Blame it on the Weather

After nearly a month in the Vava’u group of Tonga we have finally made our short farewells to explore more southerly shores of these South Seas. We have our sights on the Ha’apai group, the lonely and lovely Cinderella step-sister to Vava’u in the north and Tongatapu in the south. But our goodbyes are to be short-lived, as we will return (just a short 70-mile sail) to Neiafu, in Vava’u, in a few weeks’ time to pick up a package and check out of the country before our departure for Aotearoa (New Zealand to us white folk).

We do a have a couple engagements that draw us back to Neiafu as well, namely castrations. Lisa, the Kiwi owner of the Tropicana café in town has asked that we neuter her newest rescued puppy, Moppy. Also, if our paths cross, we’ve got our eyes on the gonads of little Rusty, another rescue fostered by the folks on DaMojo. Just a satisfying snip, and one less contributor to the gene pool. I’ve been dispensing dewormer as if to satisfy a personal vendetta against all nematodes great and small (insert wicked snicker). DIE, parasites, DIE!

As we gybed our way out of Neiafu in 18 knots of wind, I reflected on the taste this part of Tonga has left in my mouth so far – fruity, with a touch of halitosis. The backdrop is beautiful, with coves, islets, bays and lagoons tightly clustered in a labyrinth of sea, sand, spits, caves and false passes. You clear a point and set quickly to reorienting, as the landmarks by which you navigate rearrange themselves in the blink of an eye, luring you to the reef that you thought was a pass – something like tracking the stone under the coconut. Keep chart in hand and all is well. While the nautical mileage from anchorage to anchorage never exceeds single digits, we always take the trouble to hoist the sails because the prevailing winds and comfortable temperatures (mid- to upper seventies, for the most part) make the sailing quite a pleasure here.

In some ways, though, a gray pall dulls our experience of Vava’u—literally, the clouds hang low and overcast skies, bathed intermittently in sprinkles or downpours, draw a damp and mildewed shroud over the mood of the people and the place. In Vava’u our social interactions have centered more narrowly than we’d like around fellow cruisers and palangis (expats in Tonga). Of course, as I’ve described, this harbor is a bustling one, in the way of yachties, so it is a good opportunity to meet and be met, discuss future routes and compare notes. And yet, it’s no surprise that this creates a vortex of gossip and melodrama, not-so-intriguing intrigue. It doesn’t take much of this before I need “OUT!” And yet the conveniences of town tend to draw us back, back into the thick of things. *Sigh*

Then of course there are the palangis, who we encounter as the, seemingly, only business owners in Tonga. So, internet, laundry, restaurants and shops—palangis of British, German, Aussie, Swiss, American or Kiwi provenance, always a recipe for nationalistic comparisons and complaints. *Yawn* The invisible barrier between palangis and local Tongans is barely invisible, and really quite discouraging. Often a barrage of complaints about local lassitude, thieving and ignorance is peppered with “but we love it here” and, as I’ve mentioned before, alternates with complaints about other palangis of whatever other nationality. So, whatever. But then, when we think about it, what about our own interactions with local Tongans? Well, that’s been pretty spare as well. In general, the Tongan’s keep us at arm’s length, in contrast to the welcome embrace of other Pacific islanders we’ve met. Not to say we’ve encountered any type of open hostility, mind you. Perhaps that can be easily understood as a sort of “foreigner fatigue.” But even when we castrated “Beauty” for the immigration official, his attitude toward us was hardly what you’d call warm. While we have met some open Tongans, our interactions are simply more aloof than any we had with Samoans and French Polynesians, who were quite easy to get to know. Samisi, a Tongan married to a German Palangi, summed it up nicely. He felt his horizons had been broadened substantially by his mixed marriage, to the now unfortunate position of feeling disdain for his fellow Tongans, and for the quibbling Palangis as well. In other words, he belonged nowhere outside of his own household.

And then there are the pigs and dogs. I won’t go into detail but the Tongan relationship with animals is not only negligent but openly abusive. With few exceptions my veterinary skills are only sought out by palangis, no wonder.

Here’s the scoop on George Tupou, V, recently crowned King of Tonga. Evidently he’s a drunk; when he travels, he carts his booze along. He is known to pad his pocket and, while his grandmother, conscientious when queen, extracted a modest salary from the Tongan government (she even took out, and repaid, a loan of $20,000 to buy her NZ residence), the monarch is now worth ~ 500 million US dollars. An international agency has rated the Tongan monarchy the 4th most corrupt government in the world. Interestingly, but not uncharacteristically, when paying a visit to Ika Lahi Lodge (where we’d met the friendly Kiwi proprietors Steve and Caroline), he racked up a tab of $2000 and left without paying the bill. Recently, while falconing in the middle east, he made a disparaging remark in an interview about his “ignorant” subjects. Word got out, inciting numerous riots, and spurring New Zealand to send peace-keeping troops. Not to worry, all’s quiet on this front at this time.

Call me “Debbie Downer” but here’s my last complaint: we came in 4th on the Friday night regatta! It was a hard fall with all the inflated expectation of our fellow cruisers, who had laid it on thick and assumed we’d leave everyone in our wake. Unfortunately we guffed the start with a poorly-led jib sheet and that’s all she wrote—couldn’t come back from that. But, we had an upbeat crew (9 of us altogether) and had a great time. We were awarded a Vava’u whale-watching DVD for our efforts and spent the night out on the town, celebrating our 4th place in grand style.

Anyway, time to move on—toward sunnier climes and sunnier moods.

Vetting in Vava'u

We left American Samoa with Nuiatoputapu (New Potato, to cruisers), the northernmost island of Tonga, on the agenda. We knew it was close by, something like a day sail away, so we were pretty casual about pinning it down on the chart. Ben had it in his head it was 98 miles away so we aimed for an afternoon departure. Finally I checked it out to be sure of the distance and, lo and behold, it was actually 152 miles away. Oops! We should have left earlier in that case, to avoid a nighttime landfall. So, instead we left late the next morning. Once on the “road,” Ben set to creating a track on our navigation program and he discovered I had chosen the wrong waypoint in my measurement and it was actually a passage of 200 miles. Well, shit, in that case we should have left at the crack of dawn.

We spent the first day out struggling to make quick time to Nuiatoputapu in hopes of arriving in daylight hours. But, the conditions proved unfavorable and, once again, way too light. We did see in the forecast strong winds approaching and, with further review, this made a visit to Nuiatoputapu seem unwise anyway, as it would make the next passage, from Nuiatoputapu to Vava’u, impossible, or at least foolhardy, for some time to come. As usual, plans change—on to Vava’u instead.

Vava’u is the main island and namesake of the closely clustered northern group of islands that help comprise the Kingdom of Tonga. This is a true monarchy so I guess that would make the locals here subjects instead of citizens. The king parcels out 8 acres of land to every male inhabitant on which to build or cultivate as he chooses. This king, George Tatoupu V, was newly crowned this year; we have yet to hear a kind word said about him. The land over which he reigns, however, is beautiful indeed, and made up of three island groups, from north to south: Vava’u, Ha’apai and Tongatapu.

Our arrival in Vava’u came with an untimely surprise. Although Tonga is located at 174° west, six degrees shy of the date line, Tonga has aligned itself temporally with Fiji, New Zealand and Australia. For all intents and purposes, Thursday, August 28^th, vanished into thin air. That put our arrival sometime late in the day on Friday, with customs and immigration officials tapping their watches, looking anxiously ahead to their weekend of leisure. A weekend arrival means a hefty “overtime” fee and self-imposed “house arrest,” confining ourselves to our boat in the midst of town. Our day was spent calculating our speed and remaining distance, pushing into head winds and, with a little luck, we just made it, the last boat to check in the for the week.

Our arrival in Vava’u came with another surprise. As we rounded the corner we saw a mighty tangle of yachts, 103 (yes, we counted) strong. Outside of Tahiti, this was the greatest conglomeration of cruisers we had encountered. I guess the northern reaches of Tonga could not technically be called the “middle of nowhere,” despite temptation. Most boats were tied to mooring buoys so we picked our way through the fleet and finally found a buoy to hitch up to. Here we found ourselves reunited with many of the cruisers we had encountered along the way.

Anytime a location is packed with this many yachties, a “cruisers’ net” is bound to pop up. This means a VHF radio channel is selected for a daily reporting of weather and local events, and as a vehicle for making contacts with other boats, seeking out parts and spares, selling or trading unwanted items etc. So, I got on the net and announced my veterinary services. This set the ball in motion and we were soon in high demand—with cruisers, palangis (expats in Tonga) and a couple locals. Every day brought new patients: Max with a broken leg, Bailey with heart failure, Melino with a plant toxicity, Tess with an ear infection, TC with a lameness, Benzeni with an eye problem and Beauty with testicles that begged removal. We hadn’t seen ourselves this busy for awhile and, believe you me, the animals around here could sure use the help. Packs of dogs roam the streets here with packs of pigs, like the Jets and the Sharks. All are neglected and likely abused, and both grace the tables of Tongan feasts. A group of locals and palangis pitch in to bring the one “veterinarian” from Tongatapu here once a year, usually to spay and neuter. After we castrated the immigration official’s dog, he suggested we advertise on the local FM radio station. But, man, we were busy enough for our time and resources and not quite ready for an inundation.

Outside of our vetting we spent time socializing, patronizing the plethora of palangi-owned restaurants (the locals don’t seem to be as entrepreneurial) and busying ourselves with the boat’s needs. We did a little hull-scrubbing (but handily avoided finishing the job when the weather turned foul), batten-building and outboard motor-cleaning (our dinghy flipped over in the wind, giving the outboard a nice, lengthy soak in salt water—oops!). Oh yes, and I spent the week limping about after stepping on the edge of a sidewalk in the dark. I sprained my ankle pretty well and wrapped it to keep the swelling and bruising down. We hunkered down at the Aquarium Café when the torrential rains blew through. A couple boats dragged anchor that night and one boat lost it’s foresail as it unfurled and flogged itself into strips of sail cloth. If we had left our dinghy full of water that night, perhaps it wouldn’t have flipped. This was the weather that we had avoided by redirecting our passage directly to Vava’u and, luckily, this main harbor at Neiafu is especially protected. A few poor souls attempted the passage to Vava’u from Nuiatoputapu; some turned back and others braved the weather and limped in exhausted, sea sick and a little worse for wear.

We met a couple on a racy looking boat from Auckland, NZ, a boat named Blizzard. Ben had been eyeballing this boat all week. Our own racy boat had originally been owned by a Kiwi, who had raced her in Auckland. We dinghied alongside Blizzard and Ben said “I bet you’ve raced against our boat before! Back then she was called Jesse James.” Well, damn right. Not only had they competed against our boat, they had raced on her as well and are good friends with Hamish “Moosh”, her original owner. “Jesse James! We thought she looked familiar!” We talked sailing into the night and now have another good contact for arrival in NZ.

After a week in Neiafu the weather finally lifted and we set off to enjoy this gem-like cluster of outer islands. There is a plentitude of anchorages peppered around these coves and islets, all just hours from each other, with steady easterly trade winds promising a lovely sail from spot to spot. Our first visit was to the island of Tapana, about 3 hours from Neiafu. We followed in our friend Moonduster’s wake…and then passed him. Hee hee. Our first inclination was to dive in for a dip, as two weeks in Pago Pago and a week in Neiafu harbor had left us craving a leisurely swim in tropical waters. Later we visited with Wayne and his guests Charlie and Helen, a young British couple crewing their way around the world, and had dinner with another large group of cruisers (in costume, for some reason) at the Spanish-owned tapas and paella restaurant. Dinner was followed by Spanish guitar music and dancing. The next day we snorkeled, hiked (gently and a little gimpy on my part) and picked shells on the beach. We planned to scrub the hull but a few too many jellyfish made an appearance in the anchorage. We hosted Moonduster, Helen and Charlie, and the next night Andy, Sandy and Emma from Imagine for dinner aboard. We soon came to realize we hadn’t had an evening to ourselves since our arrival in Tonga. Time to move on and get some solo time.

We sailed to our next anchorage of choice at Vaka’eitu, just an hour from Tapana. I saw a whale breach in the distance and, as we approached the spot, we tacked by a couple whale watching boats in proximity to a humpback cow and her calf. Exhilerating!! The humpbacks make this their winter birthing and breeding grounds, weaving around all us cruisers, and guides offer the chance to snorkel with the behemoths. I long to do this but the price is steep… Vaka’eitu proved to be my favorite anchorage here so far. A short dinghy ride away is the “coral garden.” If you brave climbing in and out via the rocky shelf in the surf, sustaining some coral cuts along the way, it’s well worth the effort. The variety of fish is about the same mix we’ve seen elsewhere, in moderate numbers, but really the coral backdrop makes all the difference. The best coral we’ve encountered so far would have to be Tahaa and Huahine, in the Society Islands, but the vast majority, even in the most remote of waters, tends to look tired, faded or downright dead. It’s a sad state of affairs; the apocalyptic reports of the loss of our coral reefs is no exaggeration. So, anytime the coral blooms and blossoms, shouldering out it’s encroaching coral neighbors in fierce competition, in splashes and swaths of color, we consider ourselves, and the resident fish, lucky. Later we hiked over the ridge adjacent to our anchorage to an idyllic beach, with luxuriant, suede-like white sand abutting turquoise shallows. After beating our way through the lush vegetation to get there, we dropped our gear and dove in for another swim. More coral beckoned. We had our first night to ourselves but, on the second, we joined the other boats around us for a bonfire potluck on the beach. We found ourselves outnumbered by Scandinavians and enjoyed the mixed company.

As we find ourselves closing back in on continental land masses to the west, we find an increasing variety of wildlife. There is a nice array of birdlife here, from kingfishers to parrots to owls (What, owls? Don’t ask me—they must have been introduced). Fruit bats (flying foxes) grace the twilight skies, a personal favorite of mine. Funny enough, if you squint so as to blur out the palm trees, these islands feel strangely familiar, just like gunkholing through the San Juan and Gulf Islands. Of course you’d have to ignore the turquoise reefs to make the mental leap.

Now we find ourselves back in Neiafu, back in town to compete in the weekly Friday night yacht race. I’ll let you know how we make out….

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.