Post 24
On the Shores of Paradise
August 15, 2010
10:35
Back at sea, I am once again content to write. On the 13th of this month, we departed Hakahau Bay with a moderating forecast. Our nearly two month stint in Ua Pou had come to an end. A sailing couple, Brian and Amanda (our first buddy boat) weighed anchor a couple hours before us and departed into the deep blue that lies between the Marquesas and the Tuamotu archipelagos. Our joint destinations: Kauehi, an isolated atoll about 500 nautical miles away that promises the easiest lagoon access of the “dangerous archipelago”. The Tuamotus are so named the “dangerous” or “low” archipelago because of their low-lying nature and close proximity. It's 76 coral atolls scattered across a NW to SE running swath of the South Pacific, all featuring palm trees as their most visible landmark. It takes a keen eye to spot an atoll from more than 5 miles away and when off the fringes devoid of palm trees, even less. We've began to employ the use of computer navigation to assure us that we're not going to hit anything. OpenCPN is a simple, but powerful navigation program I would highly recommend.
We weighed anchor mid afternoon with the mainsail up and the jib hanked on the forestay, ready for hoisting. Although Brian and I had previously repaired the 4HP Mercury outboard, it wouldn't have had near enough power to push us out of Hakahau through the headwinds. So we prepared to sail off. I slowly pulled up the lengthy scope while scrubbing off the 2 month's worth of scum that had accumulated on it. This leisurely maneuver turned a hasty one when I noticed we were drifting back. Fast. Along with drifting back onto the rocks, we were sailing straight for the only other boat in the harbor. Dan cried out that we needed a jib for maneuverability and I hand-over-handed the rest of the anchor rode onto the foredeck. With it loosely secured in the gypsy, I connected the jib's head and clew 40 feet away from ramming the other boat amidships. At my adrenaline-fueled hands, the jib went up the length of the forestay in 5 seconds flat. The extra windage pushed the bow off and we cleared to stern of the boat by just less than 2 meters. A stylishly executed tack and we were on our way out of Hakahau. Hoots and high fives would have been witnessed by all watching our sail off.
We sailed out, cleared the headlands outlying Hakamaii, and wore around to make our course to the Tuamotus. As we waved goodbye to the lovely Ua Pou, she beamed back a fantastic rainbow (a wonderful set off). The initial swell was confused as three wave trains converged: the tradewind NE swell, the bounce back off Ua Pou, and a SE swell from a distant storm off the Gambier. We had to toss a couple of reefs in the mainsail to compensate for the squalls that raked over us every couple of hours during the first night. Initial sailing wasn't too smooth. But, over the last couple of days, the swell has lengthened and we've been flying full main and our re-sewn sunbrella jib (thanks Amanda), dousing and hoisting it as the wind backs and veers.
It's beautiful tradewind sailing once again. Above the hazy horizon, a nearly half moon peeks out. The overcast has given way to spots of clouds that slide over the scape of the dark blue rolling swell. While it's not the most stable ride, I feel blessed considering I just finished Sebastian Junger's The Perfect Storm. This harrowing novel should be in every sailor's library due not only to it's fine literary qualities, but also to humble any bluewater cruiser to the power of the sea. The subject of the ocean courses through the veins of the novel and Junger made a point I feel should be repeated. One only discovered by men who sail the seas: she never gets tedious to watch. I frequently find myself lapsing into extended swell watching periods when I'm in the cockpit and I was glad to have them finally justified. He points our that there's always new wave trains colliding to form never-before-seen and never-to-be-seen-again swells patterns. It continually plays with the mind and the imagination of the ocean-going sailor.
We sail on and are now about 210nm from our waypoint outside of Kauehi, a little less than a two day run. We'll tack around outside waiting for slackwater (the period of tidal shift from high to low) and then we'll make our way through the, relatively, large pass and across the lagoon to the small settlement on the other side. The prospect of smooth, crystal clear water teeming with coral and fish have us anxious. But what lays behind? There's a full month of Marquesan life missing here.
Over the last month, we were completely pulled into the Marquesan lifestyle. For the better part of it, we lived, ate, and slept at Pesa's house. And in return for his unending generosity (a trait exhibited by practically every Marquesan), we built him two staircases and drank all his beer. The necessity of a structurally sound staircase made itself clear on our very first night there. After much wine and kai kai (food), Dan circumstantially failed to heed Pesa's advise to “walk down the middle” of his rickety stairs. What resulted was a terrific tumble onto a propane tank and, soon after, proper stairs. We worked from dawn to mid afternoon (beer 'o' clock) for almost two weeks and out came two beautiful, naturally-inspired staircases.
It all began with a chainsaw. Sitting under a tin roof in Pesa's mango tree scaped yard was a stack of 20-year-old, air-cured tropical hardwood. We pulled out the hefty planks and Pesa whittled them down to a workable size with his chainsaw. The nearly odorless planks were then handed to me for planing and belt sanding. What resulted was a fine batch of organic treads for our stairs. I finished Dan's plank ahead of mine, so he was able to begin assembly a day before. Throughout his assembly, I watched and questioned and by the time my final treads were coming off the work bench, I was prepared to assemble one myself. Concrete slabs were porn, with a few artistic touches, and the stairs went up. Some fine chiseling was required to get a uniform incline angle and handrails were appended. Pesa's wife, Madeline, came back from vacation in Moorea (Tahiti's sister island) shortly after their completion and was thrilled. In finality, we calculated the cumulative cost of labor at 65 beers and 10 boxes of wine. And we have a home for life in the Marquesas. First we have Pesa exhibiting his chainsaw master, then Dan and I's staircases, the concrete detailing on our respective staircases, the jig set to scribe the treads, and finally Pesa admiring his new main entrance stair:
While Hakahau quickly became our new home, this didn't stop us from exploring the rest of scenic Ua Pou by land. In finality, I managed to make it to 5 of the island's 6 majorly-populated bays: Hakahau (the big one), Hakamaii (the surf spot), Hakahetau (the other anchorage), Hakatau (the far side of the island), and Aneou (the airport bay and odd one out). Each of which required a 4x4, offroad adventure to get to. Our first exploring outset was lead by Pesa and it pinned Aneou and Hakahetau on the map. This was purely a sightseeing adventure on the sabbath (no work on Sundays, Ua Pou is inhabited by good Catholics). One of many beautifully carved maps on the island:
On a temperate afternoon, we hopped into his beat up Mazda pickup (I in my usual spot in the bed) and climbed the concrete switchback road overlooking Hakahau. The view from the summit was gorgeous and Leeway sat proudly in her little niche within. It didn't take long for the road to turn into a 4x4 adventure as we dropped in and out of river-carved valleys. We drove through, but did not stop in, Aneou Bay. And after ascending another mountain, we switchbacked back down into Hakahetau, population 200. The view from the top and a shot on the way over:
Each village on Ua Pou is different. Before roads were ever built between them, they were geographically isolated from one another. Each has its own water source from the peaks and their own independently developed culture. Pesa took to telling us a little bit about the pre-colonial relations between them. Haka, meaning war dance, implies that culture was very warlike, it's true as most of their dealings were warlike. The villages would fight each other in a glorified manner featuring two warriors. Each village would send their best warrior to a chosen battle location. Once present, the warriors would prepare for battle by performing a haka dance. (The haka is a visceral war dance featuring pounding of feet and hands, punching, kicking, and gutteral screams. Quite the experience up close). Once they have built up their mana (power), they brandish war clubs and commence in a one-on-one fight to the death. The victor then got to choose from the unfortunate's resources to bring back to his village, be it women, breadfruit, water, etc.
As we drove into Hakahetau, it quickly bared its unique feel. Hakahetau was a horticulturally-inclined town. Ancient mango trees canopied every road, each house had a well-tended garden, the roads were lined with planters ablaze with tropical flora. Flowers blossomed in every color imaginable and the entire village wafted a floral scent. We slowly drove down to the waterfront to watch the sunset. Blue waves pounded themselves against the wind-sculpted rocks until the declination of the sun put a cap on the sightseeing adventure. We wound back through the hills in darkness and finished the night off at Pesa's. We were up bright and early Monday morning to continue work on our stairs. From the beach of Hakahetau and the major drainage canal that ran through:
August 16, 2010A thing one quickly notices when exploring the Marquesas is that the water is not the highly-sought-after turquoise color that is advertised by Bora Bora and Tahiti. It has the same greenish tint seen up and down the Pacific coast of the Americas and the visibility is rarely better than 15 feet. Lucky for my thirsty brain, a poorly-translated informational board was posted in Hakahetau to give me the answer as to why. The phenomenon is known as endo-upwelling. Here, have a seat on my lap, dear boy. See, it all started 15,000 years ago at the end of the last ice age. At this time the Marquesas were thought to be fringed by blooming coral reefs, similar to the Society Islands. But then it got warm. Antarctic glaciers began to shed freshwater off the coast of South America and the Chilean current (a current many sailors have come to love) brought this freshwater across thousands of miles to the Marquesas. Coral polyps (the tiny creatures that build up the calcium carbonate deposits forming reefs) are saline beings and were slaughtered by the influx of freshwater. The reefs (without creatures to build them) have since descended to the depths and a new organism has taken over the consumption of nutrients: phytoplankton. Phytoplankton, a friend to all who enjoy breathing oxygen, are green. And when they converge on the nutrient-rich land in the millions, they turn the water green as well. And that's your science lesson for the day. You can get off my lap now.
15:00
We've sailed into the cusp of the Tuamotu Archipelago. We're but 70nm from our waypoint and 110nm from the pass into Kauehi. At our current speed of 5 knots, this would put our pass approach at 1800, a miserable time to be entering a coral-head-ridden lagoon. We depend on two factors coinciding to traverse this pass safely: good visibility [to best avoid hitting submerged coral (optimal midday)] and slackwater (so we don't encounter turbulence and overfalls upon entering the lagoon). So with a lack of the first (with a 1800 approach), we may heave-to at sea and wait for a good time the day after tomorrow. But if the wind picks up and we make 7 knots for the next 110nm, we can expect to enter the lagoon tomorrow morning. We're once again (and always) slaves to the wind. What I've been doing with my passage time:
August 17, 2010
09:45
Land-Ho! About an hour ago I spotted a line of palms on the horizon. It didn't take long to extrapolate (being the excellent GPS-assisted navigator that I am) that these palms swayed on the shores of Tairo, an island we are to round before approaching our atoll. At the moment, we're riding across the lighter-than-usual sea in a wing and wing configuration: main to port, genoa (genny) poled out to starboard. A 10 knot breeze pushes us from behind and we're glad to be making the low 4 knots that we are. There was a demoralizing departure of wind late yesterday afternoon. When we needed it the most to make the atoll by morning, she slipped out of our sails. The fair weather cumulus have given way to wispy altostratus and speckled altocumulus. Any sailor (without an SSB) worth his salt should know that this can signal the offing of a warm front or occlusion. But, instead of the wind increasing, it simply died completely. At times it dropped so low that we were just left with large, expensive curtains strung up the mast, flopping in accordance to the sea. The wind continued to be spotty until dawn this morning when, with triple espressos in hands, the curtains billowed out and filled. Since then it's been smooth sailing with our jury-rigged, poled-out genoa pulling us towards Kauehi. The altostratus never thickened nor did the altocumulus march across the sky heralding thunderstorms. They've since cleared and we're, again, drifting with the fair weather cumulus. We figured we got caught in a small convergence zone that cleared itself away before we could get too depressed. In a few hours we'll be entering the 10nm wide channel between Kauehi and Raraka. After making that, we'll be rounding up into the wind to decide whether on not we'll attempt the pass tonight or wait it out until tomorrow.
All this bluewater cruising has given me a lot of time to reflect on the wonderful culture of the Marquesans. I say Marquesan and not Polynesian because I believe there is a major rift between the Society and Marquesan Archipelagos. While there are many similarities, it seems the two have developed independently due to geographic isolation. Nearly 1000nm of deserted Pacific defines a unique boundary in the country. And voyages between them, the commercially available ones at least, are wildly expensive and are but a recent addition. This isolation has resulted in a lack of information exchange inherent to cultures of similar nature. This rift can be seen in one of the most paramount attributes of a civilized culture: language. Four major languages are spoken in the French Polynesia I've explored: Tahitian, Marquesan, Tuamotan, and French (Tahitian and French being the only official ones). French is a recent introduction, but being pushed hard by the education system has made it pervasive. Then there's Marquesan and Tahitian (we'll disregard Tuamotan, as I didn't really gather a lot of information on it), two languages separated by 1000nm of ocean and are understandably dissimilar. A few words are shared between the two, but without universal French, communication between a Marquesan and a Tahitian would have to be simple, aided by hand gestures, charades, and sand drawings (hey, it's always worked for us). As it turns out, Marquesan and Hawaiian languages are much more similar than Marquesan and Tahitian. This can be observed in one of the first words one learns in a language: “hello”. Everyone knows that in Hawaiian it's aloha and in Marquesan, it's kaoha. Furthermore, Pesa reports that when he went to Hawaii in his 20s for a soccer tournament, he was easily able to communicate with all the Hawaiian wahinis (women; which also happens to be the same word in Marquesan) by speaking Marquesan while they spoke Hawaiian. These items provide strong support for the theory that Hawaiians are ancient descendents of the Marquesans.
The Marquesans, being isolated from the core of Polynesia, are still controlled by the French and the Tahitians. Papeete, on the NW coast of Tahiti, is the capital and bureaucratic center of Polynesia. These people, French and Tahitian, make the important decisions regarding Marquesans, yet they are almost completely isolated from one another. Taxes and tariffs are adjusted to meet the needs of the larger and more developed population in the Societies sometimes at the sacrifice of the Marquesan's welfare. If I remember correctly, this sort of relationship didn't fare well for the British in the late 1700s. But French occupation hasn't only been detrimental to the Marquesans. They've brought in modern technology, an educational system, and socialized health care. But, still, some of these items have left a sour taste in the mouth of the Marquesans. It seems the early French education system attempted to wipe out the language of the the Marquesas. Pesa recalled to me having to poise his fingers upward and having them smacked with a board for uttering a word of Marquesan in the classroom. Since those days, the French have reconciled to teach Marquesan as a language for 2 hours a week, barely enough time to remember how to say kaoha. I've learned all these things from my experiences in Ua Pou, which I've yet to complete retelling.
On another lazy (or holy) Sunday, I was invited to a surf/BBQ by Teiki (Pesa's son). Teiki is a long-haired, work-hardened, pure Marquesan. A bit shy about trying to speak English at first, he later opened up to show some true intelligence. Through our patented methods of communication I managed to learn a bit about him. He finished college (up to 14 years old, here) and moved onto a trade school focusing on compressors in refrigerators, air conditioning units, cars, etc. Though, it seems his interests were broader than just that. He was able to tell me most of the constellations in the Southern sky, corrected me on which planet was Jupiter and which was Venus, and seemed to have an affinity for mathematics. Sadly, he's over-educated for any job a Marquesan is allowed to work on the island and hasn't been able to find one. He now passes his time by working around the house, helping his father tend the goats, and surfing the rad waves of Ua Pou. The latter was exactly the focus of our excursion to Hakamoii.
Two bays clockwise from Hakahau: up a concrete road, onto a dirt one, and then down in a first gear 4x4 adventure lays Hakamoii, the sweetest surf on Ua Pou. We arrived around midday into a wide bay with a gorgeous rock beach. Unoccupied bungalows were built just above the high tide line, and a deserted palm plantation held onto some of the land, but the only inhabitants were the cows and us. After we had set up camp, it didn't take long for everyone to into the 10ft+ waves slamming on the rocky shore. I, being the incredible surfer that the world has come to know and love, grabbed a body board and got my socks rocked by the waves. The gang eventually settled back in for kai kai. Happy to be out of the man o' war ridden water, we sat back, and watched the tide come in. And when the call of kai kai me tai (bon appetit) was sounded, we all crowded around the fire and dug in with our hands. Rasta man and friend timing the waves for their dive in and the gang just before kai kai:
August 22, 2010
12:50
After supper was finished, we slowly wound our way back up the rugged road leading to Hakahau. On this ride back, my Marquesan friends showed me another admirable characteristic of their culture. Teiki spotted the full moon rising through clouds from behind one of Ua Pou's headlands. An impressive site that the whole 3-car caravan elected to pull over and watch. Slowly, so slowly, the stark white shield, flitted by clouds, stood up through lavender luminescence of the tropical twilight. I was glad to see the locals are still humbled and amazed by the beauty of their land and don't take what they have for granted. It's not unusual for them to stop and take a moment to simply appreciate it's beauty. Even with their peaks, a sight they see every day, if a particularly beautiful vista of them arises, you can be sure that they'll stop to appreciate it.
Other events from Ua Pou, not in any particular order, include: the partial eclipse, the hunting expedition, a trip to Hakatau, Dan's birthday, and an abundance of coconut carving while sitting under palm trees (always cognizant to the possibility of gravity-induced death invited by such an activity). Let's begin with the eclipse. A highly-esteemed event on the 11th of July, people (white people) traveled from the world abroad just to witness it. Although we weren't in the path of totality, I did notice something was amiss the morning of. I woke up and, like any other day plopped myself into the cockpit, coffee in hand, to take in the scenery. It was maybe only 10% overcast, but the whole world seemed dim. Almost... cold, even. A very foreign feeling at this point. Curious, I went to check the time of the eclipse. Oh, right now. So I grabbed my handy eclipse viewing glasses and stared straight at the sun. The moon had taken a chunk out of it! It didn't take too long for the novelty to wear off, but it was interesting to witness an astral phenomenon as such. A photo I took, so you, too, can experience the rare alignment of our two favorite heavenly bodies:
The day carried on as normal, birds didn't swarm the locals, dogs and cats didn't make amends, and not a mention was made of it the entire day ashore. The informational posters warning against staring at the sun were slowly peeled off the walls in the next few days and life continued on. Onto the hunting expedition. Near the end of our stay, Dan and I (we brought Brian along as well) were invited to a hunting expedition. The mark: wild goats and pigs. The plan was to salt the meat and use it for boat rations. We had two rifles, Robbie's Ruger 10-22 and a Gendarm's 22 magnum. We went to site them in that afternoon and quickly figured out neither of them worked. But damn if we were going to let that ruin our hunt. We hopped back into the pickup and wound our way over to an open plywood house in Aneou Bay. The paper-wasp-infested hunting lodge:
When we arrived we took apart Robbie's 10-22 and gave it it's virgin cleanin' and lubin'. Robbie learned how to disassemble and reassemble his rifle down to the action. Now being seemingly the only person on the island who knew how. Reassembled, it worked and next on the list was the 22 magnum. This one was assigned to me. Now this arm was a mess. The pins holding the receiver together had been mangled by God-knows-what, the inside was filled with sand, and the action didn't even work when it was first handed to us. Many hours went into this one. I disassembled, cleaned, and lubed it and upon reassembly it still wouldn't even dry fire. Now surgery had to begin. After supper the rest of the crew, Dan, Robbie, and Pesa, retired, but Brian and I stayed up under the dim, yellow light 40 watt bulb that perpetually tinked with moths. We had to get this thing working. After we figured out the absurd trigger mechanism, we realized an internal lever needed to have a burr filed off. After the delicate surgery, featuring my leatherman as the main instrument, she was reassembled and dry fired. We exclaimed our victory and awaited daylight when we could sight it in. The, now, working 22 magnum:
The next day we successfully sighted in Robbie's 10-22, but the owner of the 22mag (a Gendarm) only gave us five cartridges to work with and thus his was never sighted in. Robbie ended up nabbing a goat for consumption and we had a good feast the next day. A few days down the road, the Gendarm came back for his firearm. He realized his mistake in giving us so few cartridges and we went up the mountain with a box full. I understand his hesitation to give us more as, on these isolated islands, every round fired is about 100 francs, or a dollar, out the door. But, nevertheless, he wanted his rifle sighted in by the local American gunsmiths, so he bit the bullet (an apropros figure of speech, if I say so, myself). On the mountain, we set up on a make shift firing range: a log was my rest, a plywood sheet my laying platform, and a painted plywood sheet my target. It took a few shots to figure out the scope was stiff and after a little gentle persuasion and 2000 francs into the hillside, I was getting quarter-inch groups on the 50m target. The Gendarm was thrilled and we came out of it with a delicious pineapple for our provisions. During the hunting trip we also gathered a 60 pound load of various kinds of fruit for Clara Katherine and Leeway. Here's Robbie tossing me a pomplemousse on this harvest:
Another trip I took was to Hakatau. Kieth, the friendly Australian bloke, offered it to me in exchange for my heavy-lifting abilities. It was on the far side of the island, but the ride was gorgeous and conversation nice. A shot of Hakatau from way up and another of Kieth:
Dan's birthday fell right on the brink of our departure, so it was a joint birthday/departure party. Kieth and Marguerite hosted, and the whole of Pesa's close family came to see us off. The kai kai was spot on, as always, and we had a jolly night before crashing on Kieth's lanai. Here's the happy birthday boy and the back of Marguerite's (Kieth's wife) head:
And one of my prime activities on Ua Pou was coconut carving. I discovered my love for it in Anaho Bay on Nuku Hiva, where palm trees lined every inch of the shore. I took to breaking open my own coconuts and drinking the effervescent water right out of them. But what to do with the shells? Toss them in the ocean? How wasteful, how about carving them. I began using my leatherman to carve out Marquesan designs and, while tedious, they generally come out looking pretty solid. Here's one of my favorite pieces, a tiki I inadvertently sacrificed to Neptune:
So, back to the future. Leeway has since sailed into her first atoll under our command. Kauehi, a medium-sized, isolated feature on the map is about smack in the middle of the swath of the Tuamotus. The economy is fully reliant on pearl farming and copra exports. With a population of about 200, Tearavero is the only settle on the atoll. And off this rugged little village is where we've made our anchorage. A shot of Tearavero, also known as Kauehi City:
As I had predicted, we weren't able to reach the pass before nightfall, but instead of heaving-to, we tacked back and forth across the channel between Kauehi and Raraka as to avoid losing time the next day to an upwind sail. After 10 tacks in the peaceful, gibbous-mooned night, we made for the pass at dawn. Seeing no overfalls in the wide pass, we decided to sail through. I jumped on the aft deck and tugged the outboard to life in case of an ebb tide. And that there was. Full sails in a 15 knot beam reach, 4 full horses of outboarding glory and we were only making 2 knots on the entrance. If the outboard hadn't given us our push, we would have been spun right around and thrown back into the Pacific. But, we eventually chugged through and found ourselves in the placid waters of a lagoon. I dropped the main to slow us down (if one hits something it's better to do it slowly) and we began to sail across the 7 mile channel to Tearavero. About half way to the village, Brian and Amanda of the Clara Katherine hailed us on the VHF and gave us the skinny on the anchorage: wide open, anchor anywhere. So we did just that and sailed onto our anchor over sand and coral at about 1000 hours. Throughout the day, the sun rose and further illuminated the iridescent turquoise waters that gleamed with coral reefs waiting to be explored. Clear water at last. A snorkel was taken while captain rested and then we headed ashore for our first Tuamotan steps.
Post snorkel, Amanda, Brain, and I jumped into the “station wagon” (Clara Katherine's large, soft-bottomed dinghy) and we wove our way through the coral heads into the crystal clear shallows near shore. We tied up on the supply pier and tread onto the soft, white-coral sand of Kauehi. Tradewind whipped palms were the largest features on shore and open plywood houses lined the main road. We hiked along the cement road and quickly found some locals to talk to. Amanda, using her French from high school, was able to communicate and translate. It turns out this family were the pearl farmers of the island and (to prevent a jealousy that often arises in such small communities) we stuck with them as our local buddies. A jolly group, they invited us to see their operation the next day, an offer we happily accepted. Brian arriving in the station wagon:
August 26, 2010
12:30
Our current situation. We left Kauehi on the 22nd bound for Tahiti. We've since arrived and are anchored inside a placid barrier reef lagoon. The tradewinds howl through the anchorage around the headlands, but we have a lot of scope out and the anchor's been holding tight.
But where was I, ah yes, the pearl operation. Before I go into the finer details of pearl culturing, how about a little history of the lucrative black pearl business. First of all, they're called black pearls not because of the color of the pearl (which come in tints from red to green), but the color of the oyster used to cultivate them. The industry started with South Pacific locals freediving depths of 80ft to harvest the oysters. They would use a rock as a ballast, for quick descent, and then would exchange it for black oysters on the bottom. This business got more and more dangerous as they had to go to deeper and deeper depths to harvest the oysters. The industry soon died off when free divers were unable to go below 200ft for the oysters. Black pearls disappeared from the market until the Japanese developed the Mikimoto culturing technique in the 60s. Pearling has since exploded and has become one of French Polynesia's largest economic assets. Being such an important asset, strict regulation has been applied to it. Every pearl bought and exported must have its own certificate of authenticity. Without this, harsh penalties are experienced.
To get to the farm, we motored upwind in Brian's dinghy towards the shack on the water. It was a shanty-built hut placed on a reef motu (small island) in the middle of the lagoon. As the water rose to the surface to meet the reef, it attained its famed South Pacific turquoise color. One of the farmers, Sebastian, guided us through the heads and we tied the station wagon to a coral head on the motu. A couple of rungs and we were up in the pearling operation. Sebastian coming to assist:
Each member had their own job, and a couple of other family members were around give any assistance. There was Josephine, the surgeon, Cook, the diver, and Sebastian, the driver. (Each person had a Tuamotan name as well, but their French ones were easier to remember). The first, and most intriguing, job I saw was that of the surgeon's. She had the responsibility of extracting the pearls and implanting new seeds. All day she sits at her table and extracts pearls. On her table sits a clamp (for holding the oyster patients), several different stainless steel tools (for the surgery), and two tins of water (one for reject pearls and the other for keepers). She begins by taking a pre-wedged oyster from a crate and inches it open with a spreader, and then sets it into the clamp. She pulls out one of her delicate tools, akin to dental instruments, and teases open the meat pocket that the pearl grows in. And with a looped tool she extracts the pearl and quickly assesses whether it's a reject or not. Then she has to make another judgment call on whether the oyster is still viable or if it's “mal”. If viable, she inserts a plastic bead as a seed for a new pearl and it's cultured again. If not, we break it open and munch on the delicious meat. She made the job look like a cinch and said she extracts about 400 pearls a day. Josephine extracting a beautiful pearl:
After we nosed around the operation a bit, Sebastian and Cook offered to show us the next step of the Mikimoto process. We grabbed our snorkel gear and Hawaiian slings and cruised out in their skiff. The location was reached quickly and we were told to jump in. And into the 70ft deep water we went. Through the hazy blue I could barely make out the coraled bottom, but the most prominent item was the string of oyster cages suspended midway from the surface by buoys. But we weren't there just to look around, there was work to be done! Three or four buoys were tossed into the water and I was signaled by a head nod to grab one. Cook, the diver, took the lead and kicked down to the oyster line (buoy in tow) and quickly made it fast with a double half hitch. I thought, “Hey, that looked easy enough, I've got a buoy in hand. Let's give it a try.” I kicked my legs up and started my 15ft free dive, buoy in tow. It didn't take long for me to notice the 20lbs of buoyancy inherent in the buoy's construction and the buoy popped right back up to the surface, with me in tow. It took a couple of tries, but I eventually managed to secure it to the oyster string and we moved onto the next.
This one was set noticeably deeper, but luckily there were no buoys to be hitched on. Brian, Dan, Amanda, and I were snorkeling along, practicing our free dives, when we collectively noticed Cook with a 1.8m speargun in hand (that's about as big as they get). We held off on our dives to see what he was up to with his big honkin' speargun. We saw him adeptly dive down 25ft, take aim at a pufferfish munching on the oysters, and fire. A perfect shot right, between the eyes. He then pulled it up and tossed it into the skiff to continue his puffer slaying mission. After he got a few more, we all hopped into the boat and sped back towards the motu. Now it was our turn to hunt.
Sebastian dropped the anchor onto a coral head and the skiff tugged gently back on the rode, bow into the trades. We adorned our snorkel gear and dove into the coral colored water. Below the edge of a reef shimmered with thousands of fish, all delicious looking. Brian and I grabbed our Hawaiian spears and Cook his big freakin' speargun. I wove in and out of coral heads looking in the crevices for the good fish. One doesn't want too big of a fish though. Generally, the larger the fish, the larger the concentration of the deadly ciguaterra neurotoxin. The rule of thumb is don't eat a reef fish bigger than your plate. We dove and we dove, mingled with the white tip reef sharks, and we dove some more. After many close calls and a couple of grazes, I speared my first fish. To christen my first kill, I, with it still flopping, popped out its eye and munched it down. Okay, not really. But I definitely had it for supper. After another hunting session on a different motu, I had speared a total of 3 fish (only 2 were keepers). When we started getting chilled the fish started noticing they were being hunted, we retired. The next day we made plans to meet up for dinner with the locals, but this night, we feasted on the sweet, sweet flesh of my kills. Another shot from the pearling motu:
From the short span of time we spent in the Tuamotus, I learned quite a bit about the people there (with Amanda as my ever-faithful translator, of course). They seemed to share many of the same qualities as the Marquesans: an open, generous heart, and a love for their land. They don't see foreigner's often on this island (maybe 40 boats a year and most keep to themselves), so when they sail in, they're welcomed with open arms. They seize any opportunity to break the monotony of their daily lives. When asked what there was to do on this remote atoll, we were described a short, few activities: pearl farming, copra farming, playing music, and attempting to garden in the white coral sand. So, when the great white explorer comes from lands afar bearing gifts of stories and fresh faces, they're quickly pulled in.
The next night we dined with the family. A delicious feast comprised of curried turtle (they call it green sea turtle because the meat is green), raw oyster in coconut milk, and bookoo rice. Post kai kai, the musical instruments were pulled out. An all-out jam sesh took place featuring two guitars, an ukulele, Brian's accordion, egg shakers, forks in beer bottles, bones, and a toele (known to the white man as a slit drum). We jammed late into the night fueled by cheap Mexican rum and the satisfaction of the patched together songs. The family just before we left to go back to the boat:
August 27, 2010
12:00
The locals had fallen in love with us, but they knew our stay would have to end soon. Clara Katherine and Leeway upped anchor around noon to hit the pass (an hour's sail away) at the appropriate tide time. A bit about tides and coral atolls. Although the total tidal change lessens in proximity to the equator, netting only about a 3ft change in tropical climes, 3 feet of ocean across 15 square miles is still millions and millions of gallons of saltwater. All of which has to flow in and out of the lagoon 2 times a day. And there is but one place for it to flow through on Kauehi, the pass, our portal in and out. During heavy flow, it can reach speeds up to 4kts, enough to cause some major disturbances to Leeway's cool. So the object is to aim for slackwater. A 4 times a day occurrence, it takes place on the changes of tides from flood to ebb. In this short period of time, the water is neither flowing in nor out of the pass, it's stagnant. Now normally we would consult a tide table on the atoll to find slackwater, but Kauehi is such a remote atoll that no such information exists. So we consulted the next best thing: the locals. We've since come to believe that our question was lost in translation.
We threw up our sails and had a 7kt beam reach to the pass in 20-25kt winds. The wind was a little high for our sail plan, but we knew it would be helpful if we had to pound through a flood tide. As we neared the pass, a disconcerting site befell us: a solid line of breakers guarding the exit into the deep blue. This meant there was a current, either inflowing or out, crashing against the wide ocean and creating turbulence. Not having a strong motor and really wanting our sailing adventure to continue, we tacked back and decided to wait for a more placid time to go through the pass. Clara Katherine opted for the same choice and tacked back as well. A couple of upwind beats and slightly off-the-wind reaches and we figured we had blown enough time and we approached the pass once more.
The breakers were still present but had subsided slightly, so it was decided to go for it. I dropped the 4HP into the water and we sailed into what could only be described as a washing machine. 1-3 foot waves splattered all across the pass in no discernible pattern and it sounded like we were standing under a waterfall. Leeway shook and shuddered through it bucking in and out of the steep chop. The outboard failed a quarter of the way through, but the sails were enough to pull us through. Astoundingly glad to be out of the washing machine, high fives were fairly distributed. Clara Katherine followed suit and used her 64HP diesel to power through. When we both got into the soft blue, we set course for the northern shores of Tahiti. The aforementioned washing machine (taken after exiting it):
It was a rough passage for both ships. A near downwind run coupled with 25kt wind and 3m seas rocked us all the way here. Leeway has no stability on that point of sail so she yawed and rolled substantially. Navigation wasn't difficult with our electronic charts, so we passed between two atolls, below another and set a B-line for Tahiti. Only one ship was spotted (besides the Clara Katherine) and it caused a little discomfort due to the fact that it was dead in the water (it's much easier to navigate around a ship that has a definite trajectory than one that can head off in any direction). In the end we were glad to spot the contours of Tahiti on the 3rd day in.
Shortly after we spotted Tahiti, we were hailed by Brian and Amanda. They warned us against entering Papeete due to a of anchorage space, and we had already decided on a different pass anyways: Tuanoa. With the sun falling and a transitory motor, we liked the look of this wide pass with well-lit navigation markers. We'd be able to sail in on a beam reach and drop anchor in the calm lagoon. The pass was easily navigable even in the dark, range markers gave us a straight shot in and the wind wasn't too heavy. I, once more, futilely tried to start the outboard and we were left to sail in. And it went off without a hitch. We ghosted into the still, night waters, rounded up into the wind and I dropped anchor in about 25m of water. She caught and we both got a, much deserved, full night's sleep. The next morning Brian rolled up in the station wagon to check out our situation.
He had entered the same pass as us the day before, but had then navigated a narrow channel to get to a completely encircled, reefed anchorage with yachtie resources. We liked his thinking, so I weighed anchor and we started to motor towards the pass. The 4HP was once again working it was going to be our mode of power through the coral-laced channel. Brian proposed that he tie his dinghy midships in case we needed extra power (the station wagon is equipped with a 15HP Mercury). And what a fine idea that was. Leeway was pushed by the 4 just to the entrance of the channel before it gave up. Brian quickly hopped into his dinghy and kept us on our way. There were a few problems with having the dinghy lashed to the starboard side though. It made it nearly impossible to turn to the right, especially when the wind catches the boat and pushes her over. So we did a spin in the narrowest part of the channel and many more trying to make the last corner through the eye of the wind. But after maybe 5 or 6 tries on the final corner, we rounded it and made it to the anchorage. The anchor set and we're safe and sound inside of a barrier reef on the NW corner of Tahiti. We've been enjoying the calm waters and the perfect climate since. Brian assisting, and Leeway sitting in our beautiful new anchorage:
Our current plan is to explore a bit of Tahiti (by foot and sea) and then depart for the leeward islands. Maeva Beach is our next destination, a beautiful anchorage south of Papeete with many yachties. Both boats hope to find a little work there.
A few more pictures that didn't really fit into the narrative:
On the Shores of Paradise
August 15, 2010
10:35
Back at sea, I am once again content to write. On the 13th of this month, we departed Hakahau Bay with a moderating forecast. Our nearly two month stint in Ua Pou had come to an end. A sailing couple, Brian and Amanda (our first buddy boat) weighed anchor a couple hours before us and departed into the deep blue that lies between the Marquesas and the Tuamotu archipelagos. Our joint destinations: Kauehi, an isolated atoll about 500 nautical miles away that promises the easiest lagoon access of the “dangerous archipelago”. The Tuamotus are so named the “dangerous” or “low” archipelago because of their low-lying nature and close proximity. It's 76 coral atolls scattered across a NW to SE running swath of the South Pacific, all featuring palm trees as their most visible landmark. It takes a keen eye to spot an atoll from more than 5 miles away and when off the fringes devoid of palm trees, even less. We've began to employ the use of computer navigation to assure us that we're not going to hit anything. OpenCPN is a simple, but powerful navigation program I would highly recommend.
We weighed anchor mid afternoon with the mainsail up and the jib hanked on the forestay, ready for hoisting. Although Brian and I had previously repaired the 4HP Mercury outboard, it wouldn't have had near enough power to push us out of Hakahau through the headwinds. So we prepared to sail off. I slowly pulled up the lengthy scope while scrubbing off the 2 month's worth of scum that had accumulated on it. This leisurely maneuver turned a hasty one when I noticed we were drifting back. Fast. Along with drifting back onto the rocks, we were sailing straight for the only other boat in the harbor. Dan cried out that we needed a jib for maneuverability and I hand-over-handed the rest of the anchor rode onto the foredeck. With it loosely secured in the gypsy, I connected the jib's head and clew 40 feet away from ramming the other boat amidships. At my adrenaline-fueled hands, the jib went up the length of the forestay in 5 seconds flat. The extra windage pushed the bow off and we cleared to stern of the boat by just less than 2 meters. A stylishly executed tack and we were on our way out of Hakahau. Hoots and high fives would have been witnessed by all watching our sail off.
We sailed out, cleared the headlands outlying Hakamaii, and wore around to make our course to the Tuamotus. As we waved goodbye to the lovely Ua Pou, she beamed back a fantastic rainbow (a wonderful set off). The initial swell was confused as three wave trains converged: the tradewind NE swell, the bounce back off Ua Pou, and a SE swell from a distant storm off the Gambier. We had to toss a couple of reefs in the mainsail to compensate for the squalls that raked over us every couple of hours during the first night. Initial sailing wasn't too smooth. But, over the last couple of days, the swell has lengthened and we've been flying full main and our re-sewn sunbrella jib (thanks Amanda), dousing and hoisting it as the wind backs and veers.
It's beautiful tradewind sailing once again. Above the hazy horizon, a nearly half moon peeks out. The overcast has given way to spots of clouds that slide over the scape of the dark blue rolling swell. While it's not the most stable ride, I feel blessed considering I just finished Sebastian Junger's The Perfect Storm. This harrowing novel should be in every sailor's library due not only to it's fine literary qualities, but also to humble any bluewater cruiser to the power of the sea. The subject of the ocean courses through the veins of the novel and Junger made a point I feel should be repeated. One only discovered by men who sail the seas: she never gets tedious to watch. I frequently find myself lapsing into extended swell watching periods when I'm in the cockpit and I was glad to have them finally justified. He points our that there's always new wave trains colliding to form never-before-seen and never-to-be-seen-again swells patterns. It continually plays with the mind and the imagination of the ocean-going sailor.
We sail on and are now about 210nm from our waypoint outside of Kauehi, a little less than a two day run. We'll tack around outside waiting for slackwater (the period of tidal shift from high to low) and then we'll make our way through the, relatively, large pass and across the lagoon to the small settlement on the other side. The prospect of smooth, crystal clear water teeming with coral and fish have us anxious. But what lays behind? There's a full month of Marquesan life missing here.
Over the last month, we were completely pulled into the Marquesan lifestyle. For the better part of it, we lived, ate, and slept at Pesa's house. And in return for his unending generosity (a trait exhibited by practically every Marquesan), we built him two staircases and drank all his beer. The necessity of a structurally sound staircase made itself clear on our very first night there. After much wine and kai kai (food), Dan circumstantially failed to heed Pesa's advise to “walk down the middle” of his rickety stairs. What resulted was a terrific tumble onto a propane tank and, soon after, proper stairs. We worked from dawn to mid afternoon (beer 'o' clock) for almost two weeks and out came two beautiful, naturally-inspired staircases.
It all began with a chainsaw. Sitting under a tin roof in Pesa's mango tree scaped yard was a stack of 20-year-old, air-cured tropical hardwood. We pulled out the hefty planks and Pesa whittled them down to a workable size with his chainsaw. The nearly odorless planks were then handed to me for planing and belt sanding. What resulted was a fine batch of organic treads for our stairs. I finished Dan's plank ahead of mine, so he was able to begin assembly a day before. Throughout his assembly, I watched and questioned and by the time my final treads were coming off the work bench, I was prepared to assemble one myself. Concrete slabs were porn, with a few artistic touches, and the stairs went up. Some fine chiseling was required to get a uniform incline angle and handrails were appended. Pesa's wife, Madeline, came back from vacation in Moorea (Tahiti's sister island) shortly after their completion and was thrilled. In finality, we calculated the cumulative cost of labor at 65 beers and 10 boxes of wine. And we have a home for life in the Marquesas. First we have Pesa exhibiting his chainsaw master, then Dan and I's staircases, the concrete detailing on our respective staircases, the jig set to scribe the treads, and finally Pesa admiring his new main entrance stair:
While Hakahau quickly became our new home, this didn't stop us from exploring the rest of scenic Ua Pou by land. In finality, I managed to make it to 5 of the island's 6 majorly-populated bays: Hakahau (the big one), Hakamaii (the surf spot), Hakahetau (the other anchorage), Hakatau (the far side of the island), and Aneou (the airport bay and odd one out). Each of which required a 4x4, offroad adventure to get to. Our first exploring outset was lead by Pesa and it pinned Aneou and Hakahetau on the map. This was purely a sightseeing adventure on the sabbath (no work on Sundays, Ua Pou is inhabited by good Catholics). One of many beautifully carved maps on the island:
On a temperate afternoon, we hopped into his beat up Mazda pickup (I in my usual spot in the bed) and climbed the concrete switchback road overlooking Hakahau. The view from the summit was gorgeous and Leeway sat proudly in her little niche within. It didn't take long for the road to turn into a 4x4 adventure as we dropped in and out of river-carved valleys. We drove through, but did not stop in, Aneou Bay. And after ascending another mountain, we switchbacked back down into Hakahetau, population 200. The view from the top and a shot on the way over:
Each village on Ua Pou is different. Before roads were ever built between them, they were geographically isolated from one another. Each has its own water source from the peaks and their own independently developed culture. Pesa took to telling us a little bit about the pre-colonial relations between them. Haka, meaning war dance, implies that culture was very warlike, it's true as most of their dealings were warlike. The villages would fight each other in a glorified manner featuring two warriors. Each village would send their best warrior to a chosen battle location. Once present, the warriors would prepare for battle by performing a haka dance. (The haka is a visceral war dance featuring pounding of feet and hands, punching, kicking, and gutteral screams. Quite the experience up close). Once they have built up their mana (power), they brandish war clubs and commence in a one-on-one fight to the death. The victor then got to choose from the unfortunate's resources to bring back to his village, be it women, breadfruit, water, etc.
As we drove into Hakahetau, it quickly bared its unique feel. Hakahetau was a horticulturally-inclined town. Ancient mango trees canopied every road, each house had a well-tended garden, the roads were lined with planters ablaze with tropical flora. Flowers blossomed in every color imaginable and the entire village wafted a floral scent. We slowly drove down to the waterfront to watch the sunset. Blue waves pounded themselves against the wind-sculpted rocks until the declination of the sun put a cap on the sightseeing adventure. We wound back through the hills in darkness and finished the night off at Pesa's. We were up bright and early Monday morning to continue work on our stairs. From the beach of Hakahetau and the major drainage canal that ran through:
August 16, 2010A thing one quickly notices when exploring the Marquesas is that the water is not the highly-sought-after turquoise color that is advertised by Bora Bora and Tahiti. It has the same greenish tint seen up and down the Pacific coast of the Americas and the visibility is rarely better than 15 feet. Lucky for my thirsty brain, a poorly-translated informational board was posted in Hakahetau to give me the answer as to why. The phenomenon is known as endo-upwelling. Here, have a seat on my lap, dear boy. See, it all started 15,000 years ago at the end of the last ice age. At this time the Marquesas were thought to be fringed by blooming coral reefs, similar to the Society Islands. But then it got warm. Antarctic glaciers began to shed freshwater off the coast of South America and the Chilean current (a current many sailors have come to love) brought this freshwater across thousands of miles to the Marquesas. Coral polyps (the tiny creatures that build up the calcium carbonate deposits forming reefs) are saline beings and were slaughtered by the influx of freshwater. The reefs (without creatures to build them) have since descended to the depths and a new organism has taken over the consumption of nutrients: phytoplankton. Phytoplankton, a friend to all who enjoy breathing oxygen, are green. And when they converge on the nutrient-rich land in the millions, they turn the water green as well. And that's your science lesson for the day. You can get off my lap now.
15:00
We've sailed into the cusp of the Tuamotu Archipelago. We're but 70nm from our waypoint and 110nm from the pass into Kauehi. At our current speed of 5 knots, this would put our pass approach at 1800, a miserable time to be entering a coral-head-ridden lagoon. We depend on two factors coinciding to traverse this pass safely: good visibility [to best avoid hitting submerged coral (optimal midday)] and slackwater (so we don't encounter turbulence and overfalls upon entering the lagoon). So with a lack of the first (with a 1800 approach), we may heave-to at sea and wait for a good time the day after tomorrow. But if the wind picks up and we make 7 knots for the next 110nm, we can expect to enter the lagoon tomorrow morning. We're once again (and always) slaves to the wind. What I've been doing with my passage time:
August 17, 2010
09:45
Land-Ho! About an hour ago I spotted a line of palms on the horizon. It didn't take long to extrapolate (being the excellent GPS-assisted navigator that I am) that these palms swayed on the shores of Tairo, an island we are to round before approaching our atoll. At the moment, we're riding across the lighter-than-usual sea in a wing and wing configuration: main to port, genoa (genny) poled out to starboard. A 10 knot breeze pushes us from behind and we're glad to be making the low 4 knots that we are. There was a demoralizing departure of wind late yesterday afternoon. When we needed it the most to make the atoll by morning, she slipped out of our sails. The fair weather cumulus have given way to wispy altostratus and speckled altocumulus. Any sailor (without an SSB) worth his salt should know that this can signal the offing of a warm front or occlusion. But, instead of the wind increasing, it simply died completely. At times it dropped so low that we were just left with large, expensive curtains strung up the mast, flopping in accordance to the sea. The wind continued to be spotty until dawn this morning when, with triple espressos in hands, the curtains billowed out and filled. Since then it's been smooth sailing with our jury-rigged, poled-out genoa pulling us towards Kauehi. The altostratus never thickened nor did the altocumulus march across the sky heralding thunderstorms. They've since cleared and we're, again, drifting with the fair weather cumulus. We figured we got caught in a small convergence zone that cleared itself away before we could get too depressed. In a few hours we'll be entering the 10nm wide channel between Kauehi and Raraka. After making that, we'll be rounding up into the wind to decide whether on not we'll attempt the pass tonight or wait it out until tomorrow.
All this bluewater cruising has given me a lot of time to reflect on the wonderful culture of the Marquesans. I say Marquesan and not Polynesian because I believe there is a major rift between the Society and Marquesan Archipelagos. While there are many similarities, it seems the two have developed independently due to geographic isolation. Nearly 1000nm of deserted Pacific defines a unique boundary in the country. And voyages between them, the commercially available ones at least, are wildly expensive and are but a recent addition. This isolation has resulted in a lack of information exchange inherent to cultures of similar nature. This rift can be seen in one of the most paramount attributes of a civilized culture: language. Four major languages are spoken in the French Polynesia I've explored: Tahitian, Marquesan, Tuamotan, and French (Tahitian and French being the only official ones). French is a recent introduction, but being pushed hard by the education system has made it pervasive. Then there's Marquesan and Tahitian (we'll disregard Tuamotan, as I didn't really gather a lot of information on it), two languages separated by 1000nm of ocean and are understandably dissimilar. A few words are shared between the two, but without universal French, communication between a Marquesan and a Tahitian would have to be simple, aided by hand gestures, charades, and sand drawings (hey, it's always worked for us). As it turns out, Marquesan and Hawaiian languages are much more similar than Marquesan and Tahitian. This can be observed in one of the first words one learns in a language: “hello”. Everyone knows that in Hawaiian it's aloha and in Marquesan, it's kaoha. Furthermore, Pesa reports that when he went to Hawaii in his 20s for a soccer tournament, he was easily able to communicate with all the Hawaiian wahinis (women; which also happens to be the same word in Marquesan) by speaking Marquesan while they spoke Hawaiian. These items provide strong support for the theory that Hawaiians are ancient descendents of the Marquesans.
The Marquesans, being isolated from the core of Polynesia, are still controlled by the French and the Tahitians. Papeete, on the NW coast of Tahiti, is the capital and bureaucratic center of Polynesia. These people, French and Tahitian, make the important decisions regarding Marquesans, yet they are almost completely isolated from one another. Taxes and tariffs are adjusted to meet the needs of the larger and more developed population in the Societies sometimes at the sacrifice of the Marquesan's welfare. If I remember correctly, this sort of relationship didn't fare well for the British in the late 1700s. But French occupation hasn't only been detrimental to the Marquesans. They've brought in modern technology, an educational system, and socialized health care. But, still, some of these items have left a sour taste in the mouth of the Marquesans. It seems the early French education system attempted to wipe out the language of the the Marquesas. Pesa recalled to me having to poise his fingers upward and having them smacked with a board for uttering a word of Marquesan in the classroom. Since those days, the French have reconciled to teach Marquesan as a language for 2 hours a week, barely enough time to remember how to say kaoha. I've learned all these things from my experiences in Ua Pou, which I've yet to complete retelling.
On another lazy (or holy) Sunday, I was invited to a surf/BBQ by Teiki (Pesa's son). Teiki is a long-haired, work-hardened, pure Marquesan. A bit shy about trying to speak English at first, he later opened up to show some true intelligence. Through our patented methods of communication I managed to learn a bit about him. He finished college (up to 14 years old, here) and moved onto a trade school focusing on compressors in refrigerators, air conditioning units, cars, etc. Though, it seems his interests were broader than just that. He was able to tell me most of the constellations in the Southern sky, corrected me on which planet was Jupiter and which was Venus, and seemed to have an affinity for mathematics. Sadly, he's over-educated for any job a Marquesan is allowed to work on the island and hasn't been able to find one. He now passes his time by working around the house, helping his father tend the goats, and surfing the rad waves of Ua Pou. The latter was exactly the focus of our excursion to Hakamoii.
Two bays clockwise from Hakahau: up a concrete road, onto a dirt one, and then down in a first gear 4x4 adventure lays Hakamoii, the sweetest surf on Ua Pou. We arrived around midday into a wide bay with a gorgeous rock beach. Unoccupied bungalows were built just above the high tide line, and a deserted palm plantation held onto some of the land, but the only inhabitants were the cows and us. After we had set up camp, it didn't take long for everyone to into the 10ft+ waves slamming on the rocky shore. I, being the incredible surfer that the world has come to know and love, grabbed a body board and got my socks rocked by the waves. The gang eventually settled back in for kai kai. Happy to be out of the man o' war ridden water, we sat back, and watched the tide come in. And when the call of kai kai me tai (bon appetit) was sounded, we all crowded around the fire and dug in with our hands. Rasta man and friend timing the waves for their dive in and the gang just before kai kai:
August 22, 2010
12:50
After supper was finished, we slowly wound our way back up the rugged road leading to Hakahau. On this ride back, my Marquesan friends showed me another admirable characteristic of their culture. Teiki spotted the full moon rising through clouds from behind one of Ua Pou's headlands. An impressive site that the whole 3-car caravan elected to pull over and watch. Slowly, so slowly, the stark white shield, flitted by clouds, stood up through lavender luminescence of the tropical twilight. I was glad to see the locals are still humbled and amazed by the beauty of their land and don't take what they have for granted. It's not unusual for them to stop and take a moment to simply appreciate it's beauty. Even with their peaks, a sight they see every day, if a particularly beautiful vista of them arises, you can be sure that they'll stop to appreciate it.
Other events from Ua Pou, not in any particular order, include: the partial eclipse, the hunting expedition, a trip to Hakatau, Dan's birthday, and an abundance of coconut carving while sitting under palm trees (always cognizant to the possibility of gravity-induced death invited by such an activity). Let's begin with the eclipse. A highly-esteemed event on the 11th of July, people (white people) traveled from the world abroad just to witness it. Although we weren't in the path of totality, I did notice something was amiss the morning of. I woke up and, like any other day plopped myself into the cockpit, coffee in hand, to take in the scenery. It was maybe only 10% overcast, but the whole world seemed dim. Almost... cold, even. A very foreign feeling at this point. Curious, I went to check the time of the eclipse. Oh, right now. So I grabbed my handy eclipse viewing glasses and stared straight at the sun. The moon had taken a chunk out of it! It didn't take too long for the novelty to wear off, but it was interesting to witness an astral phenomenon as such. A photo I took, so you, too, can experience the rare alignment of our two favorite heavenly bodies:
The day carried on as normal, birds didn't swarm the locals, dogs and cats didn't make amends, and not a mention was made of it the entire day ashore. The informational posters warning against staring at the sun were slowly peeled off the walls in the next few days and life continued on. Onto the hunting expedition. Near the end of our stay, Dan and I (we brought Brian along as well) were invited to a hunting expedition. The mark: wild goats and pigs. The plan was to salt the meat and use it for boat rations. We had two rifles, Robbie's Ruger 10-22 and a Gendarm's 22 magnum. We went to site them in that afternoon and quickly figured out neither of them worked. But damn if we were going to let that ruin our hunt. We hopped back into the pickup and wound our way over to an open plywood house in Aneou Bay. The paper-wasp-infested hunting lodge:
When we arrived we took apart Robbie's 10-22 and gave it it's virgin cleanin' and lubin'. Robbie learned how to disassemble and reassemble his rifle down to the action. Now being seemingly the only person on the island who knew how. Reassembled, it worked and next on the list was the 22 magnum. This one was assigned to me. Now this arm was a mess. The pins holding the receiver together had been mangled by God-knows-what, the inside was filled with sand, and the action didn't even work when it was first handed to us. Many hours went into this one. I disassembled, cleaned, and lubed it and upon reassembly it still wouldn't even dry fire. Now surgery had to begin. After supper the rest of the crew, Dan, Robbie, and Pesa, retired, but Brian and I stayed up under the dim, yellow light 40 watt bulb that perpetually tinked with moths. We had to get this thing working. After we figured out the absurd trigger mechanism, we realized an internal lever needed to have a burr filed off. After the delicate surgery, featuring my leatherman as the main instrument, she was reassembled and dry fired. We exclaimed our victory and awaited daylight when we could sight it in. The, now, working 22 magnum:
The next day we successfully sighted in Robbie's 10-22, but the owner of the 22mag (a Gendarm) only gave us five cartridges to work with and thus his was never sighted in. Robbie ended up nabbing a goat for consumption and we had a good feast the next day. A few days down the road, the Gendarm came back for his firearm. He realized his mistake in giving us so few cartridges and we went up the mountain with a box full. I understand his hesitation to give us more as, on these isolated islands, every round fired is about 100 francs, or a dollar, out the door. But, nevertheless, he wanted his rifle sighted in by the local American gunsmiths, so he bit the bullet (an apropros figure of speech, if I say so, myself). On the mountain, we set up on a make shift firing range: a log was my rest, a plywood sheet my laying platform, and a painted plywood sheet my target. It took a few shots to figure out the scope was stiff and after a little gentle persuasion and 2000 francs into the hillside, I was getting quarter-inch groups on the 50m target. The Gendarm was thrilled and we came out of it with a delicious pineapple for our provisions. During the hunting trip we also gathered a 60 pound load of various kinds of fruit for Clara Katherine and Leeway. Here's Robbie tossing me a pomplemousse on this harvest:
Another trip I took was to Hakatau. Kieth, the friendly Australian bloke, offered it to me in exchange for my heavy-lifting abilities. It was on the far side of the island, but the ride was gorgeous and conversation nice. A shot of Hakatau from way up and another of Kieth:
Dan's birthday fell right on the brink of our departure, so it was a joint birthday/departure party. Kieth and Marguerite hosted, and the whole of Pesa's close family came to see us off. The kai kai was spot on, as always, and we had a jolly night before crashing on Kieth's lanai. Here's the happy birthday boy and the back of Marguerite's (Kieth's wife) head:
And one of my prime activities on Ua Pou was coconut carving. I discovered my love for it in Anaho Bay on Nuku Hiva, where palm trees lined every inch of the shore. I took to breaking open my own coconuts and drinking the effervescent water right out of them. But what to do with the shells? Toss them in the ocean? How wasteful, how about carving them. I began using my leatherman to carve out Marquesan designs and, while tedious, they generally come out looking pretty solid. Here's one of my favorite pieces, a tiki I inadvertently sacrificed to Neptune:
So, back to the future. Leeway has since sailed into her first atoll under our command. Kauehi, a medium-sized, isolated feature on the map is about smack in the middle of the swath of the Tuamotus. The economy is fully reliant on pearl farming and copra exports. With a population of about 200, Tearavero is the only settle on the atoll. And off this rugged little village is where we've made our anchorage. A shot of Tearavero, also known as Kauehi City:
As I had predicted, we weren't able to reach the pass before nightfall, but instead of heaving-to, we tacked back and forth across the channel between Kauehi and Raraka as to avoid losing time the next day to an upwind sail. After 10 tacks in the peaceful, gibbous-mooned night, we made for the pass at dawn. Seeing no overfalls in the wide pass, we decided to sail through. I jumped on the aft deck and tugged the outboard to life in case of an ebb tide. And that there was. Full sails in a 15 knot beam reach, 4 full horses of outboarding glory and we were only making 2 knots on the entrance. If the outboard hadn't given us our push, we would have been spun right around and thrown back into the Pacific. But, we eventually chugged through and found ourselves in the placid waters of a lagoon. I dropped the main to slow us down (if one hits something it's better to do it slowly) and we began to sail across the 7 mile channel to Tearavero. About half way to the village, Brian and Amanda of the Clara Katherine hailed us on the VHF and gave us the skinny on the anchorage: wide open, anchor anywhere. So we did just that and sailed onto our anchor over sand and coral at about 1000 hours. Throughout the day, the sun rose and further illuminated the iridescent turquoise waters that gleamed with coral reefs waiting to be explored. Clear water at last. A snorkel was taken while captain rested and then we headed ashore for our first Tuamotan steps.
Post snorkel, Amanda, Brain, and I jumped into the “station wagon” (Clara Katherine's large, soft-bottomed dinghy) and we wove our way through the coral heads into the crystal clear shallows near shore. We tied up on the supply pier and tread onto the soft, white-coral sand of Kauehi. Tradewind whipped palms were the largest features on shore and open plywood houses lined the main road. We hiked along the cement road and quickly found some locals to talk to. Amanda, using her French from high school, was able to communicate and translate. It turns out this family were the pearl farmers of the island and (to prevent a jealousy that often arises in such small communities) we stuck with them as our local buddies. A jolly group, they invited us to see their operation the next day, an offer we happily accepted. Brian arriving in the station wagon:
August 26, 2010
12:30
Our current situation. We left Kauehi on the 22nd bound for Tahiti. We've since arrived and are anchored inside a placid barrier reef lagoon. The tradewinds howl through the anchorage around the headlands, but we have a lot of scope out and the anchor's been holding tight.
But where was I, ah yes, the pearl operation. Before I go into the finer details of pearl culturing, how about a little history of the lucrative black pearl business. First of all, they're called black pearls not because of the color of the pearl (which come in tints from red to green), but the color of the oyster used to cultivate them. The industry started with South Pacific locals freediving depths of 80ft to harvest the oysters. They would use a rock as a ballast, for quick descent, and then would exchange it for black oysters on the bottom. This business got more and more dangerous as they had to go to deeper and deeper depths to harvest the oysters. The industry soon died off when free divers were unable to go below 200ft for the oysters. Black pearls disappeared from the market until the Japanese developed the Mikimoto culturing technique in the 60s. Pearling has since exploded and has become one of French Polynesia's largest economic assets. Being such an important asset, strict regulation has been applied to it. Every pearl bought and exported must have its own certificate of authenticity. Without this, harsh penalties are experienced.
To get to the farm, we motored upwind in Brian's dinghy towards the shack on the water. It was a shanty-built hut placed on a reef motu (small island) in the middle of the lagoon. As the water rose to the surface to meet the reef, it attained its famed South Pacific turquoise color. One of the farmers, Sebastian, guided us through the heads and we tied the station wagon to a coral head on the motu. A couple of rungs and we were up in the pearling operation. Sebastian coming to assist:
Each member had their own job, and a couple of other family members were around give any assistance. There was Josephine, the surgeon, Cook, the diver, and Sebastian, the driver. (Each person had a Tuamotan name as well, but their French ones were easier to remember). The first, and most intriguing, job I saw was that of the surgeon's. She had the responsibility of extracting the pearls and implanting new seeds. All day she sits at her table and extracts pearls. On her table sits a clamp (for holding the oyster patients), several different stainless steel tools (for the surgery), and two tins of water (one for reject pearls and the other for keepers). She begins by taking a pre-wedged oyster from a crate and inches it open with a spreader, and then sets it into the clamp. She pulls out one of her delicate tools, akin to dental instruments, and teases open the meat pocket that the pearl grows in. And with a looped tool she extracts the pearl and quickly assesses whether it's a reject or not. Then she has to make another judgment call on whether the oyster is still viable or if it's “mal”. If viable, she inserts a plastic bead as a seed for a new pearl and it's cultured again. If not, we break it open and munch on the delicious meat. She made the job look like a cinch and said she extracts about 400 pearls a day. Josephine extracting a beautiful pearl:
After we nosed around the operation a bit, Sebastian and Cook offered to show us the next step of the Mikimoto process. We grabbed our snorkel gear and Hawaiian slings and cruised out in their skiff. The location was reached quickly and we were told to jump in. And into the 70ft deep water we went. Through the hazy blue I could barely make out the coraled bottom, but the most prominent item was the string of oyster cages suspended midway from the surface by buoys. But we weren't there just to look around, there was work to be done! Three or four buoys were tossed into the water and I was signaled by a head nod to grab one. Cook, the diver, took the lead and kicked down to the oyster line (buoy in tow) and quickly made it fast with a double half hitch. I thought, “Hey, that looked easy enough, I've got a buoy in hand. Let's give it a try.” I kicked my legs up and started my 15ft free dive, buoy in tow. It didn't take long for me to notice the 20lbs of buoyancy inherent in the buoy's construction and the buoy popped right back up to the surface, with me in tow. It took a couple of tries, but I eventually managed to secure it to the oyster string and we moved onto the next.
This one was set noticeably deeper, but luckily there were no buoys to be hitched on. Brian, Dan, Amanda, and I were snorkeling along, practicing our free dives, when we collectively noticed Cook with a 1.8m speargun in hand (that's about as big as they get). We held off on our dives to see what he was up to with his big honkin' speargun. We saw him adeptly dive down 25ft, take aim at a pufferfish munching on the oysters, and fire. A perfect shot right, between the eyes. He then pulled it up and tossed it into the skiff to continue his puffer slaying mission. After he got a few more, we all hopped into the boat and sped back towards the motu. Now it was our turn to hunt.
Sebastian dropped the anchor onto a coral head and the skiff tugged gently back on the rode, bow into the trades. We adorned our snorkel gear and dove into the coral colored water. Below the edge of a reef shimmered with thousands of fish, all delicious looking. Brian and I grabbed our Hawaiian spears and Cook his big freakin' speargun. I wove in and out of coral heads looking in the crevices for the good fish. One doesn't want too big of a fish though. Generally, the larger the fish, the larger the concentration of the deadly ciguaterra neurotoxin. The rule of thumb is don't eat a reef fish bigger than your plate. We dove and we dove, mingled with the white tip reef sharks, and we dove some more. After many close calls and a couple of grazes, I speared my first fish. To christen my first kill, I, with it still flopping, popped out its eye and munched it down. Okay, not really. But I definitely had it for supper. After another hunting session on a different motu, I had speared a total of 3 fish (only 2 were keepers). When we started getting chilled the fish started noticing they were being hunted, we retired. The next day we made plans to meet up for dinner with the locals, but this night, we feasted on the sweet, sweet flesh of my kills. Another shot from the pearling motu:
From the short span of time we spent in the Tuamotus, I learned quite a bit about the people there (with Amanda as my ever-faithful translator, of course). They seemed to share many of the same qualities as the Marquesans: an open, generous heart, and a love for their land. They don't see foreigner's often on this island (maybe 40 boats a year and most keep to themselves), so when they sail in, they're welcomed with open arms. They seize any opportunity to break the monotony of their daily lives. When asked what there was to do on this remote atoll, we were described a short, few activities: pearl farming, copra farming, playing music, and attempting to garden in the white coral sand. So, when the great white explorer comes from lands afar bearing gifts of stories and fresh faces, they're quickly pulled in.
The next night we dined with the family. A delicious feast comprised of curried turtle (they call it green sea turtle because the meat is green), raw oyster in coconut milk, and bookoo rice. Post kai kai, the musical instruments were pulled out. An all-out jam sesh took place featuring two guitars, an ukulele, Brian's accordion, egg shakers, forks in beer bottles, bones, and a toele (known to the white man as a slit drum). We jammed late into the night fueled by cheap Mexican rum and the satisfaction of the patched together songs. The family just before we left to go back to the boat:
August 27, 2010
12:00
The locals had fallen in love with us, but they knew our stay would have to end soon. Clara Katherine and Leeway upped anchor around noon to hit the pass (an hour's sail away) at the appropriate tide time. A bit about tides and coral atolls. Although the total tidal change lessens in proximity to the equator, netting only about a 3ft change in tropical climes, 3 feet of ocean across 15 square miles is still millions and millions of gallons of saltwater. All of which has to flow in and out of the lagoon 2 times a day. And there is but one place for it to flow through on Kauehi, the pass, our portal in and out. During heavy flow, it can reach speeds up to 4kts, enough to cause some major disturbances to Leeway's cool. So the object is to aim for slackwater. A 4 times a day occurrence, it takes place on the changes of tides from flood to ebb. In this short period of time, the water is neither flowing in nor out of the pass, it's stagnant. Now normally we would consult a tide table on the atoll to find slackwater, but Kauehi is such a remote atoll that no such information exists. So we consulted the next best thing: the locals. We've since come to believe that our question was lost in translation.
We threw up our sails and had a 7kt beam reach to the pass in 20-25kt winds. The wind was a little high for our sail plan, but we knew it would be helpful if we had to pound through a flood tide. As we neared the pass, a disconcerting site befell us: a solid line of breakers guarding the exit into the deep blue. This meant there was a current, either inflowing or out, crashing against the wide ocean and creating turbulence. Not having a strong motor and really wanting our sailing adventure to continue, we tacked back and decided to wait for a more placid time to go through the pass. Clara Katherine opted for the same choice and tacked back as well. A couple of upwind beats and slightly off-the-wind reaches and we figured we had blown enough time and we approached the pass once more.
The breakers were still present but had subsided slightly, so it was decided to go for it. I dropped the 4HP into the water and we sailed into what could only be described as a washing machine. 1-3 foot waves splattered all across the pass in no discernible pattern and it sounded like we were standing under a waterfall. Leeway shook and shuddered through it bucking in and out of the steep chop. The outboard failed a quarter of the way through, but the sails were enough to pull us through. Astoundingly glad to be out of the washing machine, high fives were fairly distributed. Clara Katherine followed suit and used her 64HP diesel to power through. When we both got into the soft blue, we set course for the northern shores of Tahiti. The aforementioned washing machine (taken after exiting it):
It was a rough passage for both ships. A near downwind run coupled with 25kt wind and 3m seas rocked us all the way here. Leeway has no stability on that point of sail so she yawed and rolled substantially. Navigation wasn't difficult with our electronic charts, so we passed between two atolls, below another and set a B-line for Tahiti. Only one ship was spotted (besides the Clara Katherine) and it caused a little discomfort due to the fact that it was dead in the water (it's much easier to navigate around a ship that has a definite trajectory than one that can head off in any direction). In the end we were glad to spot the contours of Tahiti on the 3rd day in.
Shortly after we spotted Tahiti, we were hailed by Brian and Amanda. They warned us against entering Papeete due to a of anchorage space, and we had already decided on a different pass anyways: Tuanoa. With the sun falling and a transitory motor, we liked the look of this wide pass with well-lit navigation markers. We'd be able to sail in on a beam reach and drop anchor in the calm lagoon. The pass was easily navigable even in the dark, range markers gave us a straight shot in and the wind wasn't too heavy. I, once more, futilely tried to start the outboard and we were left to sail in. And it went off without a hitch. We ghosted into the still, night waters, rounded up into the wind and I dropped anchor in about 25m of water. She caught and we both got a, much deserved, full night's sleep. The next morning Brian rolled up in the station wagon to check out our situation.
He had entered the same pass as us the day before, but had then navigated a narrow channel to get to a completely encircled, reefed anchorage with yachtie resources. We liked his thinking, so I weighed anchor and we started to motor towards the pass. The 4HP was once again working it was going to be our mode of power through the coral-laced channel. Brian proposed that he tie his dinghy midships in case we needed extra power (the station wagon is equipped with a 15HP Mercury). And what a fine idea that was. Leeway was pushed by the 4 just to the entrance of the channel before it gave up. Brian quickly hopped into his dinghy and kept us on our way. There were a few problems with having the dinghy lashed to the starboard side though. It made it nearly impossible to turn to the right, especially when the wind catches the boat and pushes her over. So we did a spin in the narrowest part of the channel and many more trying to make the last corner through the eye of the wind. But after maybe 5 or 6 tries on the final corner, we rounded it and made it to the anchorage. The anchor set and we're safe and sound inside of a barrier reef on the NW corner of Tahiti. We've been enjoying the calm waters and the perfect climate since. Brian assisting, and Leeway sitting in our beautiful new anchorage:
Our current plan is to explore a bit of Tahiti (by foot and sea) and then depart for the leeward islands. Maeva Beach is our next destination, a beautiful anchorage south of Papeete with many yachties. Both boats hope to find a little work there.
A few more pictures that didn't really fit into the narrative:
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