America, the Tropical

We made landfall in American Samoa with bluster and fanfare. The first few days of our passage were a real snooze, with trade winds eerily absent, asleep on the job. But we stole a joy ride for the remainder, finally exceeding the elusive 200-mile day with gusto, logging 221 miles in a 24-hour period. For you land-lubbers, this sounds pretty paltry. For you mariners, you can imagine the thrill, averaging 9.2 knots. Ben hogged the helm overnight, which was fine by me. Our timing was off for a visit to Suwarrow, as we would have entered the pass at nightfall on the crest of heaving swell.

So, we continued along the rhumb-line to Pago Pago harbor on the island of Tutuila, the largest of American Samoa’s three islands. We thought we might try to slow down to ensure a daylight arrival but the squalls would have none of it. With rain and wind overtaking us every 20 minutes, and with reduced sail, the island was looming in a hurry. So, time to navigate; we don’t have brakes. We skirted the edge of a reef and found our lighted sightings (at least the ones that were working), with wind and waves propelling us toward the lee shore. As I was on the helm I was the first to notice a change in our speed, right as we were passing through the narrow channel between the reef and the island. With a little investigation we found we had had a 1-1/4” line and float caught on our keel, impossible to avoid in the dark. Oops. So we backed up, snagged the line and cut it free. But that was wet business since backing into waves invites a fair bit of water into the cockpit. Finally we wended our way into the harbor’s entrance, luckily long, angled and protected from the surging swell. Then, midnight, time to drop anchor. This we had heard to be a fair challenge as Pago Pago harbor is a commercial port known for poor holding and an obstacle course of garbage to contend with. We got lucky on our first go but were chased off by another cruiser who was convinced our anchor would drag in his direction. We didn’t agree but, tant pis, we moved to keep the peace. This proved to be more of a challenge, as I detached our anchor from plastic bags and a chunk of rug, but finally we were settled.

Two things about Pago Pago jump out. First, it’s surrounded by mountains, verdant with tropical growth, really a beautiful backdrop to this protected harbor. Second, but first to assault the senses, is the odor. Starkist and Chicken of the Sea operate their canneries here. They seem to be improving their practices (now separating fish oils out of their effluent to use as biofuel, thus powering the plants), but they reek, and the smell permeates all. It keeps you fully aware of the wind’s direction; a minor shift alters one’s olfactory experience profoundly. The canneries have been packing tuna for 60 years, providing a slew of jobs and drawing Western Samoans (the independent nation next door) here for work. There is a constant line-up of tuna clippers, awaiting their turn to drop their load and head back out to sea for another 80-day stint. This is serious business; each load of fish figures in the millions. Some boats come equipped with a helicopter used to scout out schools of tuna. The tuna don’t stand a chance. Interestingly, NOAA has a field office here and there is a NOAA observer assigned to every boat to monitor by-catch and fishing procedures on these ships.

Another thing stands out about American Samoa. Well, it’s America. Samoan is the native language but everyone speaks English here as well, and currency is paid in American dollars. This is also the first “territory” we’ve encountered in which the inhabitants adore their empire. There seems to be a basic recognition that this island economy couldn’t make it on its own and they’re pleased to be subsidized, and yet left to govern as they choose. Each year a contingent of Samoan chiefs makes their way to Congress, dressed in traditional regalia, to make their budgetary requests. Apparently this event is relished by our Congressmen and the budget is routinely approved. What that funding means here in American Samoa, for example, is a 10-dollar membership to receive full, life-time medical coverage. It’s not a free ride, though, as many Samoans are currently fighting in Iraq, and yellow ribbons abound. We met an American guy, married to a Samoan, who relocated here after his wife delivered a baby 3 months premature. They couldn’t afford the $3000/month premiums for a premie back home so they sought out medical care here. So far, so good. So, I guess it is America, and yet not America.

The other common thread? Football. Everyone knows the Samoans are big-boned and heavy-set. This makes them ideal linemen. Walking down the street Ben saw a young guy wearing a jersey numbered 51. “Lofa Tatupu!” Ben yelled. (A Seattle Seahawk, and middle linebacker, in case you’re not up on the NFL). The kid yelled back, “That’s my brother!”

We met up with Wayne from Moonduster, the cruiser we had first met back in Ensenada Mexico. We got the introduction to Pago Pago from Wayne, caught up on our various travels, and cooked some fabulous meals. We shared a rental car and took a tour of the island, finding the scenery increasingly pastoral and pristine shortly after leaving town and its environs. Along the road the approach to each village is gaily painted and adorned with colorful coconuts, along with Samoan and English words of welcome – Talofa! Each village has at least one church, and these are usually pretty grandiose affairs. Along the road each family builds an open-air, roofed structure supported by pillars constructed for funerals, weddings and family celebrations – a “Samoan House,” it’s called. We saw a gathering of formally dressed Samoans as we entered one village and decided to check it out. One man, holding a staff, stood surrounded by gifts, addressing another staff-holding man, just opposite, also surrounded by gifts. We learned that these were two chiefs, and this was a ceremony and celebration, as one village was “giving” their church’s reverend to this village’s church. All age groups were present and it seemed a happy occasion. The villagers made us welcome and were happy to explain the proceedings. We marveled at their flower-adorned roast pigs and traditional costumes, and were never made to feel intruders. In the end we were sent on our way with gifts of food and drink.

Other noteworthy anthropological points of interest: Public service announcements grace every billboard in town and beyond, warning of teenage pregnancy, drunk driving, domestic abuse; encouraging seat-belts and vaccination. Elections are taken seriously and campaign signs cover any stationary surface. Men (even too cool teens) wear lavalavas (sarongs for men). Locals spend a good deal of their free time in the water – it’s certainly a well-used natural resource. Interestingly, they swim fully clothed.

A couple forces have converged to keep us in American Samoa longer than we had planned. What’s new, right? We had arranged for a new membrane (for our watermaker) to be sent to American Samoa. It arrived, alright, but FedEx failed to hold the package for us and it had already been sent back to the States before our arrival. Glitch number one. Furthermore, our dinghy, the ever-abhorred and much abused, sputtered its last, whistling gasp, giving us the ‘ol raspberry on its way out. After some scrambling we convinced a fellow cruiser to sell us his. It’s smaller, and promises a wet ride, but who’s complaining; it beats the doggie paddle. So, one week became two, and here we are in Pago Pago.

In the meantime we’ve been meeting other cruisers, a jumble of Canadians, South Africans, Brits and Americans, for the most part. You see, Pago Pago gets a bad rap with its commercial harbor, so American Samoa if off the tourist-beaten path. There really aren’t any hotels or resorts here to speak of. But the island is lovely and the people go out of their way to be helpful; most cruisers don’t know what they’re missing. We took an outing with some friends we’d made, en masse, to the Barefoot Bar on the beach. The owner (a woman named Tisa and chief of her village) prepared a traditional Samoan meal, meats cooked on hot rocks placed in a hole in the sand -- an Umu, in Samoan. This is covered with banana leaves and left to cook through the day. We feasted on pork, chicken, turkey, octopus, seafood (cooked in coconut cups), as well as roasted breadfruit, taro, papaya and bananas. A feast indeed.

The outlook for our departure? Monday or Tuesday (Aug 25th or so) is the day. We’ll attempt to scrub our anchor chain free of gobbledygook and whatever mutant creatures breed in this murky brew but I’m afraid we’ll be trailing Pago Pago’s odor along with us for the ride. From here we’ll be making a two-day hop, skip and jump to Vava’u, the northern island group in the Kingdom of Tonga. More as it happens.

Bye Bye Bora Bora

We were pretty stationary once we dropped anchor in Bora Bora, out in front of the “Yacht Club,” really just a bar with buoys out front that caters to cruisers. We knew already the entire eastern side of Bora Bora’s lagoon was off limits to us with shallows too shallow for us. We had other destinations in mind and snorkeling sites recommended but a combination of laziness, the convenience of our proximity to town for provisioning and a visit to the Gendarmes, gusty weather, and our craving for internet connectivity conspired to keep us pretty immobile. And yet many cruisers gathered here, many we’ve encountered along the way, waiting for the opportune moment to leave French Polynesia, like us, for points west.

In the meantime we socialized with Australians, Swedes and Americans at a potluck barbecue and spent time with Francisco and Serena from Evasione. Our big night out on the town was dinner at a Chinese restaurant. Not great but not bad. In French Polynesia the majority of business owners, as well as the newly elected President, are of Chinese descent.

We met a local veterinarian, Fréderic Lamy, and asked about life and work as a vet on these islands. He works 7 days a week, Monday through Saturday at his 3 locations in Tahiti, and Sundays and holidays on Bora Bora. Can you say burnout? There are 8 veterinary clinics on Tahiti, one on Raiatea and one on Bora Bora; none in the Marquesas or Tuamotus. He said client education was a huge part of his practice, not surprisingly, as pet care is not part of the culture here. And yet, from our limited experience, it seems an attainable goal. Many of the people we’ve met really do care. And, as opposed to many other wayward, isolated islands of the tropics, the lifestyle here is pretty well subsidized by the French and so the means to take care of pets does exist.

In Huahine we visited with Andy, Sandy and Emma from Imagine. They had made landfall in French Polynesia in Fatu Hiva (in the Marquesas) at the time we were there, and we had even met Andy briefly before we had left. They told us that, shortly after our departure, a local man, desperate and weeping, had come down to the anchorage with his gravely ill dog, looking for a veterinarian. No doubt he had heard we’d been taking care of dogs there in the village. Sadly, he must have just missed us!

So, we find ourselves ready (I mean required) to leave French Polynesia. Our next destination is American Samoa, where we’ll fuel up and reprovision in cheap American fashion. We’ll also pick up a new membrane for our watermaker that we’ve had shipped there. En route we hope to stop at Suwarrow, an apparently lovely example of the northern Cook Islands and a New Zealand protectorate. Here’s what one guide says about Suwarrow: “The lagoon has many scattered coral heads. The clarity of the water and multitude of colorful fish make for excellent diving except for the profusion of sharks. Divers are sometimes accompanied by the caretaker who is equipped with a spear gun.”

After lifting anchor in Bora Bora on Monday we were stuck wrestling with the main sail, as one of the battens was intent, once again, on making its great escape. (We've lost one and broken another already). Anyway, after three attempts, the main was up, batten intact and accounted for, with a single reef, and we finally set off toward the pass. Then, as the wind gusted to 30 knots, the boom vang purchase snapped. Ok, screw it. We limped back to BBYC, dropped anchor and spliced a new line. With our inauspicious start we opted to leave Tuesday morning. The weather reports had predicted an abatement of the gusty winds but steady trades until a lull on Friday or Saturday. We were booking along for the first 20 hours, until 4 am. Now we've got 6 kn of wind from dead astern; in other words, hardly enough to go on, especially in this direction. If this is the lull we weren't expecting until Fri/Sat, we're in for one helluva slow passage to Suwarrow.

Underwater Eden

We thoroughly enjoyed Tahaa, without ever having set foot on it. More accurately, we swam our way around the island, touching solid ground only on the little motus that ring around the lagoon. From our vantages we admired the peaks all around us, with “mainland” Tahaa in the foreground, and Raiatea, its sister island, just behind. (These two islands are adjacent and share the same lagoon). In the other direction, Bora Bora’s steep volcanic plugs formed a dramatic silhouette.

It was the water that beckoned. We had been promised superb snorkeling and superb it was. The coral makes all the difference, and these were the coral gardens. In our second anchorage we found ourselves all alone, perched on the precipitous edge of sandy shoals along Motu Tehotu. Our depth sounder, near the bow, read 50 feet. Our makeshift lead line showed 10 feet at our stern, with not much room to spare below our rudder. As the boat threatened to swing over the turquoise shallows we set about dropping a second anchor off the stern, which kept us comfortably in place. Then we explored with the dinghy, trudging through thickets and swatting away mosquitoes on the motu itself, and finally, back in the water, scoping out a spot to snorkel. We dropped our dinghy anchor in a sandy spot in the midst of coral heads and jumped in.

The coral here, combined with the water’s blinding clarity, creates a spectacular backdrop for the circus of fish that parade past. We shimmied through the labyrinth, fighting the current in some spots, floating along with it in others, trying to avoid scrapes with the coral itself, and enjoyed the freak show. It was all fun and games until Ben motioned to me, popped his head out of the water and said “big shark.” Well, that was my cue, time to go. Luckily the shark was more timid than I and made a quick exit. Ben was dismayed not to have caught him on film but he had little choice as I was making a steady bee-line back to the dinghy.

Our next anchorage off of Motu Tautau was more heavily populated, with several boats at anchor adjacent to a fancy resort. Here the channel along the motu boasted another beautiful coral garden, with a strong current that necessitated a drift dive. Not much use fighting it, just float along and enjoy the view. We snorkeled that channel a couple times and always saw something new.

Finally we left, through Passe Pai Pai, for the 20 mile sail to Bora Bora, the last of our destinations in French Polynesia. Time to collect the bond I had paid, fuel up, provision and check out of the country, in preparation for the 1200 mile (roughly week-long) passage to American Samoa. New horizons….

We Met the Mara'amu

We met the mara’amu in Huahine. Our overnight passage from Tahiti brought with it a change in the winds, which clocked south, cooled off and brisked up. Whenever a wind pattern has a name you know you’re in for trouble. Every so often a herd of cattle would trample the heavens overhead and relieve themselves in a proud stream of rain. We tolerated the drenching and prepared for landfall, only to find that the pass of our choosing on the east side of the island was roiling a bit more than we’d hoped. We changed our destination and rounded the north end of Huahine, bound for Fare, the primary village through the safer and slightly more protected Avamoa Pass. Naturally we arrived just as another squall made its appearance. Murphy has some law about that.

So, we hunkered down in Fare, as it didn’t seem the mara’amu was going anywhere in a hurry. We found Fare to be bustling on our first visit to shore, with vendors lining the main street selling local produce and typical Polynesian prepared meals. We descended on the grocery store with locals and fellow cruisers during the appointed hour of the baguette. These carbs go in a hurry, as the Polynesian waist line would suggest. The next day we took a walk and, as usual, found ourselves face to face with dogs in need of a dermatologist. These three in particular, all residents of one home, seemed the worst off. We couldn’t find anyone home so we took mental notes of their approximate weights and planned a return visit with medications in hand the following day. These dogs deserved a special effort.

The next day we trudged back through a downpour and found, again, no one home. Another visit that afternoon was finally fruitful, but we had to wake up the guy that lived there, Hérald, to get on with it already. He explained that the dogs belonged to his wife and then had to go about chasing the dogs because they wouldn’t come to him. Hmmm, that seemed a concern. But, we saw to all three (Lady, Keatau and Boo Boo), explained the various medications and he thanked us kindly. He said his wife might have questions about the treatments so we agreed to meet in town the next morning.

That morning Sylvie, Hérald’s wife, kissed us in greeting and then started to cry, so grateful she was for the care her dogs had received. It was immediately evident that she had been trying to do what she could for their skin problems facing the limited access to veterinary care and that they were very much loved. They invited us to their home to share lunch with them, and then took us on a driving tour of Huahine. Unfortunately the mara’amu was especially torrential that day so, while they showed us all the island’s sites of interest, we were confined to the car, darting out for brief drenchings. We visited a marae (the stone remains of an ancient ceremonial site) and paid a visit to Faie, the home of the “sacred” eels that writhe through the shallow waters of a stream. These eels are frequently visited and therefore amply fed. This explains their outgoing personalities and wide girths. They lift their fat heads out of the water for offerings of fish, or squirm onto shore to reach their meal if so enticed. They are so friendly, supposedly, that you can pick them up and drape them over your shoulder if you’re moved to do so. It was too rainy to give it the effort in this particular case. Sylvie and Hérald asked us to join them for dinner later in the week but we couldn’t commit, as we were finally looking to move south and explore other anchorages on Huahine.

Once the rain cleared we were on our way. We followed a buoyed channel south through the lagoon and stopped in Haapu village for the night. We grappled with the anchor and bumped our rudder on a coral shelf, our visibility obscured by the roiling murk of muddy run-off, the result of the recent rains. But, the anchorage was tucked in and protected. The next morning we explored the village there, consisting of quaint little houses and a diminutive convenience store. Ben got to talking with kids playing Foos Ball at the store and was invited to play doubles. No mercy – winner take all. Afterward we paid a visit to an Italian couple on Evasione, the only other boat in the anchorage, and then we both lifted anchor to head one bay south to Avea Bay.

Oh, and this was worth the trip – brilliant colors in the lagoon, breaking waves on its barrier reef, sandy beaches and a colorful and quiet settlement of homes, pensions and restaurants. Other cruisers had found it a destination as well, as demonstrated by the number of us at anchor (about 8 or 9). We found this the best snorkeling so far, with a vast expanse of healthy and varied coral, a great variety of fish, immaculately clear water and, finally, no sharks. We stayed a few days, and would have happily stayed more.

But, we had accepted an invitation from Sylvie and Hérald to attend a performance (one they had helped organize) by the kids of a summer camp so we made our way back north to Fare. We assumed this would be a small event but it turns out they were pretty well organized. Kids and teens put on quite a show, a mix of traditional singing and dancing, with a little hip hop and break dancing thrown in. As always the costumes were colorful and larger than life. We said goodbye to Sylvie and Hérald the following morning as we prepared to make our departure from Huahine, and were sent on our way with fish, produce and shell necklaces in thanks.


Next stop: Tahaa.

Doing Time With Dick

Our passage to Tahiti, with Dick along for the ride, was a day and a half long (220 nautical miles) and uneventful. As the wind petered out we arrived in Papeete, the capital city of Tahiti, and French Polynesia in general, just as festivities were ramping up in celebration of Bastille Day. On the agenda were outrigger races, nightly inter-island traditional song and dance competitions and various ancient sports. The stone-lifting, fruit-carrying and javelin-throwing brings to mind our strong-man competitions back home.

We attended two song and dance competitions and were impressed by the grandiosity of the events, with upward of 80 dancers and 20 musicians, full costume and festive crowds. The dances are performed as a chieftain or Polynesian princess-type struts through the choreography, narrating the legend around which the dance centers. Family members and friends in the audience shout words of encouragement to the many performers on stage and sweep everyone up in their excitement. The rhythm section beat a nice tempo for the swaying hips and stomping feet as the dancers sweat, trussed in palms, grasses, flowers and shells. Meanwhile a panel of judges looks on.

While we amused ourselves with the festivities and the camaraderie of fellow cruisers on the quai, we also had the boat to attend to. This was our first opportunity to tie up to a dock, and thus our first access to a fresh-water washdown since Mexico. Aye, we were salty. And then there was the grungy, sweaty job of clearing out all the stores packed away in our stern that, for weeks, had been slopping sudsily about in our leaking laundry detergent. It least it was “eco-friendly.” We set out to splice a new snubber (a line that relieves the anchor chain’s load) and seek out new battens to replace the ones we’d lost or broke. The latter task remains undone and unlikely to be remedied until we get to New Zealand.

And yet, despite the festivities, despite the boat chores, the focus of our time and attention in Tahiti centered uncomfortably on our stowaway, Dick. Our feelings about Dick were mixed. We first realized there may be an issue as it dawned on us that, after our arrival, Dick seemed inclined to stick around. He has numerous family and friends in Papeete but no one welcomed him with open arms after his 4 years of, what now seems to have been, “exile” in the Tuamotus. And so he stayed. After a couple nights Ben told Dick he’d need to find somewhere else to sleep. But with that we discovered he instead spent the night sleeping in our dinghy. Well, that seemed a little absurd and, all along, he had tried to make himself useful so we welcomed him back in our fold. Certainly it was not a one-way street, as he cooked, arranged a driving tour of the island with his nephew Whitman and helped us see to the boat. All in all a fair exchange. And yet we couldn’t help but notice his self-destructive and rather adolescent behavior, the cause, no doubt, of his estrangement from his family. His first night in town he spent a third of his meager reserve of pennies on beer and drank into the night, slinking about town to avoid the wrath and disapproval of his centenarian grandfather. On the other hand he is warm, open and surprisingly honest about himself. We appreciated his help, and breathed a sigh of relief when we waved goodbye.

We spent one more night in Tahiti, south of town, to fuel up and provision ourselves with the very French amenities (and, sadly, very Polynesian prices) at Carrefour, the French equivalent of an upper-crust Walmart. Tahiti has so much more to offer than Papeete alone but we find ourselves in need of moving on, as my 3-month visa is drawing closer to its date of expiration. With Moorea inviting cruisers on the horizon, a mere hop away from Tahiti, it tends to be the next destination in line as you make your way, island by island, west. But, we’d heard through the grapevine that Moorea is steadily metamorphosing into one big mega-resort and decided that, as we’re now pressed for time, that we’d set our sights on the next island over and a half day away, Huahine.

Meet the Crusoes

We explored Toau first along its lagoon side. After negotiating Otugi Passe we anchored about half a mile south, along with a few other boats. There was a shack on the shore, probably for collecting copra, but no inhabitants. A short walk to the ocean side of the motu was lovely, except for the refuse washed up on shore. It seems that an inordinate proportion of flotsam is comprised of shoes and plastic bottles. The beachcombing here isn’t quite the treasure trove it was in Mexico. Surely there are shells to be found, but we are outfoxed again and again by squatters euphemistically known as hermit crabs. No shell is left unoccupied. The shore immediately south is known as le lagon bleu, the blue lagoon, a destination for visitors from Fakarava. It’s blue all right.

After a couple nights there, including a bonfire dinner with the Tahitians on the neighboring boat, we left for another anchorage a few miles north, this one off Maragai Village, a seasonal pearl farming settlement that now appears abandoned. Beacons led the way through banks of coral and we settled on a sparkling corner of the lagoon alongside coral shoals for snorkeling. Not a boat nor a soul in sight, not even a footprint in the sand. These were lazy days, spent swimming, reading and watching movies on the computer.

Eventually we left Toau’s interior lagoon, braving the breaking waves in leaving the pass, bound for a cove on the outer shore of the atoll’s northwest corner known as Anse Amyot. The entrance to this cove looks like a pass into the lagoon, but dead-ends in a labyrinthine coral reef. The colors here are intensified a notch, glinting in patches like a kaleidoscope with the passing of sun and squalls; this is the blue lagoon. We had read about the family that lives in this cove and their welcoming ways and, as if to prove the point, Gaston Damiens motored out from shore upon our arrival to direct us to one of a few mooring buoys. (These aren’t common here in the Tuamotus but they’re a godsend for anchors and coral alike).

The Damiens family has perfected the Robinson Crusoe lifestyle. Twelve people live here, all family members. There is a phone booth here (though it doesn’t work) but no other services. Their livelihood comes from an array of sources. Valentine and Gaston operate a small restaurant from which they welcome and serve passing cruisers. Cruisers also provide a wealth of trading opportunities, as we came to be as well. They maintain a number of fish traps in the ancient style, but are careful which fish they collect, as they respect evolving laws of environmental protection, and earn some governmental support by introducing certain “green” measures in their cove (eg mooring buoys). Every so often they patrol the lagoon-side beaches to collect the fish net floats discarded as detritus from the seasonal industrial pearl farm further south on Toau. These they sell for ~ $8 apiece. (Ben assisted Gaston on one such buoy collecting adventure). They operate their own small pearl farm, located on a tiny motu (islet) within the lagoon. Valentine’s sister and daughters run a pension (small inn) as well. In the meantime they have built a tiny village of dwellings, including a chapel (Valentine gives sermons every Sunday and leads the others in gospel singing). Toau is too sparsely populated to be frequented by supply ships, save one that they must rendez-vous several hours away, at the atoll’s southern pass, that visits once monthly to outfit the industrial pearl farm in the south. Any other supplies requires a trip to neighboring atolls, and a doctor’s appointment necessitates a trip to Tahiti.

One of the first sights we took in came as a surprise. Swimming from a motu across the cove, weaving around coral shoals and fish traps, was a dog, his brown head bobbing and obviously focused. We came to learn this was “Bobi.” Bobi belongs to Valentine’s sister and doesn’t himself get along with Valentine’s dogs so, in order to fish in peace, he swims to the motu across the way. Every day. And, he times his swims with the currents. In the morning he heads out, just off the beach and waits, antsy and whining, until the current starts to ebb. He spends the whole day at his motu, fishing and hunting SHARKS (that’s right, sharks), and returns in the afternoon with the assistance of the flood tide. Actually, all of their dogs enjoy hunting sharks. Go figure. Our first order of business, then, was seeing to dogs. Valentine’s oldest, Balou, was intensely itchy (again, dermatologic conditions) but also recently lethargic. I palpated a mass in his abdomen – not good news. But, as that may be benign, I thought it worthwhile to treat his skin problems and see how he’d feel. And, wouldn’t you know it, he perked right up and found his energy again. We told Valentine that the steroids were likely responsible for his new surge of enthusiasm and she asked if she could have some for her arthritis. Oops, that required a serious conversation. The others, Bubba (pronounced Booba, a la francaise, but named after Bubba Gump) and Nini (the only kitten to have survived life amongst dogs) got the full round of parasite control.

The other pet of sorts is an orphaned Frigate Bird that Gaston rescued. She only likes Gaston and snaps at any other passers-by. As her attitude is resented, she has been named Sarkozy-Bush. It will take 8 months for her to fledge the nest (a platform perched at the edge of their pier) and head out on her own. Gaston feeds her every other day, in hopes that she’ll grow a little slower and stick around longer.

Valentine and Gaston invited us for lunch (a home-style potluck as opposed to formal restaurant fare). Gaston grilled the assortment of fish he and Ben collected from the fish traps and we ate in style. Then conversation turned to their future and upcoming need for a larger motor boat. An American fly-fisherman once spent several weeks here with the Damiens family, delighting in the fishing. He offered to finance a new motor boat and two bungalows, if they would build them, so that he could return in November with friends to fish. So, Gaston was in need of a boat design. Well, Ben could manage that. He designed the boat in exchange for black pearls and shark teeth, and both parties were happy. Meanwhile, Valentine and I spent the day exchanging beads and shells, as we both enjoy making jewelry.

That night Ben was approached by Dick, Valentine’s older brother and the black sheep of the family. He asked if he could catch a ride with us to Tahiti, and asked if we would keep it secret from his family. Ben said he’d think about it, and then told Valentine what was up. We weren’t going to be party to a family deception. We had gotten the impression from Valentine that Dick was not a trusted family member, but he certainly had shown himself to be kind and Valentine vouchsafed for him. After much discussion between us, Valentine and Dick, we agreed.

The next day Valentine and Gaston brought us to their motu in the lagoon, to watch them cultivate black pearls. This is how it’s done: Several oysters (nacres) are collected from their baskets in the lagoon and gently pried open enough to peer inside. If the nacre (mother-of-pearl) is colorful, these are saved and cut open. The mantle of the oyster is the pigment producing organ and this is removed, trimmed of excess tissue and cut into tiny fragments (about 2 x 3 mm). Despite all this cutting and trimming, the mantle is still alive, and must remain so in order for this to work. These will be the donors. Then recipient oysters are also gently pried open. This is the delicate part. There is a small pouch in the oyster that must be isolated, and this is filled with a “nucleus” and the fragment of donor mantle. The nucleus is made from a special type of shell that comes from the Mississippi River; these are sold to the Japanese and then machined into perfectly round little balls. Anyway, they are the “seed” around which the fragment attaches itself, within the recipient oyster’s pouch, and the pearl is formed over a period of 2 years. These grafted oysters are checked one month later to see if the “seed” was rejected, and then every so often for general cleaning. It’s a pretty tedious process, especially as there are 15,000 oysters to graft. I imagine harvesting is the fun part. We ate lunch on the motu (again fish collected from a nearby fish trap) and explored the little motu while Valentine labored over the grafts. The shallows around the motu are carpeted in clusters of tiny, green sea anemones, and the long limbs of brittle stars wave from rocky crevices. Plenty of shore birds nest on this motu as well: white terns, red-footed boobies and black noddies.

Finally, time to go. My visa here is limited to 90 days, and these days are running out. We had yet to explore the Society Islands, the touristic center of French Polynesia. And Tahiti, the first of the Society Islands, would finally offer the amenities that the boat required, as various little repairs are in order. So, we got our stowaway settled and we set off on the 220 mile (day and a half) trip to Tahiti.

Moonbows and Black Pearls

I wouldn't have believed it, but I saw it -- a moonbow. A full moon is ideal for nighttime navigating around here. The atolls are so low-lying that it'd be tempting to run right into one if you couldn't see it. The moon sheds a little light on the subject. Last week it was shedding so much light that I was stopped short (I think I may have been cursing at some line, or maybe a wind change). The moonlight stole through a squally sky, splintered into its components, and formed a picture perfect rainbow, from sea to sky to sea again. Instead of Kodak colors, the prism revealed itself in shades of silver. Ben was shaken out of bed by my enthusiasm. (Couldn't photograph the moonbow, but why not the moon).

And this in a place that, in the light of day, is all about color sensory overload. I wish my vocabulary could begin to describe the array of blues this particular geospatial combination of light and water evokes. If any blue has a name, it's on full display here. Cerulean, aquamarine, turquoise, ultramarine, sapphire. These are in-your-face, masters of the obvious blues; nothing glum, depressed or remotely subtle. The kind of blues that would inspire Bob Marley as opposed to, say, Muddy Waters. And not just one blue in one place, but layers, gradations, juxtapositions....So blue I continue to be startled by the sight. And with a clarity that bespeaks jewels, gems, crystals and beckons you to strip down and jump in.

In Makemo we enjoyed getting to know Victor, his wife Marie and their daughters. We shared their father's day (and birthday) celebration and treated their dogs. All the dogs on Makemo suffer skin problems. Dermatology isn't quite my forte but it's especially challenging without a microscope. Getting used to "shotgun" medicine. Marie sent us home with a loaded doggie bag (poisson cru and birthday cake). We also made a little jewelry exchange: some of my beaded wares for a handful of black pearls. The customs officials would not be amused, but these are pearls of the imperfect sort so no one is being undercut. Still, we won't be announcing their presence.

The weather was a bit moody while we were in Makemo and the lagoon, as a result, wasn't as inviting in the way of snorkeling. After a few days there we left for Fakarava, an overnight sail. We settled in at an anchorage near Tumakohua, the southern pass, reknown for its diving. The village there, Tetamanu, was once the capital of the Tuamotus, but is now nearly abandoned save for the two families that live there permanently and a gaily decorated church made of coral and dotted with shells. They run a pension (an inn) and a dive center, pier-perched bungalows dotted along the coral shoals, right along the edge of the pass. The favorite pasttime here is drift diving (or snorkeling). You motor your dinghy to the sea-side mouth of the pass, grab hold of the dinghy line and jump in. The flood tide through the pass carries you and your dinghy right on through, no exertion required. Timing is important, of course, as an ebb tide would show you the door. The local dive center advertises, "If you don't see a shark, it's free." So we swam, we snorkeled, and we tried not to piss off any sharks. The variety of fishes and their garish displays were dazzling. Even the color-blind would be shocked to their senses.

We went to lunch with a British couple we met to a little pension north of "town." A nice water-conservation technique employed there is fish/dishwashing. The post-prandial dishes are lowered into the lagoon and the fish swarm for leftovers. Maybe it's not a good idea to be encouraging "begging," but it's a nice form of entertainment for us tourists. Oh and water is precious here, the only source being collected rain water. After lunch we took our dinghy to the southern rim of the atoll and took a stroll on the diminutive pink-sand beach of a motu (an islet) at that end. More snorkeling ensued. Not that it's all fun and games, mind you. We also scraped a verdant pasture of algae and immature barnacles off our hull. A sorely needed and much-postponed chore. It took us 4 days, and now we should really consider doing it again. Ah, the tropics.

After wresting our anchor away from its coral embrace we embarked north. We planned to stop at an anchorage along the eastern rim of the atoll, about half-way up, a trip of about 12 miles. We caravanned with the Brits (on Pegasus) and dropped anchor along a solitary and unspoiled motu (Outukaiga), with a coconutty beach, hermit crab denizens and water even, astoundingly, bluer. Aaahhh. This place deserved a stay of a few days, so we did.

Finally we wended our way through a buoyed channel to Rotoava, the primary village of Fakarava, population 800. Our first day there we were approached by two American women, Jane and Joan (on Casteele, also from Seattle) and asked to assist in their afterschool English program for the students there. They had been there 3 weeks, teaching daily, and were preparing for the school-end celebration, which would include student dancing and a recitation from each student in English. So I spent one afternoon with the class, prompting them to tell me their name, how many brothers and sisters they have and their favorite game to play (most preferred Play Station), in English. Jane and Joan were also busy spearheading a home study program in Fakarava and, amazingly, in the 3 short weeks they were there, they managed it. In these islands the students are sent away to attend Junior-High (College), at the young age of 11! And the only high school for all of French Polynesia is in Tahiti. This is pretty hard on families and, while the schools themselves are good, the boarding situation is a little out of control, with only one adult per 100 - 150 students. Can you imagine 100 twelve year olds with no supervision? So, anyway, Joan and Jane organized a home-schooling system, with the active participation of the primary school director, mayor and parents association. Pretty cool, huh?

Here we also met Cecile, a french woman, and Enoha, her Tahitian husband, owners of the Teanuanua restaurant. We'd gone there for lunch and, as I had stooped in the corner of the restaurant to pet one of their resident cats (one of the 4 cats and 7 dogs that lived there), I noticed her breathing was labored. This was the beginning of our daily visits to Teanuanua. With Ben as my able assistant, I drained fluid from "Minette's" chest and treated "Chausettes" and "Naike's" skin problems. We demonstrated how to give a cat a medicated bath (a prickly affair), and discussed the prognosis and options in treatment of "Minette's" more serious problem. Cecile and Enoha hosted us to a delicious dinner in thanks and we spent many hours exchanging stories and learning more about the culture and lifiestyle of French Polynesia in general, and the Tuamotus in particular. Good friends made along the way.

Ehona taught us the finer and more complex meaning of the Tahitian word Iaorana -- hello. And this is nice, so I'll reproduce it for you.
I Ora Na = past
A Ora Na = present
Ora = life
O/ = gift
Ra = Light
Na = future and forever
Translation: I wish you the gift of long life in the light, in the past, present, and forever. Nice way to say hello.

Another friendly Polynesian we encountered, Theodore, was in the process of gutting tiny little blue fish on the pier, as we were headed to our dinghy. We'd seen these fish while snorkeling and Ben asked if they were good. To prove how good they indeed were, Theodore cleaned about 30 of them and skewered them on stiff coconut fibers for us. He told us to dredge them in flour, season with salt, and fry. Which we did. And he was right - scrumptious. In exchange we gave him a bag of lemons from the Marquesas, and some dewormer for his puppies. So, as if he hadn't already been nice enough, he then gave me handful of black pearls! For what do we deserve this honor I can't say. But thanks! "Modudu" in Tahitian.

We rented bikes one day and road to a white sand beach (most beaches around here consist of uninviting shards of coral) and took in the sight of more shockingly blue water (See? I remain startled). Our outing suffered mechanical difficulty when the weld attaching the pedal to the rest of Ben's bike broke off. We tried fixing it with shards of coral (too brittle), sticks (too flimsy), and finally found a metal rod to do the trick. This made for a rather difficult contortion on Ben's part, to pedal without slicing his leg. This had gone on a little while; we had turned back toward the village to find a phone, far from any sign of human presence and, who should drive by but the very guy who had rented us the bikes. Problem solved. Ben rode a new bike (with a baby seat) and we enjoyed the rest of the day. With certain of our muscles having been out of commission for awhile, pain killers were required later that night.

Now what? Time to move along. June 30th was our cue to head north (a short trip of 14 miles) to the next atoll, Toau. More on that as it happens.