Bora

I approached Bora with a few preconceived notions that should have been erased by my experiences elsewhere in Polynesia, but that I allowed to sour my expectations of the island. I envisioned nothing but recently-married couples and wealthy couples eager to re-live the recently-married days. I envisioned them dense in the streets kicking up dust, shuffling about rapidly, waving pocketbooks, a cacophony drowning the sound of the waves with an anonymous, never-ending murmur. I imagined that it would brutally change the way of these South Pacific islands, whose way I had come to so embrace. I wasn't the only sailor with these heretical thoughts (what did Bora do to deserve our judgement?) and I wasn't the only sailor to sit happily in the lagoon with his foot in his mouth.

True, there are a lot of hotels for such a small island. The lagoon, though, is large and most of the resorts primarily consist of slews of over-water bungalows that branch over the shallows from motus or, occasionally, the main island. They're really not very intrusive, and the visitors tend to spend most of their time hanging around their bungalows, as opposed to madly flocking the streets influencing everything around them with heavy-hand and brutish indifference. On arriving on shore, it looks and feels much like the other islands. There are more touristy shops and the higher rate of visitors does dull a bit the openness of the locals, but it retains the Polynesian charm and the people are as wonderful as those of any place. Even when the honeymooners and vacationers are out in force, everyone seems to have adopted well to the island vibe. In short, I was wrong; I had a lot more fun than expected. Bora is beautiful and tourists maybe aren't so bad.

When I first arrived, I spent three nights on a mooring ball outside of the main town of Vaitape. Gypsy Blues, Beau Soleil, Lay Lady Lay and a few other yachtie friends were around, so there were plenty of mates with whom to explore the island. The day after I arrived, Yohan, from Lay Lady Lay, and I hitch-hiked down the road to where Beau Soleil had anchored and met up with Falcon. The three of us swam across the lagoon to the fore-reef with the intention of harvesting some snails for dinner, but the swell was too big in the end. A Tahitian couple gave us a ride to shore in their skiff after they had finished harvesting Tridacna clams. On the way across the lagoon they offered us some of the plate of those colorful lips (mantles, really, not lips) attached to bits of white flesh. I ate a bit of a purple fellow. It had a strange texture, slightly tough but with a celery crunch, and a mild taste. I think a bit of coconut milk, some onion and lime would make it quite nice, though I don't plan to make a habit of eating the beautiful and very slow-growing creatures.

The next day, Falcon and I climbed the two large peaks with Brian and Terry of Off Tempo; on the way up the steep slope, as we stopped to admire the view, we met a few sailors, Shannon and Alex from a Canadian cat called Ruby Soho and chatted post-Bora plans for a bit. It was a fortuitous encounter, for I would be on a similar track as Ruby Soho and they had a boat of five awesome young people. We made it to the peak after one more steep section with some handy ropes placed. Then, Falcon, who was doing the hike barefoot, insisted that he and I attempt to break the record, which had been set at 15 minutes by him and Yohan a few says prior, for getting across the ridge between the two peaks. Reluctantly, I started the chronograph on my wristwatch and took off after him down the narrow trail, hurdling rocks and ducking branches and jumping over logs. I almost launched myself off of cliffs two or three times trying to keep up with Falcon, but we set the record at eight minutes. The view was pretty good, too.

On the way down, since we didn't have a whole lot to do that day anyway, we sat in the woods enjoying a sort of flight of coconuts. We drank coconut water from the younger specimens. From the slightly older, more yellow coconuts, we munched some of the meat that would be ideal for baking or pressing to make coconut milk. Then, from a sprouted coconut, which were abundant on the floor of this slope, we ate uuuu (pronounced oo-oo, though there is debate on the true Tahitian word), the substance left in the coconut as a two to three foot stem struggles upward and little roots seek a new water source. It's like coconut-flavored styrofoam in a good way. The texture is strange, and the flavor ranges depending on how large of a sprout you've got, but it's pretty tasty. Finally, from the base of the sprout itself, in the middle of the stem, a small bit of heart-of-palm can be harvested. It's a good treat. Coconuts are useful.

It was Falcon's birthday that day, so his parents brought Beau Soleil back around to Vaitape and a glorious cruiser-birthday party was had, complete with rum drinks and singing. The collection of gifts from fellow cruisers was comical and endearing to our mutual plight: a bottle of nutella, a jar of pomplemousse jam, a number of second-hand books. His parents were prepared, of course, and gave him a beautiful new paddle for his va'a (the outrigger canoe he bought in the Marquesas, which I had capsized three times in my first twenty minutes of paddling back in Huahine). It was another grande time, but I needed to get off of the mooring ball and see some of this lagoon.

The next day, I went around the island and anchored in the clear, sandy shallows off of Motu Taurere. There were other boats around, but none I knew and I was feeling the desire for solitude, so I spent the next couple of days alone, swimming, enjoying the beach and taking it easy. I could have stayed longer there, but I decided to go back to Vaitape, as it was Friday and I needed to get to the Gendarmerie. It felt irksome and a touch too momentous, but the time had come to check out of French Polynesia. I made plans to leave early Monday morning for Maupiti, only 30 miles west. Back in Vaitape, I anchored in 70 feet of water near Gypsy Blues, friends from Toronto, and Birka, new friends from Sweden. I went to the police station and checked out. It took about four minutes to become, once again, a nowhere man.

Back at the boat, the voice of Nick on Saltbreaker crackled through calling Ardea on the vhf. They were coming in from Raiatea the same afternoon with boat from Vancouver, Istupu. A party was soon in the making. Ruby Soho, a 48 foot catamaran, was the only one able to host the the Swedes, Henrick and Christine, Matt from Gypsy Blues, Nick and Alex on Saltbreaker, Istupu and Ardea. Already with five residing on Ruby Soho, Alex, Shannon, Adie, Dan and Jen, we had a solid crew and we made a concerted effort to finish the last of Saltbreaker's jerry-jug rum. To this end, we sat about the aft saloon laughing and passing round the gasoline can, taking pulls of the plasticy sun-aged Flor de Cana and sharing stories. It was a great time, once again a reunion amid fresh faces, the cruiser community growing still, even after three months on the circuit in Polynesia. I had perhaps one pull too many on the old jerry jug, as I would learn the next day that when I left I (allegedly) untied Saltbreaker's dinghy as well as my own. Nobody noticed but Henrick and Christine returned not long after they left towing the little fellow, who had been slowly drifing towards shore. Naturally, I've denied all charges, though there appears to be no other explanation possible, unless, on that very calm and windless night, the knot itself slipped free, needing not the hand of a drunken sailor. We may never know the truth.

Against all odds, Ruby Soho pulled the hook early the next morning and left for Maupiti. It was Saturday. I spent a few more nights expending my internet quota, taking provisions and arranging the boat for the longer passages to come. On Sunday evening, I very slowly hauled the more than two-hundred feet of chain on board and joined Birka at anchor in the shallows of the small motu just south of the pass.

I pulled the hook and departed with the first light that Monday morning. I motored out the pass and put up full canvas. It blew ten or twelve knots and I set about my day, doing chores, reading, chatting with an hf radio net as Esmeralda steered a fine course and Ardea made five and a half knots for Maupiti. By 1230 I was motoring into the narrow pass, pitching with a large swell and trying to keep a course maintaining the alignment of the approach markers on shore as dolphins made acrobats of themselves in the breakers on both sides of the channel. They were very distracting, but, as long as one uses both sets of approach markers, the pass to Maupiti was not nearly so terrible as some had thought back in Bora. I anchored near the motu by Ruby Soho and Birka. I rested a bit after the passage before pumping up the dink and moseying on over to the “cleaning station.”

I tied the dinghy up to a little mooring ball and put on my fins. I jumped in with my mask on and was immediately greeted, to my surprise, by a gigantic manta ray. Evidently, the harmless plankton-feeders come to this spot near the pass with lots of current and sort of bask as their gills are cleaned of parasites by little symbiotic fish. Most say the morning is the best time to see them, but I figured I might as well check it out in the afternoon, not really expecting much. But I ended up swimming with two of the magnificent beasts. It was an otherworldly experience. Their wingspans were more than ten feet and they moved with breathtaking grace. I managed to get only a few poor photos before my waterproof camera began letting water in again, but it was an amazing introduction to Maupiti.

I got back to Ardea and found myself after dinner hanging with the Swedes and thinking how this place seemed to have good things in store. Soon more friends would arrive and we had a big, beautiful lagoon and white sandy beaches. It felt good to have finally made that symbolic leap from Bora and we all smiled knowingly, somehow feeling that this island was a particularly good one.

Coral Garden Photos (Taha'a)

Here is a string of underwater photos. I'll try to get around to identifying everything and come back and write the names in, but I figured I'd dump them on here since I have the photo compression software...

A trigger fish, a damsel fish, and a parrot fish...

Giant clams (Tridacna maxima)

Diadema (black spiny sea urchins)

More clams.

Sea cucumber of some sort.

Fire coral. 

Christmas-tree worm on coral. 

Change afoot.

I motored over to Evergreen in the dink as they prepared to weigh anchor and sail to Bora Bora. We were in a small cove on the northwest side of Taha'a. The sky was overcast, matching the sentimental drear that seemed to be settling over the anchorages of the leeward islands as boats whose crews had only three months before been strangers were diverging out of French Polynesia. Heather had baked chocolate chip cookies to pass on to the crew of Ardea before Evergreen departed. We had planned to see each other in Bora, but after that nobody really knew. Even then, I had come to report our most recent change of plans.

Ardea at the quay.

After more than seven months living together on little Ardea, Taylor and I had to acknowledge that we were tired of one another. There's not much more to say about it. We needed a change- this boat is really small. I'm proud of what we did together and I know that without him as a co-conspirator, I may not be out here. Nevertheless, we agreed it would be best to make a change while our memories of the trip remained untarnished and our friendship remained strong. In the end, I would have a chance to satisfy my growing desire to single-hand a few thousand miles and Taylor and Anna would be able to make it to New Zealand and add to the coffers for a change. We poured rum and raised our glasses, a tension relieved at having made a decision on a matter of growing importance. The final days as a three-person crew were merry aboard Ardea and, in kind with our ways, we did not skimp on a celebratory drink accompanied by some animated reminiscing.

Taylor and Anna decided that they would be best off taking leave in Raiatea, just across the large lagoon from Taha'a. After touring about a shallow bit of motu-laden lagoon known as the 'coral garden', we motored back to the town quay in Uturoa, Raiatea. There the others set about making plans while I set about what would be a three day process of determining the problem with my electrical system; the alternator was failing to charge again, an issue that came to light (ha) after several overcast days when the solar panels couldn't keep up with our energy consumption. With the help of a Canadian expat who offers marine-related services to yachties passing through, I learned that the alternator's voltage regulator was burned out. He replaced it, but when I put the alternator back on and spun it up, I was still getting less than 12 volts. It was a frustrating time, already emotional because of the departure of my crew, made worse by the concurrent confinement to the quay. Long story short, the batteries were shot. I ended up replacing my two AGM house batteries with new slightly larger ones and getting a separate starter battery. The prices for the batteries, fortunately, weren't much higher than they would've been in the states. This was the right island at which to run into this problem, but it was an expensive start to single-handing no less.

When I finally got everything put together and got a reading of 14.2 volts off of the alternator, I happily moved from the quay and took a mooring ball on the northwest side of Raiatea. There, in the meantime, had gathered old friends Desolina, La Luz and Bombalero. I was excited to catch up with that crowd while enjoying a now remarkably ample power supply (it was pretty much revolutionary to get a battery bank that takes a charge consistently and an alternator that works!). With the latter two I went for dinner at Lisa K., a Tayana 55 from Fremont, CA. I had a great time meeting several new boats' worth of sailors and relaxing away the stress of costly boat repairs and lifestyle changes.

The next day I released the mooring ball with the main raised and sailed off wing-on-wing through the lagoon toward Taha'a. After six or seven miles of beautiful lagoon sailing, I furled the jib and rounded up to a south by southwest course to exit the pass on the southwest side of Taha'a. The waves were large because the swell and wind were blowing parallel with the pass, but, once on the ocean, I set the windvane and read my book as Ardea carried me on my first single-handed passage at a pleasant 5 knots toward Bora Bora.

Bora Bora is for many of the sailor contingent, the symbolic closing of the era that was French Polynesia. In three months in these islands, we had all seen and done more than we could possibly have imagined, and made lasting friendships in the meantime. Though many of us would carry on to the small island of Maupiti, still technically French Polynesia, after checking out in Bora Bora, this was the final hub that virtually all of the yachties would pass through and at which we would conduct our departure formalities. As I sailed the twenty-five miles from Taha'a, I thought back to our crossing from Mexico; it seems like a lifetime ago that we spent a month on this boat. It hardly seems real. Those four weeks from the middle of April to the middle of May seem almost a blank when the mind's eye glances back at them. Then the Marquesas and the Tuamotus and these Society Islands. There was good reason to be sentimental. We had been through a lot, we had learned, and we had looked out for one another. Though for more boats than my own the exit from FP represents a new chapter in this adventure, I'm happy to say that we survived this one and are the better for it. For my valiant crew members, I wish the most rewarding exploits with apologies for my imperfect command and the deepest thanks for their countless worthy contributions to the health of my ship and our crew.

Hiking in an unsuccessful search for the rare endemic
flower: Apetahi raiatensis.

Hiking Taha'a

Don't tell anyone about Huahine.

Huahine

Time slows down when you're being eaten by water. I can get some real thinking done in just less than the time it takes to utilize all of the oxygen I can hold in my lungs at once. A wave picks up over the reef quite quickly and on my last glance back I can see the coral refracted in the rising transparent face; when I look forward again, I might make the take-off, even make a turn at the bottom and watch the coral heads fly by underneath me. More typically, though, in as fast a flash, I'll be eaten, sent into the guts and fumbled over the reef as though in a washing machine. It's then that I might muse about how remarkable it is that I don't actually touch the reef, despite being so entangled in churning salt water. It's really rather a peaceful time, at the mercy of the wave, patiently waiting for the water to lose its foamy state of agitation, when I can see the coral again and the little fish darting about the cavernous expanse and take a breath.

My introduction to reef breaks in Huahine brought a certain stout learning curve. The first difficulty was convincing myself to paddle into a wave even as the already shallow water beneath me surged out toward the coming swell, bringing me even closer to coral. Then there was the steepness and the quickness of the take-off. Basically all aspects of the shoulder-high left we were surfing pushed my mediocre-to-poor skills. I was not without commitment though, driven in part by the indefatigable enthusiasm of Michael. On Ardea's first morning anchored in the shallows of the crystal clear lagoon near the town of Fare, we made the long paddle out from Barfly at 0730 and were treated to beautiful conditions and only a few people at the break. I didn't make it back to the boat until a little after noon. Mike stayed even longer. The next day, we returned. The swell was a little bit smaller and not quite as consistent, so we surfed even longer, wary of diminishing opportunity. I had Mike and our new friend Juan giving me pointers and by the end, not without much folly, I was riding waves better than I ever had. The thrill of that gorgeous break, the warm water and the beautiful scenery around made it one of my most memorable experiences in the Society Islands.

Fare, Huahine.

Fare was a fantastic place to anchor. We had more than the swell. The town has a really nice grocery store and a couple of rolottos that sell steak frites until nine or ten and by far the best happy hour we've had in French Polynesia, but it maintains a certain mellow atmosphere that is really appealing. It is a gem in the Society Islands, which otherwise lack the slow old island vibe that brings the Marquesas happily to mind. When the swell departed, we split our time between spearfishing and terrestrial exploits. The two united merrily in the end.

A view from Fare.

Happy hour. Left to right: Mike, Matt, Taylor, Anna

First day's haul. A big-scale
soldierfish, threeTahitian soldierfish,
and a convict seargent.

Our first day with the spears in Huahine was a learning experience. Specifically, I learned that I am an inadequate free-diver. Matt, from Gypsy Blues, and Chittick discovered similar things regarding the quickness of fish and the abundance of coral caves. We had enough for at least a portion of our dinner, though.

Later that day, Chittick, Matt, Anna and I set out on foot for the town of Maeva, where there are some well-intact ma'rae sites- ma'rae are the now-antiquated alters and ceremonial sites made of coral and volcanic rock. We set out walking, but hung our thumbs out, sure to turn and face the cars as they came to pass, since one gets more rides that way. Matt and Taylor got picked up first. Anna and I shortly thereafter. Our ride dropped us right there at the ma'rae, which couldn't be missed from the road, but Chittick and Matt were nowhere to be found. Anna and I perused about, reading placards and snapping photos and considering but then deciding against participating in the tour slash museum portion, which costs 200 francs.

Marae at Maeva.

 

Traditional fish trap- the fish are hearded into the
wedge where they can be collected easily. Some of
these traps are still used.

The lagoon winds between Huahine iti and Huahini nui.

Hilltop marae.

Still no sign of the others, so we began wandering down the road away from where we'd begun. We came upon a bridge, at the base of which lay an upright stone with the words painted, “Galerie d'art & ice cream.” We had no allegiance to continuing on the main road and it was hot. So ice cream, in the end, led us across the bridge and eventually to Cesar's house. We first came upon Mel painting and she directed us towards the house, where Cesar, who goes by many names, would help us out with the ice cream. Asked what flavors, he said “Coco, Pistachio.” Asked which was better, he said, “Coco... Pistachio.” We both got a scoop of each and before too long found ourselves touring the house and making plans for a barbeque with Cesar the following day. We asked if we could bring our friends and promised to bring some food.

We decided to bring cookies and a salad but Matt, Chittick. Falcon and I wanted to see if we could spear some fish to barbeque as well. It took us about six man-hours to collect (read: barbarously impale) nine soldierfish. We were proud of our take. We scaled them near the beach on the quay with bottle caps. A Polynesian girl couldn't bare to watch and came over to show us how to properly clean them, cutting so that the gills and intestinal tract can be pulled out in one fell swoop. We soon set off, I carrying a mesh bag of fish and each with his own supply of beer.

Taylor wields spear.

Matt, Falcon and Anna cleaning soldierfish.

We arrived at Cesar's again in groups determined by hitch-hiking. Hours of joyful banter followed, including periodic subtle jokes about the size of our fish; everyone knows that to get bigger fish, including of the species we had targeted that day, one has to go to deeper water. So, it was slightly emasculating as it was so clear to all that we were only able to get the 10-to-15-feet fish. We were made to feel proud of what we accomplished, though, and were encouraged to mange our fish (“so that we could say that we ate it.”). It was a riotous affair, and we were lucky to have a ride back to the quay, for all of Huahine was asleep by the time we went home.

Some pictures from beneath the surface:

Gaggin' for a Chin Wag.

For some reason, I used to stay up really late basically ever night. Looking back on it, I'm not sure I ever really had any reason to do so. I usually go to sleep much earlier these days, but there's no obvious answer to the question, which I ask myself as I'm getting into my berth at ten or so, as to what on Earth I was going to do for another four hours when it's dark outside. Anyway, there are some clear contributors. Electricity is a precious and very limited commodity, bars don't really exist and most of the places we visit are themselves asleep not long after sundown. Better to go to sleep early as well, get up early and fully utilize the cool, pleasant mornings and all the sunlit hours left on this journey. It's pretty much the ubiquitous approach among cruisers and it matches with the islanders' lifestyle as well. I was surprised, though, at my internal reaction when the folks at the Gump Station, graduate students and their assistants, for the most part, told us to return for a party in a few days' time.

I asked what time we ought to show up. “Eight or nine,” said one. “Nine is probably better,” revised another. Right. Of course. That is really quite normal, early even, for those used to the patterns of home. It didn't matter, though. There's no sense denying, we were really stoked to hang out with these guys; a whole group of new people who do something other than peruse about on sailboats that want to sit around, drink, and speak English? We would've showed up at midnight if they'd told us to. We wouldn't be fashionable late though. No, we arrived mere minutes after the prescribed hour and sure enough the whole crew was still at dinner.

We were soon joined in festivities outside at the fare potee, which is a a roof of palm fronds supported by a frame that sits on eight or so wood columns arranged evenly about the space, which lacks walls and, as we were to learn, accommodates comfortably two picnic tables and a sandy dance floor. We stayed up way past our bed times. Past a number of our hosts' bedtimes as well. Thus the party was moved into one of the lab rooms, where we found ourselves dancing to music with a low blue lighting and occasional white strobes. The lighting was, of course, used for the numerous now empty aquariums in the room. The strobe was designed to simulate lightning. Fancy that. (It's science). I can certainly speak for the sailor contingent when I say it was a memorable night.

The next afternoon, just after I woke up, rain clouds began to form. At first, it was a sun shower (one of the best things). After a while, though, it became a cloud shower and the clouds were dark and ominous. The idea that the rain was light and would not affect our hike up the magnificent Mouputa (really, Mou'a puta), which was planned for the following day, was simultaneously conceived and subsequently abandoned, on Barfly, Evergreen, and Ardea. It happened over a couple of hours. The rain was very persistent. In the end we needed not even discuss it. We all knew: Barfly, Evergreen, Ardea. We would have to wait.

Sun shower.

Cloud shower.

We passed the next two days with plenty more football. Mike and I attempted a surf excursion, itching for some waves (Mike was having a recurring dream related to a lack of surf). We took a bus and wandered with our boards and got loads of information about where there existed good breaks. Here, though, with this swell direction, “no good,” complete with frowny face and thirty-degree head shakes. We paddled out to a pass anyway, just to check it out. It was too small to surf- little waves just tumbling over only the shallowest part of the reef- but it was nice to be in the water. Later that night, we were fortunate enough to catch Prinze and Douglas, old friends from my last stint in Mo'orea. We rounded off a solid day of wandering with a few hours of joyful chatter with those guys. It was a righteous, as the Scotsman would say, 'chin wag', meaning, naturally, conversation.

Finally it came time to make our attempt at Mouputa. We started out at 0600 and were on the trail, thanks to an unexpected and very convenient ride, at 0630. It was a very different trail than Rotui. There were trees and shrubs about creating a jungle atmosphere- and it was much more shaded. There were a number of steep parts with some sections where you had to more or less rely on ropes (in spite of our attempt at patience, it was still quite slippery), but it otherwise felt easier than Rotui. The views were amazing at the top and it was well worth the trek.

The namesake hole in the mountain.

Cook's Bay.

The ridge at the top. Didn't walk that bit.

Summit shot.

Barfly and Evergreen took off for Huahine later that evening. We resolved to follow suit the following afternoon. I headed back to the research station where I had a great time catching up with Frank and Hinano, the intrepid leaders of the lab. After, I caught up with the young ecologists down at the waterfront. It was inspiring to be among them and I resolved to soon do science once again.

We sailed for Huahine with fair winds and somewhat sloppy seas. It was a quick passage, overnight, eighteen hours or so total. We anchored again among friends off Fare, the largest town in Huahine. We had heard the holding at the anchorage wasn't great, so we timed our arrival with diminishing winds that would give us several days of peaceful weather at anchor. It just so happened, the swell was simultaneously wrapping around to just the right direction.

AMERICA! (But actually, Mo'orea)

Where the roosters don't go.

There used to be a toy- maybe it's still around- that was a round plastic bit with a rotating arrow fixed to the middle. There were pictures of different animals around the perimeter. When the cord on the side was pulled, the arrow would spin and eventually fall upon one of the animals, at which point a speaker would play a recording of whatever noise that animal was liable to make. We learned our “moooo” and our “oink” and our “ baaahhhhh” and our “cockle-doodle-doo.” Something about the latter, though. Around the time this toy was a part of my life, I seem to have become accustomed to the notion that roosters crowed for the sake of waking up the farmer. If one kept a rooster, one could expect to know of the approach of the rising sun. I wasn't entirely misinformed. It seems, though, that roosters, at least in the South Pacific, warn one not just of an impending sunrise, but of the general and unending passage of time. They never stop. Eleven, twelve, one, two, three: rooster calls. It genuinely factors into discussions of various anchorages among fellow sailors; an anchorage might have poor holding, but if it lacks roosters, well then it's worth a gander. Unfortunately, in Mo'orea, the roosters are relentless, though we nonetheless remained anchored in Cook's Bay, altogether one of the greatest places on the planet, in my very biased opinion. It was over a period of several days, on a number of which I arose before sunrise, that I began to take seriously my observations of rooster behavior.

One evening as the sun was setting, the roosters called even as they ran headlong with panic into the bushes ahead of our waltz toward the Salle de Omnisports Paopao, where Michael, my Glasgowegian friend, and I had quickly become regulars for the nightly game of football (soccer). I noticed then that, strangely, the colorful birds never seemed to cut their calls off mid-way. Even as they sprang into the dense shrubs lining the road through Paopao, they finished with their “doodle-do” bit. Conveniently, though, and to my amusement, they announced our entrance to the building where we would meet with the local guys and await the conclusion of volleyball or whatever was going on. The following couple of hours were always grand. As in several other places in French Polynesia, we played five-on-five, first to score stays on, losing team goes off. Needless to say, if we ended up on the bad end of a short game, we were genuinely upset; maybe we were slightly histrionic, but if felt good to compete for a change. We would plop back down on the metal pipe that fits in a hole on the court to support a volleyball net when that's the activity in the omnisport and lament. Mike was usually pissed off- he would slide tackle a kid onto concrete if it meant staying on the court for another game. Who am I kidding, though- so would I.

That night we had played for hours and the local boys began to be quite fond of us, I think. They asked if we would come back again tomorrow (a demain, in French), but we told them it was unlikely, as we planned to climb Rotui. Most responded with a nod, saying, “Ahhhhhh, Rotui.” Some went on to warn us of treachery, but most just made sure we knew what we were in for and asked if we were going to come back for football after. To this I recall Mike, whose French is as poor as mine, responding that we would indeed return “a demain a demain” which means in two days if accompanied by an index finger arcing from one piece of air to another just farther along.

We had been on a good exercise binge, so we felt prepared to rise with the roosters, though they must never sleep, and set out on the intrepid hike. We got back to our boats from football well after dark. I ate dinner and opened my book, which Mike had come out against a few days prior, before I heard shouted from across the anchorage:

“Ay, you boys oughtta be gettin' to bed, eh?”

I sat in the cockpit reading One Hundred Years of Solitude under a flashlight.

“Well, man, I'm just too caught up in this book...”

“Oh, Christ. Well, we'll have to have a chat about it.”

“Yeah, well now I'm reading it with an eye to arguing with you.”

“Ha- right, well on ya go- we'll see ya in the mornin.”

Bright and early. And the roosters did crow, though it was well before sunrise.

I got up at 0500 so I could get some coffee and food in me before we headed out to meet with what had become a sizable expedition. Four boats represented- three people from Ardea, two from Barfly (Mike, the Scotsman with whom I'd shouted across the anchorage the night before, and Matthew, from London), two from Evergreen (John and Heather, from Vermont) and one from Vulcan Spirit (Richard, from London). We met at the dock at 0600 and set out to climb Mount Rotui, the peak separating the two great north-facing bays of Mo'orea: Cook's (Paopao) Bay and Opunaho Bay. We walked from our anchorage deep in the eastern Cook's Bay to the end of the peninsula dividing the two. There we began up the overgrown, indistinct, single-track trail to the ridge line, a veritable saddle, traversing its way toward the 900 meter summit. On the ridge we were highly exposed. Even with our early start, it was hot. Mike and I suffered from the proverbial foot in the mouth after having scoffed at the summit-post entry on Rotui warning to bring 6.5 liters of water per person. “Well, after reading that, we know to take everything else he says with a wee bit of salt,” was approximately what Mike had concluded while I rashly concurred as we were researching the hike. I had two liters of water myself; three would have been good, four plenty. In any case, the whole of our crew carried on like champions, remarkably chatty the whole way. The roosters stayed down at sea level; their calls carry better over water.

The path on the ridge was easy to follow, for to deviate more than a few feet in either direction meant tumbling down a steep facade. It was a four-limb hike in that one had to be able to use both hands to grab mats of ferns and small shrubs for balance. At times, the ground underfoot was sturdy; other times it was obscured by ferns and forbs, which created a springy, peet-like surface that often seemed a bit precarious. On one particularly steep section, we were excited to find some ropes strung along to provide some assistance. The ropes themselves seemed in good shape, though we didn't dare put too much weight on them. Good thing, too, for when we reached the far end of the first few lines, we noticed that there was for anchoring nothing but clods of fern roots. Alas, though, after about three hours, we made it to the top. The glorious views had us dangerously distracted the whole way up, but at the top they were all the more stunning. The weather, albeit hot, was perfect at the summit. We could see all of Mo'orea as well as the west coast of Tahiti in the distance. We stayed up there for a solid forty-five minutes munching snacks and indulging in conversation, which flowed easily in this group.

At the top [left to right]: Michael, Richard, Heather,
John (kneeling), Matthew, Me, Anna, Taylor

In fact, the level of chat was perhaps a bit too high as we began to meander back toward sea-level. It made for a bit of a distraction over portions of the ridge line that should have commanded all of our attention. I tramped downward engaged verbally basically at all times. Michael and I were discussing something certainly of questionable importance over one precarious portion when the mixture of fern roots and organic matter that made up the entirety of my footing gave out just as soon as my weight transferred to it. In an incredibly quick motion and without a sound, I flopped from the ridge and slid down about fifteen feet before stopping. Michael, probably wondering what happened to the sentence I had just cut off, turned to see me lying on a cushion of ferns and shrubs, saying only, “I'm down.” I was fine, though. Not a scratch. Really really dirty, but I had already been pretty dirty. I clambered my way back up to the “path,” now even more diminished, and we all sort of breathed that one in and had a laugh. It was lucky though, for sure, that I had fallen in a nice spot and nothing came of it. We all resolved to concentrate more on getting down safely so we could continue our endless banter with crew intact.

John and Heather on one of many false peaks.

Michael and Matthew scampering.

Richard on one of the more treacherous reaches/

Before too long, we had all made it down safely, if a bit dehydrated. We sauntered back toward the anchorage and drank cold juice and water and beer. It was grueling, but well worth the effort. We ate heartily that evening and made it an early night, though only after Mike, Taylor and Anna joined me out under the old fare pote'e at the Gump Research Station to hang with a few old friends and some new ones. Later we walked back to the dinghy dock with dragging feet and heavy eyelids. I soon fell into a deep slumber in spite of the garrulous poultry crowing on through the night.

Opunaho Bay.

Mo'orea with Tahiti in the background.

Opunaho Bay and the Pacific beyond.

Cook's Bay (our boats are down there somewhere).

More Opunaho Bay.