s/v Ardea: 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.