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.