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.