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.

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: