Overcome.

I've delayed beginning this post for weeks for fear of ending up with an unfair and resoundingly negative review of Rarotonga in these Cook Islands. I wondered if my reasons were all wrong as I contemplated such titles as The Crook Islands and the remarkably embittered Cook Islands: A Place And An Excuse. Even now I am not entirely sure whether the chosen title is result or disposition. Nevertheless, as I near departure from this place, I can look back and say that my life is richer for the experience. And, from now a more tempered point of view, I feel that I can provide a somewhat impartial account.

Firstly, the sail over here was glorious. I've reached the portion of the South Pacific that, especially given the time of year, is more or less constantly affected by a march of alternating high and low pressure systems as influenced by the South Pacific Convergence Zone, the Roaring Forties and the last of the winter gales from the Tasman Sea. As such, I left Mopelia with wind near the nose and proceeded to make about a dozen sail changes over the first day as the wind clocked slowly around from the northwest. I made barely 60 miles in the first day though I was content trudging along. As the wind backed and finally made its way to east-southeast, I began to make up for it. The second day saw 120 miles. Admittedly I was carrying a bit of excessive canvas to make up for lost time, making 130 miles on the third day and the final 115 miles from there in the next 22 hours. I was feeling great about the crossing as I dropped sails and began to motor towards Avaitu Harbor from a quarter of a mile out. It all changed so fast.

A knock came up in the engine. It got worse. Soon, at 2000 rpms it sounded like a machine gun was firing. I had to do what no sailor in the history of seafaring wishes ever to do. I shut down the engine, threw the wheel over and pointed back to sea from only a few hundred meters off the breakers. I put out just enough jib to maintain a touch of headway and went below to see about the engine. It was only a few minutes before I was quite sure that this issue was one I could not fix. After what seemed a very long time, I managed to get the harbormaster on the radio. I advised him that I was disabled, that I may need a tow but that I would see if I could come in under sail. I hoisted the main and unfurled more jib. I had to tack my way back to the approach line before settling in on a close reach past the breakers. I breached into the bathtub that is Avaitu, where I dropped an anchor as I swung the bow around to face out to sea again so that my stern could be moored to the quay. As I secured the boat, I began to realize how this harbor had gained its ill repute. The swell wrapped in basically uninhibited threatening constantly to back my transom into the concrete wall of the wharf. Without an engine to power off, such a situation would have been disastrous. I was bit tense.

Over the following few days, thankfully with the company of a good friend, Zac, who was meant to join the boat for a while and had flown to Rarotonga a few days prior, it became clear that the engine was basically destroyed after only two thousand hours since a full re-build. Now, I try to keep it clean in my writing, subscribing to the idea that my mother has always touted that curse words are a cop-out for thoughtful expression. I don't mind admitting, though, that in speech I am very much a sailor. And I sat in the unrelenting washing machine of Raro with an engine that was completely fucked.

Glad to have some mates about.

With the invaluable help of a local Kiwi charter captain-mechanic-drinker, Keith Christian, we pulled the sump off with the engine still in the boat to learn that I had thrown a rod and that the crank shaft was destroyed. Despite maintaining some degree of optimism for as long as I could, it was then clear that the engine had to come out. I weighed my options. I could be towed out of the harbor and sail straight to New Zealand without motor. I could re-build my no longer perky Perkins completely. I could fit a different engine in if one could be found. Or, I could sail the boat a mile or so off, open a thru-hull and let her go. Granted, the latter wasn't really considered, but my mindset was then dire and I knew that to stay in Raro for cyclone season was simply not an option. In fact, staying for even a few weeks or a month was painful as I was being charged daily for the pleasure of being tied up in this place. Fortunately, I had been allowed to move over to a somewhat more protected location where the few local fishing boats and a couple of small tugs sat. Still though, in the first days I had lines snap and a fair-lead on the stern rip out of the toe-rail. My boat is an extension of my body. The stress on her weighed heavily on me.

We pulled the engine out of the boat- a feat that was much easier than I had thought it would be- and set about looking for parts or used auxiliary diesels. Alas, it was the familiar British Marine in Oakland that was the only place literally in the entire world that we could find everything that was needed. Not even suppliers in the UK, where the engine was built some thirty years ago, had it all. It is difficult to describe fully how grateful I am to that operation. Soon assembled for shipment were a new crankshaft, a new conrod, a new oil pump, a new water pump, new main bearings, new conrod bearings, new thrust bearings and about a thousand gaskets. In the end, the cost to ship the parts was more than twice that of round-trip airfare from the States. So, while Keith left for a five day charter to Palmerston Island, I hung out with my mom, who graciously delivered the parts and made an impromptu holiday of it.

Zac took off for Auckland, my mom soon went home and Josh, another friend who decided to take a holiday in Raro, came and went. It had only been two weeks, though, and Keith returned ready to help me with the re-build. Naturally, as I would pessimistically come to expect, when we began to dismantle everything, we discovered that the drive-plate was also ruined, or nearly so, and should also be replaced. So I put in an order for one from New Zealand and was set back another week and another five hundred dollars (I knew I'd spend in Raro since there were bars and restaurants and all, but I've just now surpassed the four thousand dollar mark... note the new donation tab on the blog).

We stripped it all down and built it all back up and only somewhere in that process did we actually discover the source of the problem. I don't know who had rebuilt the engine, which was sold to me with a mere 1500 hours and marketed as pristine, but they did an incredibly half-assed job. There were seals put on backwards (alas the source of the ever perplexing oil leak), bolts not properly torqued and, the real kicker, four bolts too long. They were those that held the fresh water pump. Instead of bolts, studs were placed, which normally would be fine, except that they were spun in too far, akin to bolts that were simply too long. The internal pulley on the water pump slowly but surely ground away at the ends of all four bolts sending bits of shaved iron through the sump and eating away at everything. This explained why even the main bearings, which should stay perfectly smooth longer than the average human life, were etched like primeval carvings. Finally we understood why the conrod bearing of the third piston looked like the leper of machined parts and why all others were in various degrees of decay. I went through waves of anger and depression, but it was certainly a relief to know exactly how it happened so that we could be certain that it would not be repeated.

The engine is now rebuilt. It still remains sitting on the old rusty fishing boat to which I am tied. Given the abundance of time I've had here and the lack of much to do on this island, I made sure to have her done up right. I cleaned every inch of rust and oil and my sense of despair before painting her. There is no blue engine enamel on this island, so she's silver now. Everybody knows silver is a faster color, anyway. I'm estimating an added two to three horsepower after three coats. As Keith continued to declare even in the face of shockingly eroded pieces of metal, she would be a runner yet.

A few days ago, still awaiting the drive plate from NZ, we attached the starter motor with the engine sitting on the deck of the fishing boat and turned her over and over, bleeding her through and through. She spat and coughed and finally, as I stood using a screwdriver to short the leads on the starter to turn her over, she fired. Alas, she's a runner.

Tomorrow, Monday the first of October, the drive plate should arrive, barring any delays (fear not, I have learned not to get my hopes up). We will bolt that on and I will once again dismantle the galley sink and companion way steps so we can twist and torque and tumble the Silver Spinner back on her mount. Though I remain sad to have eaten so far into the time I had wished to spend in Tonga, I have learned a great deal here from this experience. To be sure, I've gone from knowing only basic diesel maintenance to having a damned decent grasp on diesel mechanics. It was an expensive course, but my hope is that I can rebuild the next one on my own.

It's curious to sit here now and try to provide a review of this island. I was lucky to have my mom and some buddies around, for there were no yachties at all for the first two weeks I was here and I would have been awfully bored otherwise. It's clear that I was lucky to have stopped here as well, for if my engine had shat the bed in Mopelia, for example, or if I had gone to Aitutaki to the north instead of the capital of the Cooks, my situation would have been that much worse. I can count my stars knowing that, in spite of it all, neither I nor my precious little boat was ever actually in danger (thanks be to the blessed sticks and canvas and the flow of air and the stubbornness to avoid always a reliance on that hunk of iron that is forever only a few metal shavings away from becoming an artificial reef).

Josh the pig-whisperer.

That said, I wouldn't come back here. Definitely not by boat and almost certainly not at all. I know that my experience is marred and that I have been here too long so that the charm has long since worn and I've been given too much opportunity to see the negative aspects of the place. But I find myself continually longing for French Polynesia. There are many wonderful Cook Islanders in Raro, but there are also some who so clearly resent all of the outsiders here and make no qualms of expressing it. It's the capital, though, and, like Papeete, the Polynesian hospitality is perhaps inevitably spoiled some by so many tourists and the persistence of economics. The pattern may be that the more flux of people and the faster the pace and the greater the influence of wealth and business, the more conditional becomes any sharing of community or love. No longer is the human condition enough to unite in such an environment, as it was on the little atoll from which I sailed to Raro or in so many of the places I've been blessed enough to visit on this journey. It is a reminder that the world can be a cold and fractious place. There remain, though, reminders in kind, all about, even in Raro, that people from disparate backgrounds can come together and share and be happy. I've had to squirm a bit to see it, but it is here. I have been fortunate to make some great friends on a fellow disabled boat, enjoy a beautiful landscape and share laughs with kind and generous locals and tourists alike.

Partying at Trader Jacks (again).

 So what can I say. Too long in Raro, that's all. Next time I cross the Pacific, it will be a stop in Aitutaki or Palmerston or Suwarrow or Penrhyn instead. Then, perhaps, I'll have a better perspective on this place. I don't hide the fact that I have had a lot of fun here, but I advise that I've also had a lot of frustration. I've gone through so many emotional stages and put in so much work and paid so many dollars that I feel just a little bit exhausted. In one or two days I will sail on, though, and I will have five or six days alone to reflect. In spite of it all, I remain exuberant as I will in a couple of weeks catch up to my friends that have long since sailed on from the Cooks. Though abbreviated, I will still see Niue and Tonga and, in just six weeks time, I will be approaching New Zealand, obstacles overcome, people and scenes and life seen in all their glory and in all their dirge.

Zac waiting. It's what you do in Raro.

The Hair of the Dog.

Anchored in the lee of the eastern motu, three boats floated on a glassy lagoon while the eyes of nine sailors gazed to the shoreline in search of the owners of a couple of wooden skiffs lying on the beach. Other than those boats, the only visible evidence of human activity was a few buoys and other scattered remnants. It was difficult to determine whether they were recently utilized or just dropped off by a passing storm and let be. We saw nobody around for a long time. The beach was quiet except for the tenacious hermit crabs, which wandered about by the dozens, always leaving a distinct track in the sand that led one directly to a three or four inch globe with bright red appendages scraping along. The sounds of the thick grove of coconut trees moving with the wind and the roar of the surf a quarter of a mile to the East were the only tracks accompanying the atoll vibe in Mopelia.

Once ashore, we found a couple of shelters just inland built in simple fashion from corrugated tin, wood and palm fronds. There was a small bed covered by an overhanging net near the beach that may have been one of the finest places for a nap on the whole planet. There was a small fire ring, some barrels and a bit of other miscellany. We moseyed around for a while before, at last, returning from fishing was Edgar, who lived there by himself. He harvested copra for export while living off the land and sea. He was from Maupiti and returned there from time to time, but there was no telling when the ship would come to bring supplies, load copra and offer him and the few other inhabitants an opportunity to visit home. It had been nine months since the last ship had called. The only other way off of the atoll was by helicopter, though its arrival could only mean an impending cyclone that would once again wipe the slate clean on Mopelia. The reality of those summer storms was reason for the construction of few and transient structures. He ate fish and lobster from the ample, healthy lagoon; he harvested coconuts for copra, for drinking, for eating and, of course, for brewing; and he lived happily, often in solitude but with few worries.

Coco whiskey, lagoon-side.

Edgar joined the lot of us for dinner on Ruby Soho, arriving in his little wooden skiff with a long tree-branch fixed as a mast, which saved him gas when his destination lay downwind and which we all found so endearing. He brought the first of what would be many jugs of Cosmos, the affectionately named wine that Edgar brewed from water (or coconut water), sugar, yeast and a splash of pineapple juice. The revelry that followed reflected such mutual joy, for us at having befriended such a kind, welcoming man and for Edgar at having some boisterous young folks with whom to share stories and experiences.

The following evening we set out with Edgar to the southeast corner of the motu where the breakers breached the fore reef and spilled into the lagoon with gusto. After a long time hoping for the opportunity, we were out to hunt for lobsters. Offshore conditions had been a bit rough, though, making the night-time swimming conditions all the more trying. We plunged in from the rocks well after dark and began to peruse about with our flashlights in search of the iridescent reflection of crustacean eyes. Most of us weren't wearing fins, instead taking the moon-walk approach to navigating the maze of coral heads in water two to five feet deep. With the current ripping toward the lagoon driven by the incessant breakers, we would leap from one footing to the next, calculating subconsciously the vector we might be able to achieve with a good push at whatever angle to the prevailing flow.

Admittedly, the process of moving around took so much concentration, looking for lobsters was not easy. As I began to learn the movement, though, it became a great source of entertainment. Shoving off with great force and squirming into position to make a landing when one inevitably became swept towards jagged coral was good sport. Edgar's concern for our safety was unmitigated by our enthusiasm and willingness, perhaps due in part to the eight foot lemon shark hanging out in the shallows with us. Even Edgar was exhausted fighting the current, though he pulled in as many lobsters as the rest of us combined in the meantime.

Our take was pretty good given the conditions. We caught eight lobsters total, though we threw one back because it was carrying eggs. All of them were pronghorn spiny lobsters. Back at Ruby Soho we grilled them up with garlic and butter and thus began yet another night of long-running feast and festivities. Edgar ducked out quite early though. I think he partly wanted to leave the lobster to us as the total catch was not very impressive in his eyes, but he claimed to need to rest off the lingering effects of the prior night knowing that on the following day we would be joining forces with the other two groups on the island for another iteration of seafood feast, music, wine, and Cosmos.

Adie (Ruby Soho) and Nick (Saltbreaker) chat with
Hio and Motu Mike.

This time the locals decided to take the lobster hunting business into the their own hands. We spent our day doing a bit of spearfishing (indeed we ourselves collected food of some sort every day on Mopelia) and some kiteboarding. I had been teaching Ruby Alex to kite since Maupiti. This time around, Saltbreaker joined in as well and Alex and Nick each had a go in the coral-avoidance game that is learning to kite at an atoll. It was good fun though and we worked up an appetite.

Riding into oblivion.

Ruby Alex, my first student, tearing it up.

 That night, the whole crew joined again for dinner. This time we met ashore at the small home at the central part of the motu where Motu Mike and his family lived. Hio came down from the northern part of the motu, where he lived with his family, to eat and party with us as well. We ate poisson cru, lobster and pizza (the latter provided by the sailors and greeted by our new friends with the same joyous sentiment we gave the lobster). Guitars and ukuleles began to make the rounds and the rest of the night quickly went awash with music and never-ending Cosmos. By the time we swerved our way back to our boats, we had made more great friends and Hio insisted we stop by the northern anchorage before we departed to eat coconut crabs and meet his family.

The next day we pulled anchor and sailed the three or four miles to anchor off the northern portion of the same long eastern motu. I planned to spend the night there and take off the next day to depart French Polynesia for real this time. My compatriots on Ruby Soho and Saltbreaker figured to stay a day longer than I before making way to Aitutaki; I had a bit of a longer sail ahead of me, with plans to make my Cook Islands stop in Rarotonga. Still, we were all excited for one more festive meal together and with the wonderful, if tiny, population of Mopelia.

I anchored, tidied and covered the sails and looked across the lagoon. The sun was getting low in the sky. It seemed about time to head to shore, so I rowed in towards Hio's house. As I pulled the dinghy up on the beach, I was greeted in rather routine fashion by a pack of dogs. Hio's family kept a bunch of dogs. There were three or four adults and as many in various stages of puppiness. Used to the treatment, I sought to mollify the spastic, barking animals. The adults quickly relaxed and wagged their tails, so I began to trot toward Hio down the beach, ignoring the two youngest dogs that followed closely and kept barking. Apparently annoyed at such disrespect, the cheekier of the two jumped and had a nip at the lower part of my right leg. I called him a bastard and inspected the leg. He made a bit of a scratch, just broke the skin. “Great. Planning to be on passage tomorrow for four or five days and a fresh dog bite. And a motu dog at that,” I thought to myself. Still, it wasn't a puncture wound or anything. I figured I'd clean it up with iodine later that night and keep an eye on it.

As I carried on toward Hio's house, I was uncharacteristically anxious about the dog bite. I was already in an extremely remote place, though, and headed out singlehanded the next day and I'd known so many cruisers who'd gotten nasty infections in the tropics. I couldn't help feeling wary and I think that compelled me to show Hio the spot on my leg hoping for little more than reassurance. He looked at the cut, nodded and asked, “Quelle chien?” This appeared to be of supreme importance. I wasn't actually positive which of the two little devils had done it, but I suspected one over the other. “Je ne sais pas. Une de les deux petit chiens.” Hio seemed to think I had showed him the cut to ensure that the appropriate chien was punished and to him the administration of justice was the foremost issue. I, of course, was more interested in whether any of the chiens had rabies. Still, he assumed it was the more obnoxious of the pair, which was my shared suspicion, and went about yelling at it and making threatening gestures until it showed submission.

By then, Saltbreaker had arrived ashore, Hio's family had given us each leis and my attention had diverted from the matter entirely. Some time later, though, after the Ruby Soho crew was also arrived and we were all hanging out with his family and Edgar, Hio brought the dog over. He took a knife in one hand and knelt down while holding the dog with the other hand. Bringing his knees in to keep the dog still, he held one hand under its neck and with the other hand brought the knife down. By this time, we were wholly unclear as to what was going on; for my part, having been tricked into eating dog in Maupiti, attention was focused with dismay on Hio's actions. To my relief, he brought the knife blade to rest at the base of a lock of hair and sliced it harmlessly free. Hio stood up and the dog meandered off as he brought the lock of hair over to me. He asked to see the cut on my leg and, using a lighter, began to burn the hair of the dog that had bitten me. When the flame burned out he quickly smashed the ashes into the wound. He repeated the process a couple of times, explaining that the hot ashes would kill the bacteria and then keep the wound clean while it healed. He advised me to keep it there for two days. I trusted him. I knew he wouldn't do it if it didn't work. I had seen and used ethnobotanical, traditional and survival remedies and had no reason to doubt them. Still, though, my mind seeks reason and I remain endlessly curious as to why it would help to use the hair of the dog, idiomatic expression notwithstanding. I sought council with my fellow sailors on the issue, as well as the question of whether I would stick with the hair of the dog or use some combination of the numerous antiseptics and antibiotics and sterile bandages stored on Ardea. In the end, I waited just about two days before cleaning the wound with iodine. Maybe it never would have become infected, maybe the eventual iodine saved me from gangrenous self-surgery, but the fact is, infection never showed any signs of commencing. Take of it what you will. Some laboratory.

It wasn't long before the attention diverted well away from the small ashen blot on my leg. We had yet another joyous meal, this time of fish and coconut crabs. I'd heard about the coconut crabs but never seen one. The huge legs and claws resting in the pots on the dinner table aroused curiosity in all of us. Hio promised to take us out hunting for them later that night.

Sure enough, we took a long walk through the motu, winding past the ruins of old buildings wiped out by a large cyclone in the nineties and through woods thick with coconut trees. Coconut crabs are a type of hermit crab that eventually discards the process of finding new and larger shells on its way to becoming large enough and strong enough to tear off the husks of coconuts to get at the delicious interior. They live in water dark cavernous place they can find on the islands and are active almost exclusively at night. Thanks solely to Hio's expertise, we found three and they were far more brilliant than even my enthusiastic, science-dork mind had anticipated. They were purple, orange and green. Their girth was impressive and they retained the long, narrow, curved tail of the hermit crab, much like a lobster tail. They seemed just like gigantic hermit crabs, as one would expect, but the lack of shell was uncanny. Their legs and claws were exceptionally strong and they would reach with their legs to try to hook one's shirt so they could pull themselves in close enough to pinch. Otherwise, as long as they were held properly, they were easy to catch once located. Hio stripped a piece off of a palm leaf and tied it around the carapace of the captured for a leash.

Gotta get some better coco crab pictures...

The next morning, Hio's family made all the sailors fish fritters for breakfast and we set off for one more naturalist expedition before I left for the sea. We trekked around to the fore reef and into the large, rocky expanse on the northern part of the motu where their resides a huge colony of sooty terns. We wandered through observing terns in every stage of life and getting pooped on. It was a familiar experience for me, reminiscent of nesting surveys and other biological fieldwork. In spite of the feces, I had a glorious time watching these birds, who were clearly very unused to disruptions, flock about madly, their little hatchlings panicking but unable to run more than three steps before falling flat on their face. Good exercise for everyone, I say.

It took some time to venture through the entire colony. We would stop and look in awe at the flocks relentless mobbing us and scattering across the ground and the sky but Hio would just beckon us on saying, "There are many more birds." Understandably, the deeper we got, the more irritated the birds became. We were treated to numerous displays of aggression. By the end, most had some sort of stick or twig to try to keep the diving birds from running into one's head. We saw loads of beautiful birds, though. We saw eggs hatch and juveniles running around and adults by the thousands. I was very glad to have stuck around for the added adventure. Evidently, the locals will collect some tern eggs to eat earlier in the season, but it's a bit late for that now, unless you like eating a well developed embryo.

When we returned, I made preparations to leave. With Hio's help, I quickly collected seven coconuts to drink on passage and bade farewell to Edgar, Hio and family. I wrote in Hio's scrapbook shortly before climbing into Tuerto and rowing toward Ardea, ready to go to sea. The others prepared to go diving with Hio at a wreck just outside the pass. I pulled anchor and started to put away when the boys from Saltbreaker and Ruby Soho sped over and jumped aboard. Hio, too, drove up in his skiff, tied it astern and lept up. I was quite appreciative of this departure procession; it is an endlessly happy feeling to be with so many amazing friends even at such a tiny, remote place. We shared our final laughs, Ardea lumbering along under the load of eight people and two boats in tow. I slowed just inside the pass and they all clambered down to their respective boats before I bid farewell, breached the pass without incident and took to sea. My introduction to singlehanding had been gentle. The passage from Maupiti to Mopelia was my first overnighter, but it took only about forty hours. From there I was embarking on a four-hundred-thirty mile passage to Rarotonga with a bit of a boisterous forecast. I set full sail in a ten knot northwest wind, hoping that my prediction that the wind would clock around within a day would hold true. Until then, it was a close reach in three to four meter seas. The swell direction was a bit mixed, but Ardea got her balance and the miles began ticking away.

A difficult pass yields a more glorious lagoon.

It seems to have nestled into the natural order of things to attempt to climb the peaks of any and all high islands as I wander from one to the next across the South Pacific. I set right to it with Ruby Soho the first morning after my arrival in Maupiti. Like most, the climb was steep, but as we've made our way through the Leeward Islands, the climbs have become shorter. The older islands in the chain are more weathered and thus generally have lower, if still very steep, peaks. In Maupiti, the payoff was among the very best.

A tropical lagoon seen from sea-level is beautiful; the color of the landscape varies wildly across all of the most stunning shades of blue, from the dark, endless blue of the depths to the torquoise and cyan of the coral shallows and the tinted white of the shoreline. Sandy motus dense with coconut palms and a mountain of volcanic rock laced with jungle greens mark the horizon line of this glorious scene. Seen from above, though, some of these lagoons reveal incredible patterns of features, achieving the impossible task of improving still the visual impact of the place. The same scene over this much larger frame of view becomes a living map complete with radical topographical features and wind and currents visibly weaving intricate patterns on the water, which itself reflects an even greater spectrum of colors. It is a sort of artistic bathymetry, visually stunning to say the least.

The lagoon of Maupiti contained a trove of such features. A large portion of the lagoon northwest of our anchorage held a massive latticework of coral basins, which created gorgeous colors and were reminiscent of the mineral ponds back home. The far north side of the lagoon contained a false pass, a near break in the lagoon, where shallow reefs lay about and just outside of which we could see a pod of humpback whales breaching. It was a fine, solid view, to be celebrated with a beer and a one-hundred-fifty franc sandwich on returning to the seaside, where there were a few small shops spread out over two or three kilometers among the homes that made up the remainder of the inhabited ring, perhaps 100 meters wide on average, around the island. It was a small island- forty minutes to jog around the perimeter road- and bade us the tranquility that characterized my favorite destinations. It was quiet and peaceful with warm, open people, rocky spires and green cliffs, the lagoon and the motus. For me, quintessential- embodying all that I love about Polynesia.

Maupiti from our anchorage at the motu.

The following day there was an influx of yachties. Thirteen boats in total lay anchored behind the motu just north of the pass, a mile west of the main island. Among those approaching, we anticipated the arrival of Saltbreaker and Gypsy Blues. Ruby Soho contacted the former on the vhf radio; they would be arriving at the pass just after noon. Alex, from Ruby, provided information on the pass conditions and feigned an excuse for our presence, knowing we would inevitably be seen on the beach of fragmented coral that lay just inside. We drove dinghies over about an hour early to formulate a plan of attack and figure out what sort of range we could get out of the surgical tubing water balloon launchers. Our intention was to bomb Saltbreaker just after they cleared the pass. Obviously just launching water balloons and getting a bunch of sailors and their boat wet was not enough- it could even be perceived as a favor. Thus, our arsenal expanded to include over-ripe papaya, bananas, two tiny Tahitian soldierfish accidentally speared the prior night in pursuit of their larger kin, and other oddities.

The plan seemed foolproof. They would come in past the second set of range markers and we would coax them to starboard, using the lie of shoals to port.

“How far over can we get them?” asked Adie.

Alex replied, “I'm not sure, how shallow is it over there?”

“It's not thaaaat shallow. I don't see any coral head from here.”

The first range test ensued. Instead of learning how far we could launch, we explored the effects of ultraviolet rays and saltwater on surgical tubing. I received the first of what would be several slaps from the blowback of burst tubing. Square knots. Next, a successful launch, but pathetic distance (and we were practicing with rocks). We moved closer to shore and prepared to fire again. Another burst, another slap with recoiling tube, another square knot, another missile heaved well short of mid-channel.

“We're going to have to get them to come pretty far over to starboard,” remarked Adie as we laughed at our ramshackle pirating.

“Good thing I told them I would be videoing. They'll just think we're waving them over for a better shot. It's not that shallow,” Alex replied.

Soon, Gypsy Blues was approaching the pass. They would be our first victims, though we would spare them the fruit and impaled reef fish. Cheryl maneuvered Gypsy Blues past the range markers into the less challenging portion of the pass while Renee and Matt stood watching for coral heads on the foredeck. The latter two saw us and waved. We waved back before quickly grabbing our weapons and preparing to fire. Our would-be-victims quickly realized our intentions and stood prepared for the shelling. Renee even began to taunt us with flamboyant arm gestures. At the moment of truth, though, the tubing failed again and instead of sending a barrage, we merely subjected ourselves once more to the slap of elastic recoil. So Gypsy Blues slipped by unharmed.

Saltbreaker soon approached as we stood waiting, resolving to draw the cord back with less muscle this time around and having reinforced one side of the launcher with more tubing. They came through the pass with Nick sitting on the spreaders; we watched as his body traveled several meters in each direction on the veritable pendulum that is the mast of a rolling sailboat. Sure enough, Alex began to steer the boat toward the starboard side of the channel, beckoned by us though with a confused look on his face. Once or twice he would straighten her out again and we would raise our arms and wave him over a bit more. Then, we raised the launcher, loaded half of a papaya with a soldierfish stuck inside and, yet again, the tubing was over-stressed and snapped.

“To the dinghies!”

We could not bear the thought of failing completely in what had become the day's activity. Ruby loaded into their powerful dinghy and I in Tuerto and we made haste to chase down our foe and attack the old fashioned way- by throwing things at them. Little did we know, Saltbreaker had made quick plans for defense. They had themselves a water-balloon launcher and attached it to the arch that traverses their cockpit. Soon fish and fruit were flying back and forth. Saltbreaker was having almost as much trouble with their launcher as we had, in the end splattering several over-ripe bananas all over their own deck. It was a comical endeavor though, no doubt, and nothing more than a few bucket loads of seawater was all it took to heal the damage.

Breadfruit ready for the fire.

With all of these boats about, we were excited to enjoy the social scene that had developed. Before long, we made plans for a cruiser barbeque on the motu the following evening. We collected breadfruit and coconuts and pooled a respectable collection of rum and cheap wine for what would be a grande affair. I believe every boat in the anchorage showed up for the revelries, evidenced by the numerous dinghies parked on the beach. We played a bit of coconut-bocce ball (Cocce, as it's now known), raced hermit crabs and had a fire. Saltbreaker, Birka, Ruby Soho, Cap's Tres, Gypsy Blues, and Ardea made up the core group and we sat on the beach watching the flames and laughing long into the night.

Cocce on the motu.

Hermit crab races. My crab, Pinchy, preferred to hang out.

Looking back, I must say that Maupiti was one of my favorite islands in French Polynesia, certainly in the Societies. Where for a long while we seemed to be getting further away from the old Polynesian charm and community, the jump from Bora to Maupiti was a sort of return to the Marquesan pace and hospitality. Aside from enjoying the great company of fellow sailors, a walk along the perimeter road would inevitably yield friendships with locals. For example, Saltbreaker and I moseyed up to a small home at which we were told one could buy watermelons. We informed the family, who were sitting under the covered patio not far from their large pile of watermelons, of our intention and they set out feeding us delicious watermelon samples. Then they started to feed us poisson cru, also wonderful. By the time we had paid for the one watermelon we needed for the beach barbeque, we had eaten a full meal and were gifted a second melon to boot. It felt good to be there, the end of French Polynesia ever looming, where we could again live the culture and feel a part of the community.

It was a week before I pulled the anchor and followed Saltbreaker out of the pass. We bid adieu to the motus and mountains and the archetypal community, bound for Mopelia (also known as Maupihaa), a small atoll one hundred miles west, where there were only a handful of inhabitants and the final big blue lagoon in which we would fly the flag of France.

Mantas in Maupiti.