When you tell people in Dalmatia that you are going inland, the reactions are always colorful. Some roll their eyes, some look surprised, and a few gasp as if you’ve just confessed to something tragic. “Why?” they ask, with genuine disbelief. The sea is warm, islands are idyllic. It is hard to grasp why someone would go away voluntarily. For most folks, the idea of leaving the Adriatic sea feels like leaving the heart behind. But here is the why, the Dayak boat.
Over the past six months, students from the Rada Vranješević Youth Home in Banja Luka have been working on something extraordinary. They’ve been building a type of čamac, (CHAH-mats) a traditional wooden boat unique to the Vrbas River. What makes this boat truly special is not just its shape or design, but how it moves. It’s not powered by oars or a motor, but by a long pole called a dajak (DAH-yak), which is also the name of the sport that Banja Luka is famous for.
Every river has its own kind of boat. On the Kupa, boats are broad and flat-bottomed, made to carry heavy loads over calm waters. On fast-flowing mountain rivers like the Vrbas, boats need to be long, narrow, and stable, with shallow drafts that can skim over gravel beds. The čamac of Banja Luka evolved for this exact purpose—speed and control in strong currents. These differences aren’t random; they’re responses to geography, shaped by centuries of human ingenuity and necessity.
Coming in to dock using a Dajak.
Our partnership with the Rada Vranješević Youth Home began in 2016 with the Peace River Odyssey on the Una River. Over three consecutive summers, youth from Bosnia – Herzegovina and Croatia came together on the border to build three traditional boats, each rooted in local heritage. The first was an Unski čamac, crafted on the border, on an island, blending hands-on boatbuilding with lessons on history and ecology. Alongside building, we paddled the emerald Una, camped on its banks, fished and learned from the masters. These programs set the stage for future journeys, including sailing traditional gajetas in the Kornati Islands and the recent Felix Arba Expedition in the Kvarner Archipelago, where some of the same students explored the Adriatic aboard Vinka, our restored 1937 Komiža-built barka.
These trips are about building bridges—between cultures, between past and present, and between young people from places once divided by war. This trip to Banja Luka is a continuation of that mission. Boats Building Bridges isn’t just a name for us; it’s a way of thinking. Every plank, every sail, every shared meal becomes an opportunity for peacebuilding, for trust, for understanding that goes deeper than words.
The Dajak boat—like Vinka on the sea—is more than a vessel. It’s a symbol. A reminder that heritage isn’t just about monuments or museums. It’s about skills, knowledge, and ways of life that endure only when people care enough to keep them alive. Preserving these traditions isn’t easy; it requires time, commitment, and often, a leap of faith. But when you see the pride in a young person’s eyes as they push their boat into the current for the first time, you know it’s worth it.
The Dajak boat—sleek, shallow, and perfectly balanced—was once essential for life along the Vrbas. People used it to navigate rapids, transport goods, and connect communities. Today, only a handful of craftsmen still build these boats, and only a few dozen enthusiasts keep the sport alive. This makes the project more than just a woodworking challenge; it’s a step toward preserving an intangible heritage that could easily disappear.
Working alongside master craftsmen like Andrej and Dario Zamolo at the Dajak Center, the students have learned more than how to shape wood. They’ve learned patience, precision, and pride in creating something with their own hands. Each shaving of the plane, each carefully set joint, connects them to a tradition carried forward through generations. It’s a living skill, not written in books but passed from one person to another. And now, they are part of that chain.
Next week marks the culmination of their effort—the launch of the boat they’ve built together. For them, it’s a moment of achievement, a chance to take something they’ve crafted and set it afloat on the river that has shaped their city and their lives. For us, it’s a reminder of why this work matters.
And so, for now, I say goodbye to Vinka and the coast. Tomorrow I head inland, leaving the blue of the Adriatic for the green heart of Bosnia. It’s a different world—slower, quieter, yet full of its own stories waiting to be told. The journey inland is also the first step toward home. Back to Zagreb, back to our workshop in Stari Brod (Old Boat), and back to another year of school and new projects.
What ties it all together—Rab, Kornati, Banja Luka—isn’t geography. It’s the water. It’s the boats that float on it and the bridges they help us build. Between islands, between rivers, between people. These are the threads we weave—one plank, one pole, one sail at a time.
This milestone also marks an evolution for the Boats Building Bridges program. Unlike previous projects where we guided every stage, the Dajak boat was built primarily by the students themselves under the mentorship of master craftsman Andrija Zamolo, with our team providing financial support and coordination. This level of independence reflects a deeper transfer of knowledge and ownership—students not only learned the craft but led the process. It signals a new phase for our mission: empowering communities to revive their own maritime traditions. If this model works here, it opens the door for boatbuilding projects around the globe, each rooted in local heritage, youth engagement, and cultural pride. If you know of any projects or traditional craftsmen around the world who would like to collaborate in this way, please reach out—we’re creating an application process to support similar initiatives internationally.
Next week, when the students push their Dayak Boat into the Vrbas for the very first time, it won’t just be a launch. It will be a celebration—of history, of resilience, of friendship, and of hope for what’s still to come.
In that moment, standing on the riverbank, I’ll think of the question people ask me so often: “Why go inland?” And I’ll smile, because the answer will be right there in front of me—a boat, a river, and a group of young people proving that bridges aren’t only made of steel and stone. Sometimes, they’re built out of wood, water, and trust.