Rhian Salmon

Welcome to Suvarow Summer Camp- your very own tropical island
paradise, complete with daily activities and fun for all the family.
Watch the palm trees glow iridescent at sunset, swim with
extraordinarily colourful fish in one of the Earth's last remaining
healthy coral reefs, get up close and personal with sharks the size of
yourself, learn to catch crabs, spear fish, make coconut pancakes, or
just hang out in one of the hammocks, find a spot of pristine beach to
read a book, or engage in quiet meditation. Whatever you are seeking,
you can find it here.

Suvarow Summer Camp. Welcoming to all and virtually free… to anyone
who can get there.

And what a gorgeous place it is. Tom Neale lived here on his own here
for six years, in two stints, between 1952 and 1963. He was a brave,
intrepid, resourceful, visionary, and very lucky man. If you're
interested in knowing more, read his book: An Island To Oneself (Ox Bow
Press), or download the full text from
http://www.janesoceania.com/suvarov_tom_neale/.

We've only been here one full day so far, and two nights. I just rowed
Andy ashore to join a crabbing expedition, the results of which will
hopefully form the centrepiece to this evening's pot-luck barbecue on
the beach. I chose not to go 'though I'm sure it will be really
interesting. I'm pre-menstrual and just the site of the twelve other
dinghies coming ashore with day packs and happy camper smiles was enough
to confirm the wisdom of my decision. Some days I should just avoid people.

Suvarow is a national park, and nominally uninhabited. Two park wardens,
this year in the form of James and Apii, are employed to spend six
months here each year, from June to November, specifically to cater to
the ever-growing yachting community. The most important aspect of these
jobs, from a Cook Island Government perspective, is to ensure that the
strict quarantine rules are respected, to inform visitors of no-go zones
due to nesting seasons or other such sensitivities, and to collect the
US$50 landing fee. But the job goes much further, and everyone I have so
far met who has been here, or who is here, has nothing but overflowingly
good things to say about our hosts.

Which is great. If a bit weird. Like – take away all the bad stuff or
difficult stuff or uncomfortable aspects of everywhere in the world, ie.
the people, and leave just the paradise. Then pay people to ensure that
paradise is sustained. I guess that's the point of all National Parks.

Of course, the lack of language barrier here also helps, especially for
North American visitors of which there currently seem to be a majority.
(The two predominant nationalities found cruising these waters are
without doubt French and American.) And I also wonder if the lack of
local people is, for some, an advantage… no longer is there a need
for cultural sensitivity or an understanding of local politics and
economics. Just playtime in paradise.

There are loads of kids here too. More than I've seen, collectively,
since leaving Chile. Somewhere between ten and fifteen but it's hard to
count as they're always moving and reappearing in unexpected places,
like other people's boats. On our first morning, while waiting for the
official customs and biosecurity visit, we spent a good hour watching a
family with four kids rigging up a new kind of swing off their spinnaker
pole and then successively jumping on, falling off, being pushed off
and, when sharks were observed, rapidly pulling each other back in.
"Suvarow TV", Andy said with a big smile.

It is, of course, no coincidence that so many kids are here right now. I
imagine that two weeks from now (the maximum stay is a fortnight) there
will once again be mostly adults visiting. Unlike most cruising boats
who generally seek out solitude and a sense of isolation, families
attract each other and kids love to play together. So these groups of
english-speaking kids, ranging between 3 and 15, have clearly started
meeting up progressively more often since they first met somewhere on
the route from Panama to here. And, if I was a parent, one of the places
I would certainly choose to rendezvous with other families would be
Suvarow. Great for the kids, great for the parents, everyone's a winner.

Thankfully we had some warning that we wouldn't be the only ones here.
Every morning on the radio net we could hear boats giving their position
and destination: Suvarow. And given that at any time there will be
between eight and eighteen boats visiting, each usually with a couple on
board and sometimes a brood of offspring, the resultant summer camp
feeling is just about the best solution I can imagine. The only island
you can anchor by is not large- on a twenty minute amble around its
perimeter shortly before sunset we met three other couples
circumnavigating in the other direction (maybe there's a direction you
need to go so as to not bump into each other?), as well as another four
people at 'shark bay' where you can see black tip and grey sharks
swimming very shallow, very close to the shore. So rather than pretend
to avoid each other, best to get to know each other and have a good time.

I hear the outboard of an inflatable dinghy approach the boat, and
Italian voices calling. "Hallo? Hallo? Andy askk that we brring him his
maskk and finss." So lyrical.

Oh. So you're going swimming? Crabbing doesn't happen on shore? We
thought it was coconut crabs in holes. "Yess, we go over therre. I don't
know wherre exactaly, but they say aboutt fourr hourrs. Is a pity you're
not well." I tell them I'm fine. "Oh, really? You wanna come?"

I do consider this for a nanomoment. Swimming is an entirely different
thing. In a lagoon you can have thirty people snorkeling and still feel
entirely alone with nature. And the lagoon here, by the way, is
enormous. Absolutely vast (between 6 and 8 miles across at all points).
Unfortunately we can't visit most of it due to nesting birds on the
beaches, and the fact that it's mostly too shallow for the reach of
Zephyrus, and too far for the reach of our rowboat… so once again the
only way to see these places is to go collectively. Which I can see they
currently are: about six dinghies are all zooming across the lagoon to
somewhere beyond my imagination.

No, I'll stay. I am, after all, still liable to be a grump and would
have to throw things together pretty quickly. I'm more in the mood for
moving very slowly, walking like an old woman, and generally giving
myself large doses of my own tea and sympathy.

The zodiacs whizz off into the distance.

Hang on. Has the entire population of the bay really just left the
island? I feel myself energising already. I have the island to myself?
For four glorious hours? Suvarow Island all to myself? That's pretty
amazing. Hell, to share it with only thirty or forty other people is
pretty amazing. It's an amazing place.

Time to pack. Bikini (although if it's really empty maybe I won't even
need that?), mask and snorkel, book, a spot of lunch, washing stuff.
Apparently there's a fresh water shower here that was rigged up by
yachties for the wardens earlier in the season . When visiting our boat
said wardens took one look at our 1 litre bottle with holes in the lid
and spontaneously offered us the complete use of their facilities. That
was after bursting out loud in laughter and saying with a chuckle,
"jeez, if we had to wash with that it would take us all day!" (Cook
Islanders are typically not petite folk.)

–
Andy returned from the crab hunt a happy man. It was on land after all,
but far away from the main island. From what I gather he spent most of
the day with the four-child family anchored near us, reaching elbow deep
into holes and underneath rocks, wrestling with enormous crabs while one
of the kids poked at it from the other side.

In total the group returned with eighteen crabs for dinner. Does this
not, um, effect the local crab population?, I ask one of the wardens as
gently as I can in the evening. The irony is not lost on us that,
indeed, had the wardens not taken people crabbing then no crabs would
have been caught today, or any other day. Yes, and no. They're keeping a
pretty good eye on crab population and sizes on the various islands, and
have restricted crabbing on most… and, let's face it, if it wasn't for
the pot luck dinners then the wardens would have very little diversity
to their diet beyond local fish, crabs, and coconuts.

I further discover that during the months that there are no wardens here
other Cook Islanders visit Suvarow to go fishing and pearl-diving. I
guess this is the kind of National Park where humans are part of the
dynamic ecosystem. This works as long as numbers remain small and
catches, sustainable.

My day was delightful, as planned. I lay in a hammock and read, bathed
in the salty azure sea, had a shower, and listened to fantastic
classical music being blared top volume by the remaining warden who
also, clearly, thought he was alone on the island. Later on I was
cautiously invited to join those remaining for a session on preparing
coconut pancakes. To start with, find coconuts that are already
sprouting, with three leaves on the sprout. Crack it open on a big spike
(I was not a natural), and pull out the foamy white stuff inside. This
is what the milk turns into before it grows into the next coconut tree.
And tastes surprisingly ok. From there, grate the coconut, add flour,
water, sugar, and deep fry. Everyone agreed they were delicious although
I have a suspicion this was as much related to the frying and sugar as
the one local ingredient.

Since that first day we have totally relaxed into being here. Twenty
miles outside Suvarow the shaft of our self-steering windvane sheared,
meaning that we had no reliable self-steering mechanism. (For those
following our story, this is the same shaft that bent en-route from Juan
Fernandez to Easter Island, and that we replaced and fitted in Easter
Island.) The miracle of email, radio, and friendship means that in a
very short time a new shaft has been found, bought, paid for, sent to
Bora Bora and, we understand, put on a yacht headed for Suvarow. We
should therefore have the bar in about a week and can in the mean-time
enjoy legitimately going nowhere.

I can't help but smile realising that we've managed to get stranded in
paradise. Most people find themselves waiting for spare parts in the
shit-hole industrial corners of any given country.. and we are waiting
for our part in a place that has no people, no post office, and not even
a telephone. That's a skill.

Andy has been out spear-fishing a couple of times. The first time, with
a bunch of others (all men), he not only spiked some fish but also got
an amazing underwater sighting of a 50- foot humpback whale and calf
(15-20 foot), inside the lagoon. And he saw a turtle. The second time,
on a snorkeling trip with just me and two others, he caught three fish
that we all enjoyed for dinner: one electric green parrot fish, one pink
parrot fish, and one grouper, or maybe it was a reef-cod. Today,
following another crabbing expedition, there is another pot-luck so I
am, yet again, preparing cous-cous salad. One of the wardens laughingly
told me that the real reason why people leave here is that they run out
of food for the pot-lucks. I can well believe it. (Could we possibly
take a box of crackers and tin of sardines?!)

Me? I've been less active. More of a passive enjoyer of nature. The
snorkeling here is better than anything I have yet seen: warm salty
clear clear water, big fish, not too big sharks, colourful coral housing
clusters of tiny wee miniscule fish, small moray eels, big eagle rays
and sting rays…. and all this aquatic life extending for miles and
miles. On land there are zillions of birds nesting high in trees, just
as many trees and bushes, and all over the ground creatures scuttling
and buzzing: crabs, lizards, beetles, bees. But nothing very dangerous.

Thank god this place is so far from everywhere; it's so small it
otherwise surely would have been trashed.

I also joined the crabbing trip today but half the group, myself
included, went litter-picking. And a surprising amount was collected
from large gas bottles and science buoys to plastic bottles, lids, and
light bulbs. One of the kids even found a message in a bottle! All the
debris has washed in from the ocean. All in close vicinity of hundreds
of nesting birds and large fluffy chicks high up in trees.

Who knows what we'll do over the next few days, I can't imagine there's
a risk of boredom. I've even started becoming sociable again. Or,
rather, discovered some really interesting and sympathetic people, and
that it's really 'ok' to spend time with other folk from boats. Upon
first arrival I found the mass of people a bit overwhelming but I have
since been enjoying time with new individuals, learning their stories,
sharing in laughter, probing the point of it all, and life in
general…. just like summer camp.

On one evening we had dinner on another boat. As a special treat they
had chilled some champagne (they were apparently given lots when they
left, and have a fridge as well as the necessary storage space). As the
cork popped an analogy rushed into my head. Champagne bursting out of
the bottle, frothy and happy, somehow related to the spirit of the bay.
The lid of must-sees and shouldn't-dos has been released. No more the
struggle of a language barrier, no more the sense that we should meet
locals and not cruisers, and embarrassment of other (to my judgmental
mind culturally-insensitive) cruisers, no more the fear of
misunderstandings or cultural faux-pas', no more the foreigner. Like it
or lump it, one beauty of an uninhabited island (aside from temporary
visitors) is a freedom to be ones-self, and a necessity to accept others
for exactly who they are.

The two wardens are paid specifically to cater to the yachting
community. And they're having a great time. They're eating well,
laughing lots, making new friends, showing us around the island, and
being incredible hosts. They are both warm, friendly, and great
conversationalists (and conservationists). They strike a healthy balance
between engaging us in work (re-building the pier, collecting rubbish,
building a shower or stove for their base), and teaching us new skills
(husking coconuts, catching crabs, spear-fishing). There is even talk of
going camping next week on one of the outlying atolls, and catching
lobster there at low-tide. They build big bonfires, play guitar, sing
songs, live large. They show us ways of living off the land that their
own families don't even practice any more. They don't seem to resent us
being here, indeed, there's an argument that the place is better looked
after because of its visitors; the main attraction of Suvarow being the
pristine environment.

I have been enjoying one-to-one conversations more than the group
activities. Especially with some of the women and kids. To my delight I
have met two other women here who cook less than their partners, one who
has never made bread, another who was the money earner for the family
for the last fifteen years, and three who are still struggling with the
gender work balance on board and sense of identity-loss. What a blessed
relief. I was developing such a fear of being asked for my favourite
bread recipe or how I organise 'my galley' that I had started avoided
women cruisers altogether.

Last night was especially fun. It was Dave and Rayanne's twelfth
anniversary (yes, it's true, I have come to the most remote place in the
whole frikkin' world and found someone else with almost exactly the same
name as me. But I'm being very grown up about it.) and somehow I
volunteered to baby-sit the kids for a few hours. I rowed over to ask
when they might like to come over for popcorn and a movie and about
thirty seconds later discovered two fearless kids, ages three and six,
sitting in my row-boat demanding an adventure. So we went a-visiting.

First we went to Silver Lining (a French/US family of four) and were fed
tea, juice, and figgy biscuits while the three year-old girl happily
explored all corners of the deck and rails in a way that would raise the
heart-rate of even the most relaxed land-lubbing parents. Then we went
to Liquid Courage (two american men, middle-aged) where I drank a beer
and the kids played with pins and stuffed toys but sadly we had arrived
a bit too early for chocolate cake. Next we rowed all the way across the
bay to Broken Compass (two twenty-something Californian guys, twins) who
have a gorgeous husky on board that was a bit too friendly and resulted
in both kids clambering high on my lap and shoulders and throwing bits
of dried fish at her in order to keep her away. The sun was setting, and
we could see sharks larger than the kids swimming around us, so the next
two visits were a bit shorter. First to a catamaran called Zenitude (an
older Italian couple) where the little girl got to bounce on the
trampoline – gently and for not too long- and then to Tutatis (Brazilian
couple in their forties) who asked us all about our adventures.

"Tell them what you saw this morning", I encouraged the boy (age 6). He
looks at me quizzically.
"I saw a star fish?"
"Well that is cool, but I was kind of thinking of the bigger thing."
"Um- I dove for a fish?"
"Even bigger"
"The whales?"
Yes. The whales. That morning they had seen two whales leaping and
slapping their tails for several minutes just outside the reef. Every
adult who was there told me it was the coolest thing that they'd seen
yet but for these kids I guess it was just one in a long list of every
day amazements.

The sun was dropping so we had to miss the remaining boats (British,
Danish, French, and American) but were invited to collect Andy and take
the kids for dinner back on Silver Lining where the teenage boys did
most of the babysitting while we drank wine and either laughed at them
or ignored them. Around 9pm we returned to Zephyrus to play with Rocky
the racoon, make the bed (in proof that there really wasn't a bedroom on
board where they could stay), and read them a passage from The Hobbit.
"That's REALLY different from the Bilbo Baggins story we have. In our
book he goes on adventures and meets dragons and everything." Ah, I
guess that would be the condensed version.

We return the kids home happy and sleepy. They had been in my care for
six hours and not a single peep of anxiety, squabble, or a whimper. And
I had never played with them before.

So. We are enjoying this bubble, eating well, making friends, learning
new skills, doing odd-jobs, discovering underwater treasures, and
generally being happy. A holiday within a holiday. Or a holiday within
an adventure.

[Aug 22] I feel a tremendous surge of optimism right now, like life is
beginning again and the future is a whole spectrum full of opportunity.
I feel young, energised, and excited.

What a brilliant night, complete with monsoonal rains, strong squalls,
bright stars, an almost full moon, and magical airs.

The booby died this evening, on deck. Were the surrounding storms a
response to his dying, or his death a response to the storms?

On my first shift the winds became so slight that our large genoa
flapped and flopped, seeking some consistent force of air. But behind us
I could see a heavy black ridge approaching, dark line in the sky. And
behind that: grey blank.

I watched the clouds progress upon us, in both awe and trepidation.
Perhaps it'll blow through and be nothing, my imagination over-zealous.
Steadily it gained on us, taking no hostages.

I call to Andy, are you still awake? He's not. I go inside, nudge him,
ask a little louder. Conditions are still eerily calm outside. And he's
definitely not awake. I think- I can do this on my own, it's nothing on
previous weather we've experienced. But we do still have the genoa up.
Now, right now, would be the time to take it down and change for a
smaller sail. Before the squall hits. But I can't do that on my own, or
won't, especially not at night-time.

I decide to wait, see it through. The ocean is relatively flat and wind
alone, I keep reminding myself, can't knock us over. Or not for long.

The black line is almost upon us. Directly above I still see stars and
puffy clouds. But that picture stops abruptly with what looks like an
enormous, expansive, manta ray flying above. Silent elegant gliding
motion with no apparrent propulsion. Or so it seems.

The manta is now directly overhead and still conditions are okay. The
wind speed has picked up a little, maybe a few spots of rain. But I am
wide awake with adrenalin racing through me.

I don't want to do this alone.
I do want to do this alone.
I don't want to do this alone.

Before I even know what I've done, I've called his name, loudly, twice.
But when he wakes and orientates himself I pretend he woke himself. "No,
no, nothing to worry about, there's just another system coming through
and I think it's about to pick up. Yeah, I'm fine, no need to get up
[subtext: but please stay awake, or wakeable]".

Slowly he rouses, stretches, pokes his head out of the hatch: nothing
too alarming going on yet. And then the rains start and the winds howl.
He's inside, hatches battened [I have him just where I want him], and
I'm outside, wet wet wet. We go through it together. I'm very glad he's
awake.

It takes about twenty minutes for the manta's front edge to be
definitely ahead of us. I can still see stars to my left, weirdly, but
we are definitely remaining under the manta's long cloak. There are no
signs of it ending.

Somewhat reluctantly Andy comes outside to change the sail. The rains
have temporarily eased and winds are once again manageable, but we can
see only grey clag to the horizon. The wind direction has shifted and at
a minimum we need to put the sail on the other side, which involves
first repositioning the pole. And if we're going to do all that it's
prudent to consider changing the sail at the same time.

But before all else, the bird. He's made himself quite at home on the
foredeck where there's about to be a lot of action. If he isn't first
hit by a dropping sail then he'll be knocked by a long pole or
accidentally tripped over and kicked.

He attacks when Andy encourages him to move. Boat hook action required,
and eventually he is nudged to a place of safety. Still he doesn't fly
away.

The genoa is dropped and removed, pole repositioned, jib hanked on, new
sail raised…. and the manta finally passes by. Stars reappear once
again and we crawl along at three knots.

Andy's now been with me for an hour and his watch would be about to
start. Anyway, he's wide awake and boiling hot from running around on
deck so he chooses to stay up. As I prepare to rest I see him through
the window talking to the bird, gently reaching out to touch it. No sign
of attack. Not long after I hear a gentle plop as the bird is reunited
with the sea.

It is sad.

Silence.

And slow, slow, progress.

I know Andy is considering the genoa again. Wisely, he decides to first
have a cup of tea. Thank god for British rituals. The kettle boils, I
make tea, we watch the stars and feel the boat lolling nowhere. He's
watching the speed on the GPS. I'm guessing the wager he's made: if it
doesn't reach five knots by the end of this cup, I'm changing the sail.

Slurp. Sip. Silence.

A puff. Or two. Four knots, four and a half. Three point two.

A stronger puff. A five! A five point five. A four point five. And the
tea is finished. The smaller sail stays.

Thank god for tea. An hour later a huge squall has come through and Andy
is soaked from head to toe, hand-steering the boat because the wind
direction keeps shifting, his feet ankle deep in rainwater in the cockpit.

From inside I hear the sail being pulled across to the starboard side
again, with no pole, and the wind on our side. We're screaming along.

I get up- are you okay? Can I help? I'm not sure, he says (unusually).
So I keep him company. In fact, I do nothing practical and say little,
but I stay present. The same as I wanted from him earlier. There is
comfort in companionship, and knowledge that we could act quickly if
required.

It wasn't required. After about fifteen minutes the worst passed and I
lie down again, leaving him to his shift. He wakes me at 3am, there's
been a momentary lull so he'll have some rest (and my shift is due to
start now anyway). He's been hand-steering all this time.

I take over. Ten minutes in, another squall. Rain, wind, crazy
directions, steer downwind, keep the boat with the wind, wearing a full
foul-weather jacket but still feeling wet.

It's great. I whoop. "You okay?" he calls. "Just great" I holler. It's
only wind, the sea is still quite flat, and wind can't knock me over.
Let's ride this baby! West, north-west, whoa, why's the wind over there
now? South-west, south. Full South and the wind's behind me, then it
comes back from the east and we're going west again. Long ago I learnt
to make that arrow work for me. It still points counterintuitively, to
my mind, so I just head for the tail.

I recall that first storm off the coast of Chile, a crash course in
steering downwind. We had no sails up, three looped 100m ropes (warps)
dragging behind, and still were making nine and ten knots surfing down
waves.

By comparison, this is child's play. I'm not scared, I'm even enjoying
myself. Bring on the clutch control, jump on that free-wheeling bicycle,
fly with the wind.

It's over before I'm exhausted, I still feel adrenalin pulsing through
me. By 4am we have remarkably pleasant conditions again. By 4.30 the
boat is steering herself, perfectly, bang on course. It's now 5.30 and I
see stars in all directions. I have been writing for a fair while and
not touched a thing.

The night made me alert. Arm hairs stand on end, eyes are wide open,
head clear and awake. Somewhere between adrenalin rushing through my
veins and the wind settling down I start daydreaming, vividly.

This is one of my favourite activities. I am fully alert, watching the
sky, the GPS, the sail, the compass, feeling the wind and the chill in
the air. My attention is not immediately needed for the present but it
could be any minute so reading a book or listening to a podcast are out
of the question. And anyway, they don't tally with my current state of
chemical composition.

I dream of futures, and presents, and sometimes the past. I talk with my
son as he leaves home to explore the world, and find that I am crying. I
spend years exploring the oceans and its people with Andy, on a small
boat. We make documentaries. I write stories. (Why? In search of
purpose? Justification? Or a genuine desire to share these wonders?) He
learns ancient survival skills and I learn to read the clouds and
constellations. Next I am deeply engrossed in my work again, always
climate change related. People and climate, influencing each other. I
discover that whenever my fantasy work takes over, as it has also in the
past, I lose my sense of today. I lose the magic of now. I have kids
again. This time they don't go to school, but learn from toads and
oceans. Clearly I've been influenced by an essay I read earlier today:
Small Silences by Edward Hoagland (Harper's Magazine July 2004, Best
American Science Writing 2005). My mind continues to leap and spiral,
and I feel effused with potential and joy, … glee? Hoagland writes,

"Some people scarcely know what to do with their bonus time – doubled
life spans plus round-the-clock availability of artificial light-
because nature doesn't deal in bonuses. The sun rises and sets when it
did a million years ago, with daylight altering by immemorial increments
as the planet rolls. It doesn't award you an extra hour if you have a
deadline. Can you make it? nature asks instead, if it says anything at
all. But secondly, and curiously, I think, it speaks in terms of glee.
Glee is like the froth on beer or cocoa. Not especially necessary or
Darwinian, it's not the carrot that balances the stick, because quieter
forms of contentment exist to reward efficiency. Glee is effervescence.
It's bubbles in the water – beyond efficiency- which your thirst doesn't
actually need.

Bubbles are physics, not biology, and glee, if the analogy is to carry
far, may be an artesian force more primordial than evolutionary. To me,
it's not a marker for genetic advantages such as earning more, but an
indicator that life – the thread of Creation, the relic current that has
lasted all this way- is ebullient."

"Now it is a strange thing, but things that are good to have and days
that are good to spend are soon told about, and not much to listen to;
while things that are uncomfortable, palpitating, and even gruesome, may
make a good tale, and take a deal of telling anyway. They stayed long in
that good house, fourteen days at least, and they found it hard to
leave. Bilbo would have gladly stopped there for ever and ever- even
supposing a wish would have taken him right back to his hobbit-hole
without trouble. Yet there is little to tell about their stay.

..His house was perfect, whether you liked food, or sleep, or work, or
story-telling, or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a
pleasant mixture of them all. Evil things did not come into that valley."

- The Hobbit, upon visiting the Last Homely House in the fair elvish
valley of Rivendell, where Elrond lives.

And so it is with me. Such a lovely journey, and so little to say. But
considering the pages I have spent on all things less good thus far, it
seems only right and proper to give the good times some paragraphs too.

Should I write of the soft warm air, and the sparkling glistening ocean,
endless blue with silver stars on every crest? Or the gentle motion of
the boat (when the sails are set right…) carrying us silently on
course at about five knots? The light blue sky scattered with
non-threatening puffs of white clouds, miles away, surely deserves a
mention as it this that sets the heart and mind at ease. Not only are
conditions good now, but a scout in all directions suggests they'll
stay. Unlike last night when heavy, ominous, fronts of black passed
across us followed by winds, waves, and rain that made the boat quite
hard to handle. But today is once again good. So good.

The boat, of course, still rolls and rocks so the schedule remains
gentle and careful. Daytime naps and book-reading interrupted by easily
digested food, a radio sched, and random chat. The movement carries us
up and down, side to side, forwards backwards. When exacerbated nausea
is avoided by enjoying the horizon and ignoring signals from the inner ear.

Our Canadian flag flaps, the wind vane flicks, the water purrs around
us, and the sun's heat encompasses us. This is the Pacific, and the
trade winds, of lore, and I relish every day that it lasts.

A booby lands on our boat (that's a sea bird).

He's looking right at me now. Long white, sharp, beak. Friendly eyes.
Where are his ears hidden in that soft down on his head? I'm so close I
can make out corrugations along his beak, for grabbing fish?, and what
look like nostrils just above.

His down is so soft I want to stroke him. Small brown feathers cover his
back, wings, and neck, and his belly is white. Now he hides his head
completely inside his back, under a wing, and rests.

First he landed on the edge of the solar panels but had comical ability
hanging on, sliding from side to side until he eventually slipped right
off – plop- onto our brown canvas sunshade. The same colour as him. As
birds go, he's reasonably large, like a big duck or a small goose, and
weighty, and was peculiarly ungainly on that loose cloth. He rolled
around there for a while, flattening himself (or herself?) against the
ever moving material but it was clearly not conducive to rest.

Briefly, and foolishly, a perch was next found on the flat face of the
solar panels. Here he had no grip at all and literally sloped right off
the side. I thought he'd have had enough at that point but he stayed
where he landed, on the deck, right next to a window. Which is why I am
now so close I can see individual wing feathers. He's fast asleep.

We're about 125 miles from Suvarow, the closest land that I know of
around here, so maybe this is a lucky pause for him, a chance to
re-energise out on the wide open sea.

Andy has dozed off in the cockpit. He wakes, stretches, and checks out
how our visitor is doing. Almost in synch, the bird raises his head,
shakes his feathers, and also stretches. He walks up to the front of the
boat, checks out the scenery, and settles down again for another sleep.
Do seabirds like he sleep on the wing? Or on the sea? They must do. And
where has he come from? We're going downwind, surely the easiest way to
fly, are we un-doing all his hard work getting here? No, I tell Andy,
I'm sure birds have some kind of inner sense of direction, inner
magnetism. But we're a ferro-cement boat, he retorts, we're screwing
with his homing device. O no. Before, I wanted to know more about fish.
Now I want to know more about birds. Must take more reference books on
the next trip.

[Next trip?!]

The kettle is slowly coming to the boil, even that is slow today. It's a
baking hot day but true to our heritage we still love an afternoon
cuppa. As I said, the days are good. We expect to arrive in Suvarow
sometime tomorrow. No hurry.

Great advances have been made in the War on Noise aboard Zephyrus in
recent weeks. This can mostly be attributed to the total invasion, and
subsequent evacuation, of the corner cupboard in the galley, previously
better known as the Cupboard of Plastic Doom.

This last stronghold of anarchy has always been home to unwanteds and
undesirables, indeed its cavernous nature and difficult access
specifically attracted such retrobates. Before long, the governing
parties nominally in charge of this no-go zone rebranded it 'Tupperware
Cupboard' in the vague hope that this might instil a sense of order and
pride amongst residents. All who lived within, however, could see the
facade, further acknowledged by the fact that said Governors never dared
visit the region beyond a cursory look through the access door (that
sits high above all the residents even in the rockiest of seas), always
accompanied by a look of resignation and defeat.

Inside The Void, as it is known to locals, plastic tubs of all sizes
rolled and slid amongst glass jars (some with ancestry amongst purveyors
of fine jams no less), numerous thermos flasks (each with a single
defect), mixing bowls of various materials and sizes, rusting sieves, a
set of four multi-coloured plastic espresso cups, with saucers, and a
wide array of lids who lost their pots many moons ago.

To add insult to injury, The Void is the last remaining 'indoor' space
that oceanic salt water can still access. The Governors were well aware
of the situation but only ever took cosmetic action: the corners into
the cockpit have been re-sealed three times since the boat's refit but
only ever from the outside, testament indeed to the Governors dismissal
and fear of entering The Void itself. The entry of seawater was also the
reason why this region was designated fit only for plastic unwanteds in
the first place: all items of greater value to the Governors being
given, of course, homes in the dry. The resultant sticky salt layer that
coats all Void residents is the reason for their derogatory nickname,
'The Crusties'.

Something must have changed amongst the Governance as, one fateful day
in late July, a full call to order and inspection was implemented,
without prior notice. All inhabitants were force-marched out of their
homes, scrubbed with fresh water, and lined up in a parade. Those
parties deemed 'space-wasters and noise-makers' were broken, donated, or
sent to a Polynesian landfill site. All glass jars fit this description
barring those deemed useful as future paint pots. These were instantly
re-labelled and re-housed amongst the hardware department, a department
already so over-crowded that there is zero possibility of any objects
rolling around or clinking as the boat rocks and lollops. Lids without
bases, however, had no such possibility for re-branding and survival.

Unbeknownst to the Crusties, a similar scrub-out had occurred the day
before in 'Herb and Spice Land', just upstairs from Plastic Doom but
much more accessible to any chef. Due to its accessibility and pride of
place, popular celebrities were often found in this area despite their
official home being in the bilge or under a bed. The Governors pretended
to scold them but a particular blind eye was turned to night snack
celebrities such as honey, marmite, and peanut butter. However, their
illegitimate presence in what was a designated 'dry zone' rapidly led to
a particularly unpleasant and tenacious mixture of salt, honey,
linseeds, and dried active yeast coating several surfaces and vessels
within this space. Once discovered, the Governors decided to introduce a
New Order in the region and immediately passed the Munchies Bill that
allowed special priveleges to 'sweet delights' on the grounds that
'opening the bilge during nightshift disturbs sleeping patterns and is
dangerous'.

Outrage by less popular items still relegated to the bilge (soy sauce,
pickles, mustard, and pesto to name a few), chiefly led by Nutella,
mango jam, and Vegemite who assumed they would be nightshift desirables,
resulted in the term 'sweet delights' being changed to 'items essential
to nightshift contentment', thus allowing for inclusion of marmite, Ritz
crackers, and the changing whims of the Governance. The Bill was
immediately passed by Health and Safety, with no questions asked, and
remains in force today.

The combined effect of Herb and Spice Zone being cleansed, and the
passing of the [amended] Munchies Bill, led to creation of specific new
homes for all night-shift celebrities who had previously only had
squatters rights in this region. Power took to their heads and they
demanded not only legitimate homes in this area, but the prime
positions, subsequently rehousing previous favourites such as fruit
teas, a box of wasabi, and a huge tin of Argentine 'mate' tea that, the
Governors had to admit, were rarely accessed these days. That Order had
been created in the days when Voyaging was but a theory, and items
naively stowed according to a system of food-type (teas, herbs, spices,
condiments…) rather than food popularity. The new system would make
little sense to an outside observer (peanut butter next to ginger paste
and vanilla essence) but is somewhat intuitive to its primary users.

The reorganisation of Herb and Spice Land gave the Governors, especially
she in charge of the action, a disproportionate sense of achievement and
satisfaction. But there was one remaining discomfort: the actions
occurred in the tranquility and stability of a calm bay. So thorough had
the evacuations been that this area was now comfortably uncluttered,
tidy even, as one might hope for a cupboard on land. A boat moves,
however, and it was clear that just one day sailing would instantly send
all the newly arranged articles soaring first to one end of the
cupboard, and then the other.

Which was when, coincidentally, the Crusties were invaded, washed, and
marched to parole.

Rather than return the select few deemed 'keepers' to their cavernous
hole, all Crusties were relocated, much to their dismay. Thermos flasks,
metal bowls, and a steel coffee pot were sent to the engine-side of Herb
and Spice Land, which regularly overheated and melted any foodstuffs in
this region. They were primarily chosen as space holders rather than
objects of desire but enjoy their new promotion and warmth greatly. All
remaining plastic items have been squeezed into other holes (mostly
between the spirit bottles), where there is less potential for creating
clatter.

Today the only remaining official inhabitant of the former Cupboard of
Plastic Doom is one large plastic mixing bowl that fits nowhere else,
has a rubberised base, and sits on a no-slip mat. Already new retrobates
have started arriving, however, such as a plastic jar that used to
contain nuts, and a large sieve. They all understand that they can stay
indefinitely, as long as they remain quiet, and all enjoy the solitude
and expansiveness not available anywhere else on the boat.

And at night? The boat is quiet. No more the sound of plastic and glass
flying around and clanging into each other. No more the swooshing from
side to side of collective objects moving as one across a painted wooden
floor. At night, on their off-watch, the Governors sleep, undisturbed by
the sounds of entropy from within and beyond. The only interruptions to
their rest now are due to the start of crazy multi-coloured dreams, but
that's another story….

It is for a taste of this dream that voyagers go through hell and high
waters. [An apt metaphor.] We are sailing just off downwind, pulled by
the genoa, our lightest and largest sail, poled out to ensure it catches
the maximum volume of air. Ocean surrounds in all directions. We are
far, far, away from all commercial traffic. In this huge expanse of
ocean, only a handful of yachts are traveling from Bora Bora to Suvarow,
all going in the same direction so risk of collision is minimal. Puffs
of cotton candy cumulus indicate fair weather, backed up by forecasts
that predict optimal sailing conditions.

I don't believe it's possible, physically, to reach this place without
having been tested by drama. Except, perhaps, crew or passengers who can
choose to join for just one leg of a journey. I am happy for them; it
would be like only ever seeing New York in spring, or enjoyment of a
piece of music with no knowledge of the process and pains behind its
composition.

The soundtrack of the soothing sea is a lullaby, the side-to-side rock,
a hammock in paradise. We were right to leave: this passage is the
destination we've been seeking.

During the last two days before leaving Bora Bora, we were joined by yet
more boats we had met before. Nicolas and Marie-Laure from La Tortue
(la-tortue.fr) who we first met in Tahiti in the final stages of a
massive refit of their gorgeous concrete boat, arrived full of smiles.
Built by his parents in the '70s, Nico spent the first ten years of his
life living and travelling aboard la Tortue, mostly in the Carribbean.
He has now taken ownership from his father, who is based in Tahiti, and
has spent the last year making the boat ready for sea. His ever-patient
girlfriend, Marie-Laure, left her engineering position in France and
arrived six months after Nico, with no sailing experience but ready to
leave immediately. Six monthe later, she was still covered in epoxy and
paint. Their story felt very familiar! So, we have always loved seeing
them not only because they're great fun people, but also in celebration
of wonderful sailing rewards earmed after a hard slog refit. They were
also our snorkelling guides in both Huahine and Taha'a, introducing me
to a world of beauty I would otherwise never have explored.

In addition, Jaimes and Nicole sailed in: our great French friends who
we left Chile in tandem with. It was this couple that we waited out a
storm off Chiloe, and departed at the exact same hour into the Great
Pacific Ocean. Such a scary and exciting moment! They arrived at Juan
Fernandez three days before us, having had the sense and experience to
initially head only west, far off the coast of Chile, and then motor for
thirty hours across the 'calm before the storm'. Us? We set our GPS on a
direct line for Robinson Crusoe Island and I had an ecological fit when
Andy started the engine. "What's the point? Why are we doing this? Do
you want to motor to New Zealand?! This journey, for me at least, is
about not burning fuel…" . How I regret that today.

Thus, for a day we drifted on a mirror and then got pummeled by a storm.
We arrived at Juan Fernandez bedraggled and beaten, welcomed by Jaimes'
laughter, a lobster dinner, and not a word mentioned of our naive
navigational choices.

Pupyca, their boat, had the good fortune to leave Juan Fernandez the day
before the tsunami hit. We left the day after. We met them again, this
time after a fortnight passage that was emotionally rather than
physically draining, in Easter Island, a place we once again were forced
to flee due to an approaching storm. We next met in the Gambier Islands
(we had made a detour to visit Pitcairn), but with time only to share a
sense of achievement and delight before they headed north. to the
Tuamotos. The last time they saw us we were still exhausted, and had a
rat on board.

Ask them, and us, and anyone else in this area, of their experience in
French Polynesia, and you'll get a different answer every time. They
will tell you of remote desert atolls with barely a soul around, and
spearfishing every day for dinner. For three months. Others will tell
you of the weeks and months they were waylaid in Tahiti due to necessary
maintenance of their boat, or waiting for a part or passenger to arrive.
Yet others will tell of diving with manta rays and swimming with sharks.
We haven't caught a single fish or seen a manta, but we have stories of
mountains, waterfalls, and Polynesian dancing. For every thing you see,
there are as many that you miss. The trick is to not regret the things
you didn't, but enjoy their stories vicariously and so double your
experience.

Many of our friends currently in Bora Bora are planning on visiting
Maupiti this week, when conditions are right for entry. That's the
island we passed last night and is meant to be a picture paradise.
Jaimes' main goal for this journey was to spend time in the Tuamotos and
Maupiti, and we missed out on both. He shakes his head in perplexion.
But, we had an amazing time in Pitcairn, sailed into a full eclipse, and
will have more time to explore Tonga. There is no 'right way'.

Our last night on Bora Bora was perfect. Sitting at the yacht club,
sharing a barbecue pot-luck with three other couples who were also
preparing to leave the next day, background music provided by a group of
locals jamming on ukuleles on the pier. Everyone had brought food but
Ellie's creations outshone the lot: prawn and pineapple skewers, tender
pieces of pork, and large slabs of Argentine steak from her freezer.
Just when I had almost reached Nirvana, she produced the most incredible
fresh apple cake, the apples from her garden in Norway last season,
served with Tahitian-vanilla cream! As our bodies digested, Fergus
played us a ballad on the accordion and John shared his songs,
self-accompanied by guitar that he hasn't been able to play for four
months due to an accident to his finger. Sounded pretty amazing to me.
The night drifted late with stories, songs, music, and poetry, and the
last thing we did was agree to repeat the experience in Tonga. Between
here and there, however, we each have chosen a different route.

Jon and Jennifer (www.sv-grace.blogspot.com) are taking the most
southerly route, via Rarotonga, the capital of the Cook Islands. Jan and
Ellie (sv-jenny.no) are headed for Palmerston Atoll, an island inhabited
by only three families, each with the surname: Palmer. Pylades
(www.pylades.net) are heading straight for Niue, the smallest
independent state in the world, possibly via Palmerston. And we are
headed further north within the Cooks, to Suvarow, an island occupied
for only eight months of the year, by a couple of park rangers, and
visited only by yachts.
(http://www.ogleearth.com/2010/07/tales_of_the_so.html,
http://www.janesoceania.com/suvarov_tom_neale/)

It's not possible to visit everywhere, see everything, and also take
things suitably slowly, so I look forward to hearing their stories. We
all set off within a few hours of each other, but will likely arrive in
Tonga several days apart. In the mean-time, we check in each morning on
the freshly- baked 'apple tart net' using HF radio to provide positions,
conditions, and greetings. While the ocean feels vast, and we enjoy
feeling wonderfully isolated, there is also a sense of security in
hearing friendly voices once a day.

Sunset in Bora Bora. Can't beat that as an opening entry. To our
starboard side an accordion is serenading the harbour with Irish
shanties. To the front a parrot on a South African boat is whistling his
own tune, apparently holding a conversation with Andy who has just put
down his guitar. To port, a deep orange sun is rapidly falling towards
the horizon. Dusk happens quickly near the equator.

The day has been gentle. In the morning we decided to not move somewhere
else, as we intended, but rather to spend the next couple of days
preparing ourselves and the boat for sea. The former requires rest,
laughter, and provisioning. The latter an array of odd jobs. So it was
that in the morning Andy wrote some overdue emails while I washed our
latest bag of stinking clothes, and the dishes. We had pizza for lunch,
made on a base of wholemeal chappattis originally prepared for a curry
two nights ago. In the afternoon I hitched a lift to town on a friend's
zodiac and Andy stayed behind to work on the sails,- our jib needs
patching. A couple of hours later, when I returned, he was happily
reading his book, the same cup of tea by his right elbow, where I placed
it before leaving. And so, we relax.

- (later)-
For the first couple of days in a place I always wonder what we're doing
there, how long we'll stay, and where we're going next. In other words,
point-seeking. Not long after, maybe two or three days in, time and
purpose start to dissolve and we return to the very pleasant, and
present, state of existence.

Today is a particularly slow day. We spent last night on a seriously
beautiful and comfortable boat called Jenny (sv-jenny.no), our hosts Jan
and Ellie. On first entry the boat feels grand, but an inviting and warm
grand, like my grandmothers Kensington flat. The things I notice?
Crystal glasses and a drinks cabinet, even on a monohull that will by
necessity keel. They work by virtue of an almost invisible shelf, half
way up each glass or bottle, with made- to- measure holes for each
article. A large and welcoming sofa with three sides and soft suede-like
blue covers that I found myself stroking all evening. A very large
square galley, the corner cupboard a fridge, so deep you have to reach
into it, and restaurant-size four burner stove, so heavy that pots stay
on it, horizontally, just through it's gimbled mount – no need for extra
brackets or hoops when the boat leans over. The bedroom has two
entrances, one for each side of the bed. Very civilised. One access
corridor to the bedroom houses a pantry and washing machine, the other a
clean and home-like toilet, complete with large shiny mirror, wooden
toilet seat, taps that gush fresh water, and space around the sink for
potions and lotions. In addition to the king size double bedroom,
galley, and spacious living room, the boat has two guest rooms, each
with two bunks and en-suite bathroom. And he made it all himself.

Jan and Ellie are Norwegian and used to both work in the oil industry.
For ten years, while their daughter was a teenager, Jan designed and
built the boat, almost all by hand and everything to a very high
standard of finish. Her hull has three layers,- wood, fibreglass, and
kevlar, so she's also incredibly strong, and has lovely lines. That
means she's nice to look at.

Of course, the occupants of a boat, especially if they are also its
designers, are what provide the essence, and we've had some great times
with this couple since arriving in Bora Bora. These include a lobster
dinner on board Jenny, an afternoon snorkeling with sting rays, and last
night: movie night. Phantom of the Opera in full surround sound, spread
out on the suede sofa, the central table ladened with more bread and
fine cheese than even I could finish. And bottles of red wine. Which
explains why today is slow.

At the other end of the spectrum, or a possible spectrum, is a boat
called Little Qwin (www.littleqwin.blogspot.com
<http://www.littleqwin.blogspot.com>), currently anchored in the same
bay as Zephyrus and Jenny, and home to Alexandrej and Angeliqa.

The boat is Swedish flagged, he is from the Ukraine, she from northern
Russia. He from the Black Sea, she from the White Sea. Living on a boat
the same size as Zephyrus (but much fuller) for the last eleven years.
Exploring the world. He first set off from the Ukraine on a bicycle but
when he reached Portugal realised he needed to sail in order to keep
exploring. She joined him in the Canary Islands. They worked there for
several years, saving some money and making the small wooden boat safe
for passage. They crossed the Atlantic and returned again to work. Then
they crossed again, worked their way up the east coast of South America
before spending several years in Panama, on both sides. Amateur
archaeologists, they discovered an ancient city. They hitchhiked up
rivers to visit native people and explore theories of past
civilisations. On the west side of Panama she worked as a Russian –
Spanish translator while he worked on the boat and sometimes took
Russian tourists on charter trips. They renovated the boat and set off
again, west, into the Pacific. They found two more cities, unknown to
current researchers, and sent videos and samples of fine spanish
porcelain to the Smithsonian in New York. They crossed to the northern
Marquesan islands in French Polynesia and once again found signs of past
civilisation thanks to notes by Thor Heyderdal (who lived there with his
wife before the first world war and many years before his more famous
Kontiki voyage on a raft from Peru).

From place to place Alex and Angeliqa hunt, gather, and create. On a
day-to-day basis they live virtually for free, she finding ways to
preserve everything that he brings home, from carrots and eggs to sheep.
One day she wanted a crocodile bag so he brought her a crocodile.
Ofcourse this meant finding the place, meeting the people, learning the
how and the where of catching and hunting, each entailing their own
adventures.

She has three black pearls from Bora Bora, each with a different
history. A jeweller offered to drill holes through them for her, as a
gift, but she refused: she wants to make the objects herself. She gave
me a gift of a beautiful necklace made from the spines of a sea urchin.
She had of course collected the urchin, eaten the meat, cleaned and
prepared the needles, made the jewelry.

Andy has been helping them with some engine trouble and he returns every
time with a new story. One day every surface of the boat was covered in
corn kernels that Angeliqa had sorted, soaked, fried, and was now drying
after discovering weovils in the container. (When we found weovils in
our flour we attempted to sieve them out but finally just threw the lot
overboard and bought a new bag.) Another time she was covered in blue
paint, busy making a Kiribati flag, the back of her hand a mixing
palette. There is always work to do.

He's mad on ideas. Some that resonate with me, others that sound plain
bonkers, but the twinkle in his eye is so catching that for a moment,
just a tiny glimpse of a breath, I'll believe anything he says. Then she
gently nudges his leg or his arm, "Alexy", and tries to remind him to
come back to this world that we know. They live by Christian faith, and
their lives are proof enough that it works. Most of the boats around
here spend in a month what they haven't yet spent in six, ourselves
included, even when we're not stocking up.

Looking at video footage of them exploring jungles, living with native
tribes, discovering cities, and hunting meat, I believe again that it is
still possible to explore, and that travel has a valid purpose in
itself. That the world is not only full of mystery and beauty, but is
also an incredibly funny and weird place to be born into, and we should
enjoy it.

There are many boats here, each with their own delights.

Fergus and Kay from County Clare, Ireland, are circumnavigating the
world in another gorgeous self-made boat, Pylades (www.pylades.net
<http://www.pylades.net>). Fergus is an architect and his eye for detail
is apparent throughout, from shape and structure to colours and
textures. Solid wood doors and central table, a comfortable and
sheltered cockpit so it's possible to watch the world all night without
getting soaked, belting out new songs and practicing poetry. The first
night that I visited them I returned to Zephyrus on a mission to dig out
the song books and serenade the stars. Like Ukrainian Alex, he's also
got a philosophy that he's capturing in a book, his ideas also
associated with religion and religions, but Fergus' from an atheistic
perspective, Alex's definitely god-driven. Both have eyes that laugh and
tell stories.

We have also met again with John and Jennifer from Iles de Grace
(www.sv-grace.blogspot.com ) who gave me my first opportunity to sail in
a catamaran (so horizontal!), anchor in four feet of water, and snorkel
in a surround-sound sea of fish, sparkling like multi-coloured raindrops
all around me. Climbing onto the dinghy to warm up, I wondered how it
would feel to be a fish, instantly transported into the above-water
realm, observing for the first time land, birds, and in this case a
beautiful soaring mountain.

It's true, Bora Bora has gorgeous scenery, an azure blue lagoon,
fantastic snorkeling and diving opportunities, and a great climb to the
peak. We did that one a few days ago. I was asleep, then I was in a
forest, then I was scrambling up a rock face on all fours, ascending and
descending on fairly dodgy ropes, and sweating profusely. I finally woke
up and found myself on top of a mountain, rain lashing down, hungry for
the soggy cheese and tomato sandwiches in my backpack. It made me happy
and nostalgic; instantly transported to a more familiar walking
experience for me than the humidity of the tropics. The black cloud
passed as fast as it had arrived and suddenly I was on top of Bora Bora,
French Polynesia, magnificent views all around, hot sun, looking down on
tiny specks that were boats and houses, amazed that my legs had carried
me all the way up there without too many complaints. And equally amazed
that one of the smaller dots that was a boat that was way down there was
the place we call ours.

Before I ramble further, I have a correction to make to a previous post,
the one entitled 'The busiest islands in french polynesia'. The false
information wasn't deliberate, just a sign of our lack of information
sources beyond the imagination. And maybe a lack of need for facts.

A sting ray looks like a ray like you might have seen a picture of in
school, and nothing like my previous description. It has wide flappy
grey wings, a soft grey back, a long hard tail, and a flat head with
eyes very far on each side. Behind each eye is a quite large hole
through which it breathes, and under the tail is a shorter spike that is
its sting. It is not spotted, and it does not in any way look like a
penguin, a platypus, a leopard, or a squashed bell pepper. That is a
spotted eagle ray. I only discovered this while swimming amongst about
twenty of the flat grey stinging variety, whereupon I also realised that
I have been scared of entirely the wrong species.

The grey rays look benign and gentle, and act pretty nonchalantly, but
they can bite and sting, if provoked. Still, that was hard to believe
when surrounded by them in thigh-deep water. Floating ghosts. The eagle
rays somehow look more like a biting stinging thing, but apparrantly
they don't, maybe it's just that they look more three-dimensional to me,
and so more like an animal I might encounter on land, that bites or
stings. They are definitely the coolest looking creatures anyway and
always exciting to bump into on a swim.

So, I have seen sting rays, and eagle rays. And fish and fish and fish.
The coral here goes on for such distances that I can easily swim for an
hour without getting bored. And swim I have to, rather than float, as
the water has a refreshing chill to it that becomes cold after about
twenty minutes of floating (in a bikini). By all other standards, I
guess this would be called warm water!

Snorkelling is an opportunity to discover a new world. Floating in the
outer space of warm sea today, I mused if it was a bit like cannabis:
takes a few tries to get into it, but when you do, you see the world in
a whole different light. Upon further contemplation, I think underwater
life is more amazing, and unbelievable, and more refreshing. In fact,
I'm really getting into it.

I can entirely understand why this is such a popular tourist
destination. It's accessible, stunning, has opportunities for a wide
range of fun outdoor activities, beautiful sunsets, and gentle warm
evening air. Prior to arrival I was concerned about the degree of
tourist development, and upon arrival was quite shocked by the number of
yachts as well as hotels…. but neither of these need to ruin the
experience. Indeed, they are part of the experience. Which is why,
perhaps, I started this piece by talking about some of the people we've
met here. And I'm not the only one: John Glaudeman's told me that his
latest blog (www.sv-grace.blogspot.com) also focuses on the various
sailing types he's stumbled into here. The people I have met, in this
case mainly other yachties as opposed to locals, are part of what is
memorable about this place.

Tomorrow we leave French Polynesia. We will have been here for four
months, have visited six islands and their lagoons, and relaxed into the
warm and gentle pace of cruising life in the tropics. We arrived
harrassed by weather and boat, exhausted, and full of drama. We leave in
an almost dream-like, tranquil, haze. I wish I could bottle this state
of being, to dab it on in smaller measures in the future. To remember
what it feels like to have no firm plans except to reach New Zealand
safely, to plan activities on a day-by-day basis, and always arrange to
meet people either just before, at, or after, sunset.

But, it's time to go. There are definitely other paradises we could
visit here (Maupiti and Maupihaa being the most obvious) but, like Mary
Poppins, the winds are changing, our noses are wriggling, and the sails
are ready to flap. Even I am ready to sail, keen to sail even! I still
have much to learn in that department. The early experiences of this
journey are now thankfully in the rose-tinted past, and once again I
find I want to learn how to make this boat move without getting scared.
Let's hope the winds are a bit gentler with me this time around.

Downwind sailing, when it's good, feels like sitting on a magic carpet,
traveling without friction. Or being perched on a pretend cloud that's
being pulled across a stage, effortlessly.

We had a great day sailing today, sailing within the safety of the
lagoon that surrounds the twin isles of Taha'a in the north, and Raiatea
in the south. Broadly speaking, the lagoon is the shape of a figure
eight, with the islands being two lumps of land in the middle, and ocean
all around the outside. A painter might create the eight with a thick
stroke of turquoise if trying to replicate the water itself, or
alternatively shimmering pinks and yellows to represent the life within.
Here is where the corals are, and within them, the multitude of fish. On
a short swim earlier today I heard chirping above the water while
watching a flock of hundreds of small yellow fish. It took a moment to
convince myself that they weren't in fact canaries.

Our sailing journey took us from the south-east to the north-west of
Taha'a, anticlockwise . The wind was coming from east-south-east so was
behind us or to our side the whole way. It was relatively, strong, about
25 knots, and steady, so the sails remained full and we glided all the
way. We glid.

As we came around the top right corner, the silhouette of Bora Bora
appeared, majestic. I gasped, I gasped again, I pointed and stared. Andy
told me to concentrate as I was also meant to be steering. It has the
most fantastic profile – low and lumpy at the edges but with a huge,
steep-sided, mountain soaring out of the middle. No wonder it's a
'must-see'.

Until that moment, when it came into view, I had little interest in
visiting the place. First, everyone goes there. Second, it is overfull
with hotels and yachts and apparently also overpriced, even by French
Polynesian standards. Third, which really should come before the first,
four years ago we met some people who had been to Bora Bora, and said
the double words in such a loud, British, and pompous manner that I've
been put off the place ever since. Somehow I thought that if I ever went
there I might instantly become 'one of them'.

So, Bora Bora was off the list. We would be rebels and just sail
straight to Suwarov from here. "What?!" people would exclaim in
disbelief," you were so close and didn't pay a visit? That's criminal."
Exactly, I would say. Up there with visiting Easter Island and not
seeing a Moai.

But now that I've seen it, albeit from afar, I have had a taste, and
I've become curious (and I actually did want to see a Moai, we just got
blown out to sea earlier than expected). Now I want to get closer to
Bora Bora, to go inside the infamous azure lagoon, and maybe even climb
the mountain. There is a reason why this is the last place cruisers go
before leaving French Polynesia, and why it has been so exploited by
tourism.

—
I've been thinking a lot lately about Travel. Partly for the obvious
reason that I am currently travelling, and it is the mind's nature to
seek purpose in any given situation. But more usefully, the thoughts
have been catalysed by a wonderful book by Alain de Botton called 'The
Art of Travel' (published by Vintage International). I encourage
everyone, even those most attached to their sofas, to read it.

The first challenge of the book is pretty obvious: to ask oneself why we
travel, rather than to where we wish to travel. Testing my new found
insight, I ask Andy (market research stats n=1) "why do you travel?"
Ever the philosopher, he takes a long time before deciding, "because
that's what I do." Pushed further on the issue, he quotes a traveler
asked where was his favourite place. Answer – the next place.

Revelatory.

But I stick to it. Contemplation on why and how we travel might
illuminate why I am now interested in visiting Bora Bora where I wasn't
before, and thereby also help me to identify what kind of travel I will
enjoy in the future. Further, only a visit to Bora Bora itself can then
identify whether my change of heart was wise, or whether, in retrospect,
I would have been better off avoiding it on grounds of the many aspects
it possessed that I knew I wouldn't enjoy, and so support such thinking
for future explorations.

Contrary to expectation, De Botton's book validates and vindicates the
conscious self who deliberately chooses to stay at home. It also
challenges the world-traveler to be mindful of his or her actions and
identify a reason, goal, or method, so as to not waste the experience
entirely.

I agreed with almost all that de Botton had to say. From the joy of
anticipation of travel, to discovery of foreign delights, to the value
of seeing your own familiar surroundings with the fresh eyes of a
visitor. The book concludes with two chapters focussed on art, making
the points that (1) great works of art can be extremely useful in
changing our perception of a place, and (2) the practice of art,
irrespective of the artists natural ability, is a critical method for
enhancing our appreciation of a place. Quoting John Ruskin:

<i> I believe that the sight is a more important thing than the drawing,
and I would rather teach drawing that my pupils may learn to love
nature, than teach the looking at nature that they may learn to draw.</i>

John Ruskin isn't the only famous wise man whom de Botton consults.
Indeed, one of the joys of the books is being introduced to his chosen
guides. For each guide, de Botton chooses a location to investigate a
particular philosophy, rather than the norm of choosing a location
first, almost arbitrarily, and then seeing what might be learnt there.

So, we go to London and Barbados with J.K Huysmans, exploring
Anticipation; to a service station, an airport, a plane, and on a train
journey with Charles Baudelaire and Edward Hopper exploring the nature
of travelling itself; to Amsterdam with Gustav Flaubert exploring the
Exotic; and with Alexander von Humboldt we explore Curiosity while the
author visits Madrid. We go to the Lake District with William Wordsworth
to learn about Country and City, and to the Sinai desert to explore the
sublime with Edmund Burke and Job. Vincent Van Gogh teaches us about
Eye-Opening Art in Provence, John Ruskin helps us with Possessing Beauty
in all of the above mentioned places and finally, Xavier de Maistre
helps us to look at our habits afresh while the author wanders around
his home district of Hammersmith in London.

By the end of the book, the reader has not only explored the world, but
also reasons for exploring the world. Or not. Indeed, one of the most
enlightening and blindingly obvious points made early on is that
wherever we go, we take ourselves with us. Thus, the holiday will never
exactly replicate the travel brochure photos, the ones which,
blissfully, don't contain a trace of the lives we might want to take a
break from. This factor alone is often the culprit for holidays never
being quite as perfect as they are hoped to be.

I pondered that while snorkeling today: video and photos of tropical
fish and underwater adventure never have the sound track of your own
breathing echoing around your head. Even underwater I can't escape from
myself.

For me, the book was a timely arrival. This year of travel feels
enriching and relaxing on a good day, but also self-indulgent. I do
sometimes wonder what the point is. Or, if there doesn't need to be a
point, then if perhaps I could be making better use of my time otherhow.
For others at least, if not for myself. Put that way sounds very
patronising.

It got me thinking not only about why we travel, but also how. And how
to 'get the most out of' an experience. For this, I guess the first
thing to do, is identify the why of a journey, in order to choose an
appropriate how.

The whys for this trip are very different for Andy and I. And so,
therefore, are the hows. For Andy, many of the whys and hows revolve
around fulfilling a dream. The dream: to sail across the Pacific. The
necessary hows: buy a boat, learn to sail, learn maintenance, [get
married], acknowledge size of task ahead, learn to sail more, give boat
complete overhaul, start sailing [with new scared wife], become a good
skipper, learn to sail solo [enforced by incompetence of wife], learn
from the sea and the swell and the skies and the sails …… the
journey never ends.

For me, that's harder. The Why was more Why Not? Once the seed was sewn,
what offer could better that? If I didn't go, I would always wonder…
even if the experience was terrible it would be worth doing. In
retrospect I didn't really mean that to be tested.

There was also another important Why. To test a way of living. To travel
but to tread lightly. Not in a jumbo-jet. Not within a time limitation.
Not as a diversion from some other 'home', but as a daily reality. To
explore the viability of visiting new places around the world without
burning carbon. To see if I was actually up to practicing what I preach.

For all of these, the How can be answered by sailing long distances,
especially sailing with a partner.

So, the Whys and Hows have been assessed, what about the experience
itself, the What?

It seems to me that to make the most of an experience or place, you have
to engage with it on some level. Physical, mental, emotional, spiritual.
De Botton recommends Art as a means for engagement. Physical could be
climbing, skiing, surfing, hiking… or even just taking off your
sandals and walking bare-foot in the hot sand. Mental could be
furthering scientific understanding, learning the local language,
studying local religion, culture, or history. Emotional, for me, is an
important one. To engage emotionally means giving something of yourself,
making friends, forming an attachment to a place that triggers an
emotional response: happy, sad, or maybe just thoughtful. And spiritual-
well, that's beyond words. India calls many home, others yearn for
Africa; for me, my heart leapt when I reached Antarctica, and those
feelings only grew with time. No amount of time in Pacific 'paradise'
will, for me, replace the emotions I feel when I think of icebergs or
ice sheets, glaciers, sastrugi, and cold expansive white space. Others
dream of Oceans. That is perhaps the best reason to set to sea.

Having assessed the Whys, Hows, and Whats, I realised it was time to put
our trip under the microscope. The conclusions drawn after looking
through Andy's microscope are pretty positive. Boat still floating, crew
happy, half an ocean already crossed and signs are encouraging for
completing the other half in good spirits. New skills learnt, new people
met, great interactions with new cultures and languages, dreams lived.

To look through my microscope, I needed to delve further into our
environmental impact. An activity which, I must admit, I was confident
would result in an overall sense of self-satisfaction aka: smugness. I
was pretty sure we had a very low, almost non-existent, impact.

To help me, I consulted another great book that I hope to finish on this
journey: <i>Sustainable Energy – without the hot air</i>, by David JC
Mackay (published by UIT Cambridge). It's good, really good. Simple,
factual, helpful, and easily navigable.

Here's what I came up with:

Wherever possible we sail, as opposed to motoring, although we do have
an engine. For Andy, this is both a philosophy and an aesthetic. The
engine also encourages our ethical attempts by being loud, hot, smelly,
and generally unpleasant when run, and really unpleasant to try and
sleep through. Further, Zephyrus is equipped with an oversized and
inefficient Isuzu C221 67 horsepower truck engine so could definitely
have motored more miles on substantially less fuel. That, however, is
not the point since our main source of propulsion has been provided by
wind rather than diesel. Thus, even with an inefficient engine I was
confident of smugnosity.

Our electricity meets are generally met by three 60W solar panels but in
three locations when we found ourselves in consistently overcast places
for extended periods of time (Chiloe, Gambiers, Baie de Phaeton), we ran
the engine for a few hours to keep the batteries healthy. We have no
fridge, freezer, washing machine, or water-maker so electricity is only
really needed for running navigation and communication instruments and
charging laptops (and occasionally power tools).

Our cooking stove runs on alcohol. For colder climates, such as Chile
and New Zealand, we also have a diesel heater. We have no outboard motor
(requiring petrol), but rather row a dinghy or swim to shore. Thus
diesel, wind, sun, and alcohol are the only energy sources we use to
sustain, and propel, our lives.

The odometer on our GPS, installed new in December, currently reads 6335
nautical miles. About 500 of those were enjoyed exploring the Puerto
Montt area. Thus, since leaving the coast of Chile we have traveled
about 5835 nautical miles in six months. In that time we have burnt 338
litres (89 US gallons, 74 imperial gallons) of diesel.

What does that mean?

Thanks to the first couple of chapters in MacKay's book, and the
appendix, I can tell you that 338L of diesel, at 10.7 KWh/L, means
3616.6 KWh of energy. That is the same energy as you'd get in 7000 cans
of baked beans or 170 250g packs of butter, not that that really helps
much with anything.

Of more interest to me is how much impact we have had on the atmosphere.
Diesel emissions produce 250g of Carbon Dioxide per kWh of chemical
energy… so we have produced 904kg of Carbon Dioxide.

We have also burnt about 60L (47kg) of ethanol which, if we assume pure
combustion and ignore the contaminants, will have produced about 90kg of
Carbon Dioxide.

All told, our ohsorightonlowimpactlife has already produced over a ton
of carbon dioxide equivalent emissions.

One ton of carbon dioxide in the air that wasn't there before.

Since the day we left Chile, i.e. the day we started having our lowest
impact.

If I focus the lens on the magnifying glass further, I should also
confess to one return trans-Atlantic flight last year, which would
instantly add another three tons to our collective number (triple that
if you want to account for the higher-impact effects of flying), and an
entirely unmeasured amount of electricity used in the renovation of
Zephyrus including continual use of welding and power tools, production
of materials and paints, and diesel burnt in the car we used for errands
around town. Plus, of course, all the energy used in production and
transport of the various cans and staple dry foods we stacked our
cupboards with prior to the journey.

Zooming out again, according to MacKay's 2009 statistics, the average
Briton emits the equivalent of about 11 tons of Carbon Dioxide each
year. Double this figure for North Americans and Australians (Canada:
22, USA: 24, Australia: 25 tons CO2e/y per person).

While considering possibly-safe trajectories that require global
emissions to fall by 70% or 85% by 2050, MacKay states:
<i>If we subscribe to the idea of "contraction and convergence", which
means that all countries aim eventually to have equal per-capita
emissions, then …. we should get down to … roughly 1 ton per year
per person by 2050. This is such a deep cut, I suggest the best way to
think about it is no more fossil fuels."</i>

One ton per year per person is exactly what Andy and I have been
producing during these last six months. So, while this emission rate is
eleven times less than the average Briton, and twenty-five times less
than the average Australian, it is still only what we 'should' be doing.
It's not better than right.

I was pretty disappointed, a bit ashamed, and also surprised, at these
results. I have heard numbers like these bandied around for years, and
bandied them myself, but never really understood, on a practical
day-to-day level, what they mean. This lifestyle that involves no car or
plane travel, no electricity from a grid, and no movie theatres,
cinemas, or other late night city excursions, and which I thought might
reasonably last for 6 – 12 months, is actually the per capita emission
goal that we should be aiming for not only as individuals, but as
societies, globally.

So.

The most important thing I learnt from this exercise? To do the maths
before assuming smugness.

Having not entirely satisfied my environmental goals, I flipped through
my diary to see if I had any other goals prior or during this trip that
I could feel good about. The only clear ones written on February 18^th :

<i>Skills I'd like to have by Isla de Pascua (Easter Island): reefing in
and out, changing the jib and making it go up and down, working Otto the
wind vane, using a sextant.</i>

I regret to say that these all remain on the list of 'skills I would
like to have'.

The only longer term goal I can find recorded: not getting flustered in
times of urgency.

That, indeed, would make this whole trip invaluable to the rest of my life!

I guess one of the most important things I am getting out of this is
Time, both to reflect on our life and to carry out necessary daily
activities. Time to not only read about emissions but do my own
calculations, time to read about travel and incorporate those ideas into
our activities. Time to write, and think, and play.

More practically, I use time to learn to cook (in the absence of
take-aways), wash clothes by hand (in the absence of washing machines),
and collect water from rain (in the absence of a tap). Time to make or
fix things instead of buying new. Time to row instead of using an
outboard motor. Time to sail rather than fly, walk rather than drive.

I've just realised something… for many activities we're using time
instead of oil.

Perhaps more sustainable lifestyles are possible, but rather than
rushing around looking for them, all we have to do is slow down!

–
It's now a few days after starting this piece and Andy and I are ready
to go to Bora Bora. To see that mountain, swim in that water, tick that
box, and test the travel theory. For the last five days we have been
attached to a mooring buoy at the Taravana Yacht Club on the south-west
side of Taha'a. It's a fun spot, the first social location we have found
that specifically caters for boats.

On Tuesday night there was a magnificent buffet of Polynesian food
followed by a dance show put on by a local family… kids between eight
and eighteen dancing and twirling fire to the best of their ability
while parents, uncles, and aunts provided music with voice, guitar, and
drums. Little kids shrieked happily as they ran across the beach stage
and lots of 'volunteers' were dragged out to join in the show. We
continued to dance and laugh all night, meeting and mingling with locals
and other yachties alike.

Two days later there was a bring-your-own barbeque, and a more tranquil
opportunity to chat with folk who live here. This morning we were
accompanied on a stroll by a local teenager and his dog, and this
afternoon he and some other kids paid us a visit on Zephyrus.

There's a good vibe here. We're both smiling. It isn't hard work, in
fact, it's not work at all. It's not a must-see or a check-box, it's the
enjoyment of daily life. This 'it' is the travel we seek: people,
interaction, fun, experience, good times.

The wind picked up this morning and lumpy weather is predicted for the
next three days. We've decided to stay and enjoy the people and place
here rather than get bashed around in an unknown anchorage beside one of
the most famous pacific islands in the world. Bora Bora can wait.
However beautiful it is, it can't beat the warmth that greets us here.

We are anchored in a truly lovely spot, I like it a lot. We are on the
south west side of Huahine, nestled in a tranquil bay, but not too
protected- there is always at least a breeze and quite often
substantially more wind blowing us about. Some might not like the
constant boat rotations this causes but for me it’s a welcome change
from too-hot and too-still. The shore line is a continuous stretch of
sandy beach, gentle on the toes. This is surprisngly uncommon – often
the classic palm tree atolls are lined with crunchy pieces of white
coral, quite sharp underfoot. There is a gentle undulating hill covered
in green: tall coconut palms near the shore, denser firns and deciduous
trees further up the slope. One section is clearly a cliff, another has
been terraced for farming, but mostly it’s just thick tropical jungle,
unexplored by people in the last few decades at least.

The island is surrounded by one large lagoon, with reef on the
outskirts. Sometimes there are also motu – small islands sitting on the
reef, Pacific on one side, lagoon on the other. We visited one such
yesterday with two friends who have a dinghy with outboard motor – it
would have been too far and too windy for us to row there. Our main
intention was to have a picnic and go snorkeling. Well, mine was to have
a picnic, the rest were excited about the snorkeling. To be honest, up
until now snorkeling has been a nice way to cool down in the sea, and
has illuminated some pretty cool creatures, but hasn’t the been
gasp-inspiring wonder that some people shape their lives around.

We first went swimming in a small protected bay. Protection from the
wind meant hot sun, and mosquitoes, so it wasn’t long ’til we were all
in the water. Andy was the first to see the danger: a stone fish.
Doesn’t sound very dangerous, or even look it. Infact, it was entirely
camouflaged by being dull. But indeed, there amongst the stones and the
sand, identical colour and texture, was an ugly lumpy rock, with eyes.
And then another was spotted, smaller, maybe about the size of a small
grapefruit, utterly still. Stand on them and they spike you. Spiked, and
you have two hours to either get to a hospital or die.

Suddenly snorkeling seemed even less appealing. I retreated to my
sandwiches and the non life-threatening mosquitoes.

After lunch we walked around to the ocean-side of the island. This was
more my kind of place. Roaring ocean, rocky ledges, swaying trees. While
my three companions prepared for a new snorkeling experience, I sought
out a shady spot to practice some much-neglected t’ai ch’i. We all have
different ways of engaging with a place, and this is one of mine.

Barely had I planted my feet, however, and Andy’s waving and nodding at
me, shouting through his mask so it sounded more like a drowning gurgle.
No, I had made my decision, I was following my course of action. Not
convinced, he went to the effort of standing up, removing his
mouthpiece, and telling me to put my snorkel on. An instruction less
easy to ignore. This had better be good.

A minute later I was in the sea, snorkel and fins on, being carried away
by a strong current. That was fun, like going down a sideways slide.
Pulled, but not by gravity. Fish were in abundance around me, especially
the flat ones that are the shape of a square on the side, really thin,
yellow and with black stripes. Not clown fish – that’s nemo, the other
famous one you see in cartoons. I like them, they seem so unlikely.

Andy was gone. I guess he didn’t have something specific to show me, or
rather, he did, and this was it. Though I like exploring with others,
he’s not really the tour-guide kind of guy. Other people help me to see
things I would never otherwise notice. Damn him, so patronising to
expect me to do observing all of my own. Maybe I’ll go back to the beach
after all where my t’ai ch’i practice awaits. But first, I might just
look over here….

Swimming back against the current is hard work but I make decent headway
and then hold onto a piece of dead coral, a piece with no obvious
animals on it. Just trying to stay in one place. There’s an anenome on
the coral, and something fluffy and yellow that instantly disappears
when I go to stroke it. My favourite though, the clams. Big purple lips
with electric blue cracks in. And green-lipped ones too, that remind me
of The Little Shop of Horrors. What would they say if they spoke? The
purple and blue lips look like rich velvet. They also retract when I try
to touch them. In some cases the clam is as large as my two hands
pretending to be a clam. But of course I can’t do this imitation
underwater as I then get swept away again.

I go exploring somewhere else. Underneath and beside almost all the
corals are intimidatingly spiky sea urchins. Long black poisonous
spikes. I once stood on an urchin and got twelve spikes in my foot a
week before a planned ten-day trek. It hurt like hell. Following local
advice I regularly soaked my heel in fresh urine and sure enough by the
time the day of the hike came around I could walk again.

Needless to say, I didn’t want to touch one. Or a stone fish. Or meet a
shark. Or a sting-ray. What I did want was a guide. Even a child’s eyes
would have been good, maybe the best.

Guide-less, I remained within swimming distance of the shore, and soon
adapted to my new environment. The sea was warm, the fish happily
ignoring my presence. There were small yellow and electric blue ones
that darted around like flecks of brilliance. There were white ones,
perfectly transparent against the sand, and there were various others.
Does knowing their names make it easier to take it all in?

I have a good friend, Frin, who loves fish. I wish she was here now.
She’d be the most magical mystical knowledgeable guide. This is,
however, definitely the best snorkeling we’ve done yet. And I confess
Andy did the right thing to call me in. I could never have imagined this
without experiencing it myself. My imaginations of great snorkeling are
inspired by gorgeous documentary footage of the Great Barrier Reef. This
wasn’t as rich or as exuberant as that, but it was fun. And fun is good.
It challenged me to find my natural curiosity again, the kind of drive
that keeps kids playing in the sea ’til their lips are blue.

When we finally emerged, I expressed that this was the best snorkeling
for me yet, and our hosts were surprised. In that case, they emphasized,
you must go to Taha’a – the next island over. There’s a great spot there
packed with fish.

And so we’re going to Taha’a. And I’m really looking forward to it.
During the last few days we’ve not really known where we’re going next.
There’s an obvious route through the Society Islands but the truth is,
we’re pretty much ‘done’ with French Polynesia. Indeed, Andy even
expressed the other day that he was bored. Imagine! Finally we find
tropical paradise complete with coconut palms, colourful fish, warm sea,
safe anchorages, and a gentle walks.. and his life is lacking in excitement.

Are we ungrateful? Not at all. This is an amazing place. We just have to
remember that this adventure was always driven by the journey rather
than the destinations. And the journey aspect has lately dissolved into
one long and delicious coconut-flavoured siesta. No complaints from me.

So, back to Avea Bay, Huahine. It’s a delicious spot and I feel very,
very relaxed. I’m not even sure that we need to visit the other islands.

Several hours later, and it’s an incredibly tranquil night. There are
slight ripples on the water around the boat. A light at the far end
flashes rapidly seven times, holds on bright for a count of four, turns
off for a count of five, then returns to the seven flashes. There are
three other boats in the bay and two of them belong to friends so they
don’t feel obtrusive. The third is far enough away for us to not notice
them or they us. In the last few days there has been quite an exodus
from here – for a while charter catamarans with yellow sails were coming
and going every day. I wonder if the new quiet here is connected to the
recent and dramatic calming of winds. Since we haven’t been planning a
passage, we also haven’t been following the weather and its forecasts.

Some people are almost addicted to the weather prediction services, and
there are occasions when I feel that I should be too. They are, indeed,
amazing tools. But sometimes it’s nice just to let today be today, and
tomorrow bring a fresh experience.

The sky is very dark, especially black after looking at a computer
screen. A two-third moon illuminates low clouds and a few stars sing
strong. A dog on the shore barks. I can hear the roar of the ocean far away.

This afternoon I climbed a nearby ridge and thereby gained a unique view
of where we are anchored. The area of the lagoon is vast; the ocean is
in fact much further away than I realised. So, despite our recent
rotations, we have been in a very safe spot. Wind can’t knock you down
for too long, – it’s the mighty waves to be fearful of, and here there
are none.

I think this might be our last night here. I have really enjoyed this
spot. Really muchly a lot. It’s quiet, beautiful, warm, breezy, gentle,
easy, and somehow kind. I imagine it’s a good place to heal wounds, a
place where you can really feel far from ‘it all’, whatever the it. And
for me, happily, I discover my it is here, in this bay, on the boat,
gently ambling through each day. As far as I’m aware, there’s no it to
get away from, or meditate upon. I feel very free of mental gymnastics.
A delight.

The only ponderances I have concern where we might go next, and that’s
not stressful, or even particularly important. Wherever we go will be
the right place to go as we won’t be able to experience the alternative.
Indeed, our original plan missed the Society Islands altogether, opting
instead for the Australs and Southern Cooks after Iles Gambiers, and I’m
sure that would have been just as enriching an experience. So now that
we’re in the heart of the Societies, is it really necessary to tick them
all off in order to say we have ‘done’ them.

What a terrible term. “We did the South America and think we might do
Europe next year. We are doing the Pacific this year.”

The current debate is whether to visit Bora Bora, the next-but-one
island from here, and apparently the pearl of the Pacific. It has a
stunning landscape with magnificent, towering, peaks and a crystal azure
lagoon. It is also the focal point of high-end French Polynesian
tourism, adorned with hotels and even more expensive prices, an escape
for the rich and famous, and a classic honeymoon location. Are we
prepared to miss the former if it also means missing the latter? How
many ‘must-sees’ must one see?

I feel very happy here, very peaceful, very relaxed. No mountains or
azure lagoons can better that, and the omnipresent tourism could
definitely distract from it. And anyway, the water here has it’s own
very special turquoise-blue (is that azure?) by day.

Perhaps we’ll go to Taha’a, the next island over, and then move on.
Taha’a where I dream of vanilla plantations, a turtle reserve, and many
colourful fish. Sounds like a perfect final destination. A place to
start tuning in to the weather, and preparing for a longer passage ahead.

The journey continues.

The dilemma was excruciating. World Cup Final, or Full Solar Eclipse. Not only would they occur on the same day, but during the same hour. Compromise was impossible.

During those days Andy was recovering from the flu. Man-flu: the worst possible kind, the kind that would be fatal for women were they able to catch it. The only known cures are tea and sympathy, and only the former was available in any kind of quantity. Times were tough.

After the physical symptoms of manflu comes the Bubble of Silence. A cocoon of non-communication that forced me to scan recent history for any unforgiveable offences I may have committed. I found none. Just this once, perhaps, it was not my fault. He just didn’t want to speak.

On land, in a town, mood swings and silent moments can be disguised in the background noise of bustle, traffic, pre-booked events in the diary, school runs, work meetings, watching TV or maybe even going to see a film. They can be hidden, or ignored. Not so on a small boat. Especially not so when the silence is shrouding the skipper. The skipper who, even I have to recognise, ultimately makes the call on where we go or what we do, and at this time there were some Big Decisions to be made. I usually have some input, but his is the deciding voice. For good reason: he’s ultimately responsible for the boat, our safety, and our well-being. And he knows a lot more about retaining all of those things than I do.

I spent more hours than necessary worrying about the upcoming choice. Just how much does he love football? Just how much of a natural phenomenon geek am I? Is it really possible to weigh these two up against each other? Just how much does he not want to speak about either, and just how annoying will I be to him if I attempt to broach the issue?

Then England lost in the play-offs, perhaps unfairly, but at least we knew that they wouldn’t be in the final.The odds were shifting in my favour.

I decided to do some market research: just how cool is a solar eclipse anyhow? Versus: what kind of location could we find with an enormous screen for viewing the football.

In addition, our anniversary was to be the following day, and neither of us wanted to be doing nightshifts on a lumpy sea on that occasion.

Plus, to be honest, we had itchy feet. That was the most significant factor. It was time to go. We arrived in Tahiti on June first and the eclipse wasn’t going to be until July eleventh. Six weeks . Six weeks too many.

One morning, around the time I had given up on us ever having an interesting conversation again, I told Andy that if he put the kettle on then I’d make the tea. He replied,

“I have a better deal. I want to go to Suwarov. You can choose what we do until then.”

?!

My head swirled. I saw stars. I blinked a lot. I giggled nervously. I blinked a bit more. I put the kettle on. He was serious. This was more amazing than anything I could have conceived in the previous few days.

As I rowed to shore that morning to collect fresh baguettes, a pod of dolphins played between me and the sand. Life couldn’t get much better.

For the first time since we started this adventure, I had responsibility. A state of being that used to be so critical to my mental health, and one that should have felt natural, brought with it the burden of making the right decision as well . Not only could I make the call, but he was waiting for my decision. He wanted no part of the discussion.

I thought I’d want to go to the eclipse, no question, but then realised I also wanted him to be able to see the footy, and even more importantly I had really itchy feet. Whatever we did, no longer could I blame him if we missed the eclipse. We had about ten days to go. In ten days we could visit at least two more atolls and would be well on our way to the Cook Islands, and then Tonga. But the path of the eclipse ran closest to us south of Tahiti; all the next islands in our route, to the north and west, would be further away.

My market research intensified: Stefan Geens (ogleearth.com, stefangeens.com, and good friend) was consulted. He would tell me what to do. And just what the difference was anyway between a 99% eclipse and a full one.

Not only did he send detailed coordinates of where we would need to go, but also the following advice:

A partial eclipse, even a 99% eclipse or an annular eclipse (where the moon is too far away to completely cover the sun) is nothing like a total eclipse. In a total eclipse it goes completely dark. The wind dies. It gets cold. Your skin crawls. You get that tingle down the spine. You suddenly see the entire corona of the sun agains the blackness of the sky, which is invisible at all other times. As totality nears and if you are in a wide open area, I’ve heard you can see the shadow of the moon racing towards you from the horizon at thousands of kilometers per hour. If there are puffy clouds, you will see them extinguish one by one from the horizon to you, and then light up again as totality nears its end.

… A total eclipse must be one of the few events on the planet that loses everything in the retelling or in the televising. There is no way to experience it vicariously. Now if you had been in South Africa with tickets to the final and had to choose, perhaps it would be a close call, but as the alternative is watching television, it’s not even close.

In the same download as that email, and therefore arriving at the same moment, was also a message from some wonderful friends, Brandy and Mark, who we know from Chile. They would be arriving in Tahiti the very next day, and were likely to stay there a while. We were in Moorea, only twenty miles away.

The decision was made. We were returning to Papeete, Tahiti’s capital. But this time, we were going to do it right.

No shopping for critical provisions (that was all done last time). No filling up with fuel and electrical supplies. No getting sick. No staying at a marina that could be anywhere in the world. No spending good money on bad hamburgers. No penny pinching. No maintenance, scrubbing, or chores. No multi-tasking.

It was time to see the city for what it is loved for.

We arrived in Tahiti on a Sunday, left the following Saturday, and had an amazing time. One night at Marina Taina where Andy met friends he knew in Patagonia three years ago, two nights with Brandy and Mark downtown, two days hiking and camping up in lush mountains, one night watching Polynesian festivities, several days spending large quantities of money, a couple of evenings eating from caravans in the night market, and every day sat pouring sweet fresh drinkable water in endless abundance over our heads. From a hose.

Papeete, we discovered, is all about fresh running water.

Unlike our previous visit, we moored downtown, in the heart of Papeete. Tied to a dock, we could jump off the boat and walk into the city in just a few minutes. No concerns about the anchor dragging or other boats swinging too close to us, no need to row ashore, and, more importantly, no need to row back late at night.

Since it was the first time we had been tied to a jetty since leaving Chile, it was also the first time in six months that we had running water on our boat. On the first day we stood under the hose on the jetty, in swimwear. By day two we had filled a 50L tub of water in the cockpit and were pouring jugs of fresh water over our heads. By day three we had the hose running water continuously into the overflowing water tub while we poured litres and litres of deliciousness across ourselves, our clothes, the boat, ourselves, the boat, into our mouths, over our heads, and then maybe across our ankles, behind the knees, and all over our bodies once again. I lost all sense of self-consciousness. I’m in downtown Papeete, sat in the cockpit of our boat, starkers, having a fully fledged bath.

Fresh water galore.

But there was also another advantage to being at the marina: we could leave. With the boat tied up and under full-time security, it was the first time Andy felt comfortable leaving the boat overnight.

We went for an incredible hike, camping overnight in a mountain hut.

The hike started at the ‘Belvedere’ viewpoint, at about 600m altitude. The road getting there was dull so we took a bus and hitched. By the time we reached the starting point it was already late, about 12:30pm, but the walk was only 8km so neither of us were worried.

What we failed to take in was that the hut we were heading for was at 1800m altitude, a continuous 1200m climb for two people whose greatest ascent in the last three months had been the four steps used for climbing in and out of the cock-pit.

At one point we crossed a heart-stopping ridge. Even Andy, with all his mountain experience, was impressed. A ridge from which the hills plummetted on both sides, dense with vegetation but steep and unforgiving slopes. Reminiscent of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

We stayed the night in a refuge for hikers. It had rats and was cold. Really cold. Between us the warmest things we had were a single fleece sleeping bag liner, a single women’s thermarest (narrower and shorter than the standard), and a double mosquito net. Under Andy’s initiative the sleeping bag was cut in half horizontally: Andy got a poncho and I got a hoody. We looked like moomintrolls. Even snuggled up on the thermarest, under the mosquito net (that I decided was also impregnated with rat-repellent), and both inside the hoody, we got cold. So at 3am we started walking. Around and around and around. Around in a circle, six feet in diameter. Around the hole that the rat came out of. Talking shit. Until sunrise.

It was kind of fun, in a not-at-all-fun kind of way. Being cold, at least, was novel. And there was no risk of serious danger. I should say rather that it was fun-ny. Especially in retrospect.

More importantly, the scenery was spectacular. And the two days hiking felt great. Despite being cold and exhausted, we returned with enormous smiles and happy memories. And ached for days afterwards. Really ached. The ache of muscles that have forgotten they ever had a purpose.

We returned just in time to see a Heiva Extravaganza – a best of the best of the July festivities in Tahiti. And an extravaganza it was too. Wiggling buttocks, beating drums, knocking knees, al-capella choirs, more drums, more dancing, spectacular costumes, incredible body strength, roars and whistles, shrieks and cries…. skinny, fat, tall, short, young, old, tattooed, adorned… everyone giving their all for the show. A show of shows.

Just watching made my muscles ache even more.

Two days later we left the big smoke, this time we’d done it right. Cities are made for surfing on, not being drowned by.

We headed south. Towards the “Zone of Totality”. Even the words gave me a thrill. South between Tahiti and Moorea, south, the opposite direction from our next landfall.
On the way out we were met by a dozen rowing teams from around French Polynesia, racing as part of the Heiva Competitions. They had left at 8am from Tahiti, rowed around Moorea in six-man pirogues, and were now returning six hours later. Six hours of hard, hard, graft.

Made sailing feel easy, even lazy.

Three hours later I was not so sure. We were going nowhere. Zero knots under sail, about two with the engine on. We had counted on a constant five knots in order to reach our destination. And we weren’t about to sail through the night, in the wrong direction, in choppy seas, to only see a partial eclipse that we could have seen from Tahiti.

There was plenty of wind, as predicted, but coming from a different direction than we expected. That on it’s own wouldn’t have been a problem. What we hadn’t counted on was the swell: the overwhelming shove of the sea, push of the waves, generally velocity of the ocean, against us. Waves were coming from the south-east, the direction of the eclipse. The wind was coming from the north- west, from Huahine, the island we were next headed. The resulting condition makes for uncomfortable choppy seas and slow progress in almost any direction.

Sunset was now only an hour away and we had gone nowhere. We also couldn’t go back,- attempting to navigate through coral into an anchorage after dark is just plain daft. So Tahiti and Moorea were out. Huahine was into the wind. The eclipse was into the waves.

Andy informed me, as gently but un-negotiably as he could, that we wouldn’t be seeing the eclipse this year. I regretfully agreed. And noted that we wouldn’t be seeing the World Cup either.

But then the wind changed in our favour. And we flew.

Wild seas, bashing into the waves, water flying across the decks, Zephyrus heeling far over… it was like being back in Chile again. Sailing into the wind. Sailing fast, wet, and hard. Soaring. Exhilarating.

A thrilling ride, and a ride towards the eclipse. We made up mileage I’d have never dreamt possible and by midnight were only ten miles from the Zone of Totality. It was my turn for nightshift and we thankfully reduced sail. We were going to make it after all. We were going to see an eclipse. A full eclipse.

0220 we enter the edge of the Zone of Totality
0430 we’ll have about a minute of totality
0600 two hours into a nightshift and I’m really, really sleepy
0630 sunrise, on eclipse day, and a beautiful cloudless day it is too
0645 amazing how the sun makes you feel awake again. lots of contemplation on the sun today
0700 wide awake, pretty excited
0715 looking at the sun through special glasses, it’s a perfect globe
0725 eclipse should be starting any moment
0732 pacman sun – a chunk has been taken off the top left side. Visible only through glasses, the day is as bright as ever
0745 still bright daylight. pacman turning into screaming face
0800 significant coverage of sun by moon but you’d never know without the glasses
0815 Andy thinks it’s getting chilly
0820 Rhian agrees at last, definitely getting chilly
0823 and darker
0825 it’s a beautiful day but feels like a storm is brewing. eerie
0826 big thick clouds covering the sun! where the hell did they come from?
0827 Andy pronounces for the second time in this night (is that a smile on his face?), that alas, we’re not going to see the eclipse
0828 really big thick dark clouds between us and the moon and the sun

0829 Andy puts his camera down. Rhian gasps. A thin sliver of sun emerges behind a cloud. You can see it with the naked eye but not through the glasses.

0831 the camera is snapping away again. Rhian is shaking in some kind of rapture and ecstasy. Not sure whether to scream or be utterly awe-fully silent.
0832 the eclipsed sun emerges in a patch of clear sky beside enormous dark clouds. The sky goes a lot darker. I can see one star. Light intensity is like a dark dusk. It is cold. And windy. And amazing.

0833 screaming gasping pointing and shouting overtake silence
0834 amazing ball of darkness, for over two minutes

0835 the moon continues her journey across the sun and a peak of light screams out of the left edge. Known as the Diamond Ring Effect. Snapping continues. The day lights up again. I have goosebumps.
0836 we have both just witnessed a most spectacular, awesome, thrilling, and inspiring phenomenon

0845 the moon continues her trajectory, Zephyrus is turned around, sails are set, direction Huahine

0900 daylight and sunshine, good winds, waves in our favour. A peek through the glasses show we’re back in screaming face stage, but this time screaming down to the right, not up left.

0910 Andy starts playing with all combinations of shortwave and HF radio to try and hear the game. The shortwave handheld is most effective. He finds accounts in german and spanish first, then in english. The signal becomes clearer if the antenna is pointed towards south america for the spanish commentary, or new zealand for the english. I once heard of a couple who navigated to New Zealand in this way.

0925 The english version is rubbish, mostly consists of a kiwi journalist interviewing other kiwis in pubs around the country that are showing the game. Kiwis clearly don’t appreciate football. The radio is turned off.

0935 The sun is once again full. I get chills just thinking about what we witnessed. Throughout the day all I will keep saying “did you see that?” “No, really, did you see-ee THAT?” “How amazing was that?” However, whenever I try to record the experience I get seasick. An enforced day for recollection and contemplation.

1346 I finally bring myself to connect the computer to satellite phone and check emails. There are TWENTY incoming messages, mostly from my sister-in-law but ably supported by Stefan and my brother, with a blow-by-blow account of the World Cup Final. Reading them out-loud to Andy we experience the game vicariously and, it seems, a lot less painfully than had we watched in real-time. Clearly the right choice was made. Congratulations to Spain.

Evening. The sail to Huahine proves to be hard work, but the reason noble. Passing Moorea seems to take hours, and we’re both really tired. Unlike for longer passages in the past, we had made no special preparation for this two-night journey. No pre-cooked spladge that’s easy to reheat and eat, no attempt to rest the body before-hand. In fact, we hadn’t even given the sailing a second thought. We definitely hadn’t accounted for the fact that the first three days are always the hardest, and that the seas might not be welcoming. I guess it’s the knowing that it will all be over soon that makes you not worry too much. Like the night in the hut.

Monday July 12th, 5pm, we drop anchor in Huahine. Hooray, we did it. It was great. In celebration of our second anniversary we drink a bottle of wine. Not long after, we collapse.

[Jul 3] My today began swimming with stingrays under the boat, ended on
deck collecting bucketloads of fresh rainwater, and in the middle had a
great stomp and a delicious barbeque. It was a Good Day.

Funnily enough though, until this day I have been wondering what to
write. Since the last piece, in mid-June, we spent a week in one of the
largest marinas in this part of the world, next to the only city in
French Polynesia. In short, we saw more people, spent more money, and
caught more germs, than we have collectively since leaving Chile in
January, or intend to between here and New Zealand.

And yet, I had nothing to say about it.

We spent a further ten days on the island of Moorea, next door to Tahiti
(the island on which Papeete is the city) decompressing, recuperating,
and generally becoming nice people again.

Papeete should not rank as one of the great cities of the world, nor one
of the largest, most exotic, or most romantic. At a stretch it might
qualify as one of the ones furthest away from any other biggish towns,
administrative centres, or national capitals. Or one of the ones with
the largest gulf between foreign perception and reality. You can do the
full tour in about three hours, depending how interested you are in
black pearls. If pearls are your thing then the above time estimate
could be out by orders of magnitude.

So that's Papeete. Our best day out involved jumping into Jon and
Jennifer's rental car and doing a grand tour of all the hardware shops,
chandleries, and 'auto centres'. Via the market and a sports bar for
lunch. We were returned to the marina, eight hours after leaving, with
one hundred metres of nylon cord, twenty-seven litres of alcohol (for
cooking on), a fifty litre water drum, five litres of engine oil, four
deck shoes, three grapefruits, two bunches of fresh herbs, and a new
sarong.

Clearly the major merit for visiting Papeete if you're on a boat is
shopping. And shopping is not an activity I have ever enjoyed, except
perhaps for chocolate eclairs in a bakery.

We shopped. We bought a new inverter. We stocked up on cans and dried
food. We each bought new clothes. We bought the things we had forgotten
we needed, like head torches and batteries and varnish and mosquito
repellent and internet minutes and raincatching material and poles to
hold the raincatching material up, and a bucket for the rain to be
caught into, and cables and fuses and extension leads for the new
inverter. And beer and wine. And a clever swivel to attach to the
anchor. And fresh bread and cheese and butter and juice. And a $15 bag
of apples (by mistake). And meals out with friends – generally quite
rubbish meals with exotic price tags.

And… the truth is I don't know what we spent it on, but we spent
literally thousands of pounds , like three, and that's with free
accommodation.

Bewarned.

We also both got sick. A typical cold-with-flu. So we took it in turns
feeling sorry for ourselves, being poor company, and generally resenting
the city.

One evening, when it was Andy's turn to be sociable and mine to stay on
the boat feeling sorry for myself, a filling popped out while I was
flossing my teeth. Two days later I had a new filling. And for those two
days, and a few afterwards, I really appreciated being in a town. And I
was deeply thankful that of all the times from southern Chile to
northern New Zealand when I might have lost that filling, it occurred in
the only place when I could guarantee to see a dentist almost
immediately. And a good one too.

(For the cynics out there, no, teeth flossing wasn't an infrequent
activity catalysed by boredom and sickness and therefore directly
related to my location and proximity to a dentist. Infact, teethflossing
is a regular part of my nightly nightshift ritual – an excellent way to
make fifteen minutes pass by when you're at your absolute most tiredest
and really just want to wake the person taking over. I challenge anyone
to fall asleep during the masochistic act of flossing.)

So, there are good things about cities. Medical support, shops, friends,
amenities, cash machines. And pre-cooked quiches from the petrol station
down the road. And post offices. That's most important. After a six week
saga and as many postal institutions, we collected the most enormous
care package from my sister-in-law, Michelle. All the best goodies in
the world, from fresh music to peanut butter, chocolate, and jam, packed
with love, scrutinized by French Polynesian customs, and enjoyed with
passion. Indeed, I had to scoff one chocolate bar before hiding the rest
to ensure that Andy didn't polish them all off before I had a look-in.

Are these the things that keep most people living in towns and cities?
Not the people who love cities for what they do best – world class
theatre, museums, arty cinemas, bookshops,… or whatever it is that
might be your *thing*. I refer more to the people like me who get so
bogged down by just existing in a city that they forget to go out and
enjoy them. But also become very comfortable within them and worry how
they might live without a supermarket or hospital near by. (Just how
often do you go to a hospital anyway, though I do concur they are a damn
comforting thing to have less than three day journey away.)

I think that's about it for Papeete. Though, ironically and
stomach-twistingly, we might be going back there. Tomorrow. To see some
friends who've just arrived.

So, on reflection, that must be the major merit of a town or city, for
me at least: the people it attracts. It's therefore a problem that, said
in the same breath, I don't much like being around so many people. Lots
of people I don't know doesn't make me a nice person. Though lots of
people I like is fab.

And there's the other thing. In a quiet anchorage with only a handful of
boats we make many friends, quickly. Wonderful people with colourful
stories. In places where often we'd be happy to meet no-one. But in a
city, or major marina, there are so many people that the only way you
can meet ones you like is by already knowing them. Now that's fkd up.
That's almost up there with the irony of internet dating. There's just
so many of us that we all stop talking to each other.

We did meet one couple who we had no prior connection with. But only
because they're Canuks and spied our Canadian flag. Sadly for them we're
both British but they were nice to us anyway.

Everyone else we spent time with there we had either met in Chile, Iles
Gambiers, or down the road in Port du Phaeton. And as much as I enjoyed
seeing them all , it was just too much. At the end of the day, this
journey wasn't ever about seeing people. If that was the case I'd have
stayed at home where my friends are.

So to Moorea.

Moorea is the island next door. To the west. 'The Jewel of Polynesia.'
The place where the Princess of Sweden is currently honeymooning.

Every evening in Papeete I would watch the sun set behind the two
mountains of Moorea, and sigh. It looked so beautiful. From our angle
the profile made the shape of a giant M. Directly behind me, to the
east, were the ever shining golden arches of McDonalds. I was sandwiched
between glowing M's, one lit up by hamburgers and neon, the other by
sunset and waterfalls.

And so we left.

Twenty miles, and many more years.

For three weeks Andy had been increasingly frustrated trying to find a
sailmaker who could tailor a second-hand genoa we have recently
acquired. Everyone was too busy. No time. Not even to think about having
time. The day after we left, in a quiet and beautiful anchorage on the
south side of Moorea, he and a fellow sailor cut and sewed the sail on
our new friend's boat, and paid him half the Papeete rate. And so it
goes. And we have a new sail.

Moorea is great. It's lush, it's green, it's mountainous. It was good to
have moved onwards.

It also has some of the best waves for surfing and kite-surfing in the
world. Wonderful watching these athletes. Wonderful listening to the
roar of the waves, thundering down, weirdly close but safely on the
other side of the reef. This is 'reef- surfing', apparrantly a whole
world apart from beach- surfing.

Waves that approach a reef are part of an enormous and deep ocean and
have been building momentum for thousands of miles. Then, immediately
and with no warning, they are smashed onto a Very Shallow Coral Reef.
Boom. An magnificent, reliably reproducible, and ruthless, surf break
results.

On the non-ocean side of a reef there is usually still sea, and then
land. That's where we anchor: between the reef and the land, where the
seawater is weirdly calm despite the roar of waves less than a mile
away. I believe this is called a lagoon. The calming effect and
protection provided by underwater coral is astounding.

After a few days at the surf place, Haapiti, we went round the corner in
search of a TV showing the England – Germany World Cup game replay (the
live match had been at 4am), and also to meet up with some friends.
Here, again, we met loads of boats. Many of them had arrived two weeks
earlier as part of the 'Pacific Puddlejumpers' raleigh. That's loose
group of boats all heading across the Pacific at around the same time.
Membership is also a useful way for non- Europeans to not have to pay a
'bond' during their stay in French Polynesia. I think. Anyway, they'd
had an informal race from Tahiti to Moorea, ending with local dancing
and a barbeque on the beach in Opunohu Bay.

Everyone said they'd had a great time. Kids, in particular, seemed happy
to have made new playmates living a similarly nomadic lifestyle.
Friendships were made, stories swapped. We arrived at the end of what
must have been a very social fortnight. And everyone was welcoming.

And yet, again, it made us become unsociable. Grumpy. Bad company.
Massive sweeping statements were made. Small talk introductions were
required. Bundling up of six months personal journeying into a series of
places visited and boxes ticked. An assumption that if we'd visited the
same place then we must have had the same experience. Or that if we were
sailing at all then we must be enjoying the ride.

As it turns out, Andy and I shared no past locations with the other
boats, and have experienced wildly different weather. And were the only
people on our first passage. Am I enjoying it? Only once did I answer
with a truthful account of the journey so far… realising only as the
words unravelled how miserable it sounded, dominated by storms,
tsunamis, torrential rain, and rats.

But they were a captive audience. And I didn't embellish, much.

Too easy.

"A wise man always learns more from a fool than a fool from a wise man",
our friend Lauri quoted to me
the next day. I felt a little sheepish, he was right, there was much I
could learn from these people, all of whom have years more experience on
the sea than I.

It's just weird when you meet loads of people doing the same thing as
you. It makes it feel so, um, normal. And unadventurous. And for some
reason each person truly believes that they're having a bigger and more
interesting adventure than anyone else. Myself, of course, included. So
then the storytelling begins… and before you know it there's a
competition in terms of fear or wonder or adventurousness or blogging or
photographing or weather-watching or or… and doing this doesn't makes
any of us feel good about ourselves, and we don't learn anything from
anyone else either.

So I once again conclude that this journey is not, for me at least, a
community activity. And infact, the more people we spend time with who
are doing the same as us, the less we see of the place we're actually
trying to visit. If that is indeed what we're trying to do.

We toured the island by thumb and by scooter. We visited the local
Hilton hotel bar a couple of times. We joined fellow cruisers for drinks
on the beach. We went snorkelling near the boat. I saw dolphins and rays
and little blue fish and anenomes and Andy saw a two metre long shark.
It was holiday. Pure sand – beach – sun holiday. Coconut palm trees,
cocktails, and snorkelling.

I've been having a lovely time. I'm on holiday. Not one I feel I deserve
or need, or have been counting down the days to for the past fortnight
while sat in an office without air conditioning. But I am on holiday. It
has all the markings, and lovely it is too. Nothing to report on the
voyaging front, but a lovely, easy, time. And I didn't even know that
this was what we were heading for.

But there's got to be more to it than this. Where are the people, what's
within those hills, where is the fresh fish, what gossip is being spoken
in the local shops? We have landed in tourism central, a place where
everyone local is friendly enough but no-one really cares, why should
they, there is a constant stream of tourists throughout this season, and
tourism is why people come here.

Moorea has wonderful huge mountains covered in lush green. We want to go
inside there but no-one can tell us how this is done. To go into the
interior we need a guide, we are told, otherwise we'll get lost. The
paths are treacherous. It's jungle out there. Snakes will bite and
you'll twist your ankle.

The entire island is eight miles across at it's widest point, and sixty
kilometres around the coastal road. It would be hard to get too lost
without popping out the other side.

So today we hitched to the highest point accessible by road, and from
there followed a footpath. As it turned out, the path was wide and
well-marked. Only ten minutes from the roadhead we were transported to
elsewhere, to a wild and isolated place. It's true – you never have to
look far off the beaten track to find something new. We discovered a
huge waterfall with a natural bath underneath and soaked, showered, and
drank in that fantastic outpouring of fresh water. Then we climbed to a
ridge between the peaks and looked across the hills, bays, and reefs
falling away steeply below us. Beyond the ridge we stumbled through a
bamboo forest, over tree trunks, across rivers, underneath towering
strangler figs, and past massive ferns. Lushous tropical jungle. Green,
wet, fresh. And this is the dry season!

Talking of dry season, the weather is one thing we have been surprised
by. The last week has been really windy – several boats in this bay
dragged on their anchors. And now the rain, incessant rain. So much so
that this evening we both were out on deck filling buckets with rain
pouring out of the sides. It was wonderful. First Andy was out there
rigging up a raincatcher and I was safe and dry inside. But something in
me wanted to be outside. Outside in the rain. Big fat raindrops falling
in a huge quantity. The kind of rain where there's no point even trying
to stay dry, and not much point wearing clothes. And it was dark except
in the lightning.

Buckets of water, we filled all our jugs and the new 50L tub in about 45
minutes. That's almost 300L of water and no fancy collecting devices.
Just two people, four buckets, and a medium sized tarpaulin. And a lot
of rain.

So the highlight of my time here has been today. It ended collecting
rain, had a great stomp in the middle, and started by swimming with
sting rays. Right under the boat. Andy called me out of bed- Rhian get
out here now! (Bikini? Sarong? Emergency radio? Ah, rays. That would be
bikini then.) Bikini on, mask in hand, jump over the side, and there
they were. Large and beautiful, majestic in motion.

I've never seen a stingray before. It's a beautiful thing. It flies
underwater like the dreams of a kid dressing up in a superman cape. This
great magical polka-dotted square cape. And has a long long spike out
the back with a few feathers around it's base. That bit looks like a
bird. And at the other end is this great bulbous head that looks a bit
like a penguin, or platypus, burrowing in the sand searching for food.
But penguins and platypae have beaks, and this had more of a soft snout.
(Andy's description – like one of those squashed bell peppers you take
out of a tin.) I was surprised by how three-dimensional the head was,
especially considering how two-dimensional the rest of the creature is.
So, part snout, penguin, superman cape, eagle, and porcupine. And
beautifully graceful. So also part dancer.

Yes, swimming with stingrays. That's an amazing thing. And you know,
even if every person I meet for the next six months has swum with
stingrays, it makes it no less amazing. Lucky them, lucky me. Just as
long as we're all swimming at different times, in different places, with
different rays. So that in that very moment, that magical observing
moment, it's just the one person, and the one ray. Enjoying the
experience, in their own unique way.