adventures: a solo trip from Jakarta to Brunei Darussalam. It wasn’t just about reaching Brunei. It was about proving — to himself, to his country — that traditional boats could still carry Indonesians far beyond their islands.
When he docked safely after weeks at sea, he wasn’t greeted by grand parades or headlines. But those who knew understood: Pendy had joined the lineage of adventurers who turn myth into memory.
The early 2000s brought new trials. Indonesia was reeling from the Asian financial crisis. Resources were scarce, sponsors hard to find. But Pendy’s compass never stopped pointing toward the sea.
In 2005, he prepared another voyage. This time, his purpose was deeply humanitarian. The devastating tsunami had just struck Aceh, leaving unimaginable scars. Pendy wanted to sail there, not as a rescuer, but as a messenger of resilience. His plan was to journey from Sumatra to Aceh, carrying the message that Indonesia’s seafaring spirit could not be broken.
But fate had other ideas. Somewhere in the Bangka Sea, his vessel Katir was mauled by a violent storm. One of the outriggers snapped, forcing him to retreat. Lesser men might have quit. Pendy, though shaken, treated it as a rehearsal.
“The sea didn’t say no,” he joked later. “It only said, not yet.”
The Return: Katir Nusantara II
Seven years later, in 2012, the dream roared back to life. This time, the boat was stronger: Katir Nusantara II. The plan was grand — to circumnavigate the entire Indonesian archipelago, from Sabang to Merauke. It was the kind of odyssey that echoed the voyages of old spice traders and seafarers who once connected islands with nothing but sails and stars.
He reached Banda Aceh, his sails billowing proudly against the horizon. Crowds gathered to watch this lone sailor arrive in a vessel that looked like it belonged more to the 15th century than the 21st. Children pointed. Elders nodded with recognition. For Pendy, this was victory enough: proof that the maritime soul of Indonesia still stirred.
In 2013, he was inducted as an honorary member of Mapala UI, the University of Indonesia’s storied nature lovers’ club. They gave him membership number MK-874-UI, a gesture that meant more to him than trophies or medals. For in Mapala, he saw the same fire of youth he had been trying to kindle all his life.
Bali to Brunei — A Triumph in a Jukung
Not long after, Pendy made another daring move. Instead of his familiar cadik or katir, he climbed into a jukung — a small, slender outrigger canoe still used by Balinese fishermen. With this humble craft, he set his sights on Brunei.
The voyage was grueling. Waves threatened to overturn the boat, and supplies ran low. Yet when he finally reached Brunei’s shores, exhausted but smiling, the jukung bobbing gently beside him, it was another quiet triumph. He had once again shown that Indonesia’s traditional boats could achieve feats modern skeptics deemed impossible.
Behind the triumphs, however, Pendy’s body was betraying him. Years of strain, salt, and solitude took their toll. His heart weakened. His lungs labored. Yet even as doctors warned him, he refused to surrender his seafaring identity.
“When I die,” he once told a friend, “let me die knowing I tried. The sea doesn’t belong to those who only watch from the shore.”
On July 10, 2014, that prophecy came true. At 63 years old, Effendy Soeleman passed away. The man who had crossed seas in boats most would never dare to step into was gone. He left behind his wife and their little boy, whose childhood would be filled with stories of a father who chased horizons.
The Legacy He Left Behind
Effendy Soeleman was never a household name. He didn’t crave the spotlight, nor did he sail for riches. He sailed to remind Indonesia of something it was in danger of forgetting: that this nation of thousands of islands was built by people who trusted the sea. Without sailors, there would be no Indonesia. Without outrigger canoes and the courage to use them, the islands would remain isolated dots on a map.
Pendy wanted young people to feel this truth not in textbooks, but in their bones. He wanted them to look at the waves and see not fear, but possibility. Every time he launched his cadik, katir, or jukung, he was telling the youth: This is yours. This is who we are.
His life also taught another lesson — that failure does not erase meaning. The storm that broke his outrigger in 2005 did not make him a failure. It made him human, persistent, and unyielding. In every setback, he found a new tide to follow.
Today, Effendy Soeleman’s name is etched quietly into Indonesia’s maritime history. Not as a legend enshrined in textbooks, but as a whisper among those who still care about the sea. Among adventurers, Mapala members, and dreamers who stare at the horizon, his story circulates like a compass needle, pointing to the possibilities of courage.
His death did not end his voyage. It only changed its course. For now, it is the youth he inspired who must carry on — by building, by sailing, by remembering that Indonesia is more sea than land, and that the ocean is not a wall but a bridge.
And somewhere, perhaps, the spirit of Pendy sails still, chasing the eternal horizon. (Sulung Prasetyo)
