If you haven’t already seen Lembeh Strait #1, images, words and video are in the previous post!
Muck diving is not for everyone. Turns out it’s pretty much what it sounds like, no matter what Diana (and especially her photographs) will try to tell you. Fortunately, at least in Lembeh Strait, Sulawesi, the water’s warm and the visibility is just slightly better than the name conjures. If you go with a dive resort, normal dives times are around sixty minutes. Unfortunately (for me) we didn’t have that restriction, and due to regrettable advances in battery technology and Diana’s ability to forego breathing for extraordinary lengths of time, muck dives with her can run over two hours. I have a bit more blood to keep oxygenated, so I typically get a (usually pleasant) half hour nap in the dinghy at the end of the dive. So not quite two hours in featureless gloom, scouring the rubble and muck for creatures mostly too small for my aging eyes to see even when they are pointed out to me.
And yet, I would spend a week in the muck anytime, for the chance to see, in person, two Painted Frog Fish holding hands twenty meters deep in the Celebes Sea. I’m so very happy to live in a universe where that is a thing.
(Final Gallery – #3 coming soon!)
In Lembeh, Diana arranged for a guide which was crucial. Lembeh Resort (phenomenal outfit in every way) set us up with Sandro, a star on their crew, originally from central Sulawesi. He was absolutely delightful to hang out with for six days of diving; easy-going but also a very motivated, perfectly happy to squeeze into Namo – with tanks and gear for three divers – and wallow across the strait at dinghy speed while the professional dive boat he would normally have been on whizzes by. He did occasionally wonder aloud about what might happen if we came up and Namo wasn’t there (with no one to tend to her), but otherwise he was game for diving without a proper boat and happy to stay under for two hours if Diana’s batteries lasted that long. He’s been guiding in Lembeh for years, having worked his way up from being the personal gardener for the dive shop owner, and he’s obviously still fascinated with muck diving. He carried an erasable slate and enthusiastically wrote down names for what he was pointing out to us (often with the proper Latin name). He has a particular interest in photography and works with Lembeh Critter’s camera operation (training other guides and shooting in his spare time) so besides spotting unimaginable, tiny camouflaged creatures buried in the muck, he also was able to help Diana learn how to use the snoot on her strobe light, which gives some of these photographs their dramatic look.
It’s basically impossible to adequately describe how difficult underwater photography is. Start with the idea that literally everything is approximately seventy-nine times harder to do underwater (except maybe peeing in your wetsuit). Buoyancy is super tricky because if you stir up the muck you can’t take photos anymore, and there are seriously dangerous creatures buried invisibly in the sand where you would like to brace your knee. Looking through the viewfinder with goggles is significantly tougher than it might sound (and it should sound impossible). Sony’s “smart” autofocus system hasn’t been down there before either and typically just throws its hands up in the (water?) unless it’s really lucky to recognize an eye. Many of the creatures who’ve developed their camouflage over literally billions of years of evolution are also smaller than a dime, so depth of field is harrowingly scant (breathe and you’ll miss the shot). You’re wearing gloves (for safety), so adjusting things like your f-stop, shutter speed, strobe power or ISO is extra fun. And, of course, though some of these critters do sit still, there’s the usual unpredictability that comes with photographing wild things. I could go on. Basically it’s like the mosaic work Diana does, in that it requires an intensity of focus and bull-doggedness that lies far outside of any normally agreed upon bounds of sanity.
Enjoy the photos (comments are welcome), but also watch the behind the scene’s video I made of Diana and Sandro doing their thing, so you don’t get the wrong idea. ~MS
Allora’s heading off on passage across the Torres Strait and the Arafura Sea from Australia’s northernmost islands to Tual, Indonesia. It’s just us two for this 4-5 day passage and conditions look good; it should be a brisk, downwind sail and we hope/plan to steer well clear of all the reputed fishing fleets! If you’re interested to track us on this passage, our Predict Wind Tracker link is under ‘Where In The World Is Allora.’ Should you need to reach us, head over to the ‘Contact Us’ page. And to AU and her fine people/landscape/creatures, you’ve been a whole lot of wonderful! It’s going to be a tough sail away …
Posts from these past 9 months forthcoming!
It was a bit spooky sailing out of Milford at midnight without a moon. We had our inbound tracks on the chartplotter to follow, but it’s pretty amazing how disorienting darkness can be, even for feeling whether to turn to port or starboard to follow a line. Also with the steep granite walls, we didn’t feel 100% confident in our GPS. Diana went to the bow, and I stepped away from the helm to try to orient myself every few minutes, as we moved cautiously down the fiord. Though the GPS did seem to have a decent idea about where we were, it was also reassuring to have radar confirming the distance to the rock walls on either side. But what helped me relax most at the helm, was when Diana shouted that the dolphins had come to escort us out. I leaned over the rail and could just see and hear them splashing off our port headed for the bow. It was hard not to feel like they’d showed up intentionally to reassure us.
One of the many challenges of the passage from Milford up around Cape Farewell into the Cook Strait, is that there is only one place you might possibly stop, but that requires negotiating a river bar entrance at Westport (just north of Cape Foulwind!), which is safe only in decent weather. Otherwise, it’s a solid three day run (if you keep your speed up), which just barely fits into the cycle of weather shifting from South to North. The weather window that presented itself to us seemed pretty typical, catching the end of a southerly, motoring and motor-sailing through variable winds in a race to meet the Cape with relatively light winds rather than the usual NW or SE gale.Leaving sooner, we’d have had more wind to sail with, but we’d risk arriving too early for the switch of winds at Cape Farewell.
Diana took the first watch just after 2 AM after we cleared the hazards on the north side of the entrance to Milford and could head more directly north. “Really cold, icy hands,” she wrote in the margins of the logbook. “Overcast skies heading further out to clear Arawua Point/Big Bay Bluff.” Just after sunrise on my watch, I got a glimpse of the mountains south of Mt Aspiring, which reminded me of Wyatt’s 100 mile run the length Aspiring National Park. I wondered if he could have seen the Tasman Sea from any of those lofty ridge lines he traversed?
Also in the logbook, I see a lot of scribbles in these notes about fuel rates, and estimates of actual fuel burned for miles ‘made good.’ Allora carries 190 gallons full which is more than enough for the distance as long as the weather is reasonably cooperative, but it makes a difference if you’re burning 1.5 gallons/hour or pushing the engine and burning 2.5 gallons/hour. The extra gallon doesn’t double your speed. People better at the maths would probably be able to calculate exactly what fuel rate is most efficient. I settled upon 1.6 or 1.7 as an nice compromise of efficiency, speed (to make our date at Cape Farewell) and comfort.
We had rain. We had current steadily set against us. We had dolphins streak by in the night leaving comet trails in the bioluminescence. We fussed about the wind, almost-but-not-quite-enough to sail, ever creeping up on the nose. We almost lost a batten in the mainsail. Then later, Otto, our autopilot made a sudden decision to turn hard to starboard out of nowhere. The switch for the high pressure pump on the watermaker heated up and set off the smoke alarm (naturally at night-while I was off watch). We saw no other boats besides the occasional fishing boat working closer to shore. We caught a glimpse of Aoraki (Mt Cook) at sunset, and at Cape Foulwind a couple of seal lions waved as we passed by.
On the last night, as seems to be a theme lately, Diana drew the toughest watch of the passage. There was just no way to completely avoid a patch of heavy winds slated to meet us as we approached the Cape, straight on the nose. We tried to time it for the least possible, but Poseidon wasn’t going to let us off feeling too clever. For her whole watch, Allora slammed into 20 knots on the bow clawing her way up the last bit of coast to Cape Farewell. Finally, after calling Farewell Maritime radio to try to find out whether it was generally considered advisable to cut the corner at Kahurangi shoals (which they weren’t really able to commit to), we decided it probably wasn’t, so we slogged on. Diana went off watch and very soon after, we were able to fall off the wind. Just five degrees made a big difference. Pretty soon we were motor-sailing and by Diana’s last sunrise watch she was able to shut the engine off and sail along Farewell Spit, an amazing 25km sandbank off the northwestern corner of the South Island at the opening of Cook Strait. The winds were light but sweet. Finally! ~MS
The run outside between Caswell and George Sounds is around 14 miles. We left early to try to beat some forecast rain and gusty NW winds, and almost made it. The rain started just as we made our turn in. Diana logged the max wind at 27.2 knots, then went down and crossed it out to a revised 29 knots. By the time the wind had blasted us another two miles down the sound, Diana had crossed that out to record 42 knots. Looking on the chart with the wind howling behind us, we were concerned if Anchorage Cove would be able to offer any shelter from this angle of wind, even though it’s listed as an ‘all-weather anchorage.’ We worried it might be too gusty to safely negotiate the narrow spot between the river bar and small rocky island. We decided to poke in and check it out if we could. Right away the wind dropped into the low twenties then the teens, which still felt like a lot to try getting into the tight spot where fishermen had set up a line we could theoretically side tie to. The rain hammered down as Diana watched from the bow for shallow rocks off the island and I maneuvered Allora in, ready to back out if we needed. Despite whitecaps just outside, the winds this close to the little island dropped to near zero and Allora was able to hover effortlessly while Diana (in the kayak) quickly tied lines on the bow and stern, getting absolutely soaked in the process. It was a kind of a crazy feeling, the sudden stillness and security of that spot with gusts in the forties not half a mile away. We wouldn’t have guessed even from a couple hundred yards out that it was worth chancing. ~MS
Big Fish
a big fish lived here
under this rock
in this sound
70 meters of water
down down down
finning the murky fathoms
there must be something it is like to be
a big fish
broad tail to the tide
jaw slowly moving, gills filtering
oxygen and salt from darkness
listening to the strange whirr of a prop churning distantly overhead
scent in the current
vibrations of much younger, much smaller, more foolish fish
everyone makes mistakes
joy to the world!
big fish on!
the breathless mystery of something deep
that unremitting pull of an invisible line
uncompromising bite and stick and metal barb
is there hoping it might break free
what is it like
to be another’s flesh and dinner?
exhausted thrashing on the surface
searing bright light and fierce dryness
the gaseous, ethereal world
where white birds like cherubs flitter and follow
where albatross glide like shadows of another understanding
what is it like, big fish?
now that two men hold you in firm hands
knife wielding hands
careless hands
is this the dance?
waves surge against the rocks
seaweed starfish worms green saltwater alive
o’ fish shaped wave
these men call you big fish
men who came to find things to take
big trees all in a row
is there something it is like
to be a man holding a gray dead fish
for a picture
flesh stripped from her ancient bones ~MS
Abstracts
My favorite of Diana’s photographs from Fiordland are the “abstracts,” which she discovers by looking in a very careful, unique way, at the tidal line along the rocks, that magical transitional space between the hidden world underwater and the green, vibrant life-on-fire world above. Bare stone, stained and painted with time and color, bent and reflected by the still, secret, freshwater shimmering over the tide, the infinite, creative capacity of nature. Diana uses framing to share this vision, to point out Nature’s mastery of abstract art. It’s no surprise (and no accident) that these images feel so profoundly connected to her mosaic work. Most of the time these photographic expeditions are her solo meditations, which she shares with me when she gets back to Allora (after hours in the kayak!). But I’ve also been with her, paddling Namo gently into position, sitting right next to her, appreciating the wholeness of a beautiful place but without quite seeing what she is seeing. These images, for me, represent a particular (and particularly magical) collaboration between Diana and this very, very special world we are navigating in Fiordland.~MS
Dash from Dagg to Doubtful:
The relatively short distances between sounds along Fiordland’s rugged coast allow for mad dashes timed to brief calms, but you can’t really read the ocean’s mood sheltered in the steep granite walls of the fiords. Often the designation, “all weather anchorage,” means that fishermen have figured out that even in the worst conditions, certain spots are spared. The only way to know when it’s time to go, if you don’t have the benefit of years of local knowledge, is to study the weather models that we download twice a day from PredictWind. Because they are downloading via Iridium satellite, the resolution of the models cannot be higher that 50km. So there’s a bit of an odd effect as the models average how much the wind on the Tasman Sea is slowed down by the mountainous Fiordland coast, giving the appearance of lighter winds close to shore. They probably are a little lighter compared to what they are 20 miles out at sea, but our experience is that the models generally underestimate what it’s like on the outside and overestimate what we’ll experience once inside. Wind or no, gale or no, the seas are almost always a mess, particularly where local winds funnel through the openings of the sounds. Schedules are well known as the bane of sailing but in the land based world they are unavoidable, and Wyatt had a particularly narrow window of time to squeeze in a visit to us amid preparations to leave New Zealand. So we considered ourselves unreasonably lucky when the wind that pinned us down for a couple of days in Daag, relented in perfect time for us to make the dash. We arrived at the opening of Doubtful with what Wyatt would call a ‘splitter bluebird’ sunny day. ~MS
We have experienced a profound cumulative effect traveling through the wilderness of these southern fiords, as we mash through the tangled forest or glide like a whisper through glassy, watery mountain reflections. We feel a growing, deepening awareness of the liveness and power of this unfettered place. Every day Diana peers a little closer into the magical profusion of the rainforest, its tiniest creatures (or the smallest we may perceive) all this abundance of life fueled by fresh water, gray stormy clouds, shifting rays of sunlight, massive stone faces fading softly into the distance. The boundless imagination of nature is vividly accessible here, free of scheming human interference. Inexhaustible, effortless celebration. We feel blessed to feel like we belong, to participate at our particular scale, with our particular way of perceiving. Gratefully reconnected as dolphins come to play alongside Allora, turn and smile and look back at us with familiar eyes, into our own delighted gaze. As the sky softens at sunset, or looms heavy with rain before the storm, as water gushes from waterfalls that were not there before the deluge, thundering into the fiord, as williwaws tornado in wild rainbow mists across startled coves, how delightful it is to be alive, a part of, this marvelous, miraculous world. ~MS
Something happened when the twenty North American Wapiti Roosevelt gifted to New Zealand in 1905 found their way into the heart of Fiordland’s steep and impenetrable wilderness. Maybe there’s a perfectly rational scientific explanation (maybe it has something to do with crossing breeding with Red Deer?). They got a bit smaller than the fat and happy elk of Yellowstone (which certainly makes good sense given the dense rainforest) but they also changed their tune, no longer bugling with that iconic, haunting call that resonates across the frosty parklands, lodgepole forests and granite peaks of the Rockies. Our visit to Daag coincided with height of the “roar.” It’s a sound that does not “belong,” but also feels so fitting, as though giving voice to the thick ferny jungle of that unpeopled wilderness. Deep, guttural, plaintive and haunting (in their own way) – their roars echo across the still water and ridiculously precipitous canyon walls. You can hear individual stags make their way up and down the steep shore, and we paddled Namo as stealthily as we could manage along the shore hoping for a glimpse, and though they often seemed very close, we never saw them. We could only imagine their antlered heads tilted back, belly’s trembling as they gave voice to the wilderness.~MS
Although Spanish moss grows on trees, it is not a parasite. It doesn’t put down roots in the tree it grows on, nor does it take nutrients from it. The plant thrives on rain and fog, sunlight, and airborne or waterborne dust and debris.
Known for it’s friendly, ‘cheet cheet’ call and it’s crazy flying antics, the Fantail or Pīwakawaka often follows another animal (and people) to capture insects. Time and time again, though, they acted as guides; when we were off track in the woods, they’d appear, chirping energetically, as if to say, ‘no … not that way, THIS way!!’ I learned to always follow them!
Some fungi fun: I haven’t had the time to research ID’s on most of these, so write me if you know and are keen to share?!
We were primed to love Broughton Arm. Tony, a New Zealand sailor we met in Tonga (from an Auckland sailboat building family) got there ahead of us and posted his impression, the humbling sense of privilege he felt to be in the remote presence of such mighty granite walls and peaks. “Paradise found!,” he exclaimed. It’s hard to think of a way to convey the heart sense of moving through pristine and unpeopled areas like this, the sense that goes beyond the imagery, the waterfalls, and magnificent trees, the wildlife. The sense of living stone and water and place. You look at one of the these peaks soaring above the the fiord continually stunned by the mass and energy represented there, and then by the bounty of life exuberantly, vividly greening those granite flanks. And water, water, water everywhere. ~MS
Dusky is the longest and most extensive fiord in Fiordland at nearly 24 miles in length. Named ‘Dusky’ after Captain Cook’s evening sail by in 1770, and ‘Tamatea’ after the renown Māori explorer who spent much time there. He’s also known for the coining the longest name of a place near Hawke’s Bay ‘Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateaturipukakapikimaungahoronukupokaiwhenuakitanatahu,’ so I’m glad I didn’t have to work that into our logbook! ~DS
Inner Luncheon Cove on Anchor Island, Dusky Sound
We are anchored in an 18th century naturalist’s illustration. The Kākā, subtly colored parrots, russet and carmine, gray and mossy green, chatter in mobs back and forth. Fur seals and their pups bawl and rumble along the densely wooded shore, draped on rocks, sunning just out of the vivid green tide, or hidden mysteriously in the forest. Rays and Broadnose Sevengill sharks patrol the shallows. Bellbirds chime and Wood Pigeons dive and soar in mating displays, wind whirring in their wings. The water is supernaturally still after the tumult and breaking swell of Broke Adrift Passage, and the long motor up the easing blue Pacific around Cape Providence. The scale of the world is abruptly more intimate. Captain Cook dined on crayfish here in 1773. He left behind a recipe for brewing beer from the bark of Rimu trees, molasses and yeast. The island is also predator free, and refuge to the rare ground parrot, the Kākāpō, once thought to be extinct – rediscovered in Port Pegasus, Stewart Island by Rodney Russ, a sailor/explorer we met in Christchurch.
A chance to sit on the bow and meditate outside, to the constant music of birds, “Here and now boys, here and now.”
The dearth of sandflies and still air made for a pleasant barbecue, cooking up fillets of the Albacore tuna we caught on our way into Dusky.
The trails on Anchor Island are named and well marked, though oddly, do not seem to clearly indicate which of the many paths lead to the lake (just a kilometer or two away). We weren’t very far along the “wrong” trail when a mob of Kaka settled noisly into the trees over our heads. We sat still and waited and they ventured closer and closer, sailing back and forth, gnawing at the branches with their strong beaks and then landed a few feet away, turning their heads upside down for a curious closer look. A South Island Robin/Kakaruai (re-introduced in 2002) also hopped over to say hello, as they do, finally summoning the courage to peck at the bottom of my shoe. ~MS
Fanny Cove, Dusky Sound
It was still when we arrived after the move from Anchor Island. Along the way we enjoyed the company of some of Dusky Sound’s residence Bottlenose dolphins, and stopped for a closer look at a waterfall, a hundred feet of depth under Allora’s keel a boat length or less from shore. We ate some bread that Diana pulled from the oven just as we entered the broad cove and thought about our plan for anchoring. The forecast was for twenty-five to thirty knots of northerly on the outside (a little less than the full Pusygar gale which prevails three hundred days out of a year), but all the models showed much less fifteen miles inland form the open sea. Still with the wind and williwas, we didn’t really know what we might get. The dramatic cove with the huge granite wall of Perpendicular Peak at the head is much bigger than in looks on the chart. The opposite of intimate Luncheon cove. We dropped in 60 feet of water and laid out all of our 100 meters of chain at a shallow angle along the shoreline, still sitting in thirty feet of water but with rocky shallows close by. Our first line would not really hold us off, and we ran a second as the wind came up and it was clear that the topography of cove seemed to twist the north wind with just a hint of west in it to solid west, coming at Allora from the port side and pushing us toward shore. The cove is big enough for a reasonable bit of fetch too, but the water on the east side is just too deep. Already worn out from setting the first two lines we debated putting out a second anchor from our midships cleat, but we worried about dealing with picking it back up if things got rough and we hand to move. We finally settled on putting out a third shore line using forty feet of chain to tie around a rock and pulled that up tight. By then the wind was pushing us with gusts of 18 knots. It went against every sailor instinct to be holding off a lee shore this way, but as long as our lines held it would take some mighty force indeed to drag 100 meters of chain and an anchor uphill. A power boat came in, and poked around on the east side and dropped anchor along the east side which we thought was too deep and we briefly wondered if we’d read the situation wrong (having no advice in our books about where to anchor in this broad open cove). But then they sent a dinghy over and we recognized the driver as he approached. Junate! from Hokey Pokey, a catamaran we knew from Papeete and the Gambier! We shared a brief excited catch-up about the last three years before he headed back. They’d also decided that it was too deep to anchor on the more protected east side and were zooming off (as only a power boat may) to find a mooring in another cove, much too far away for us to make before dark. And we were left alone with the wind, checking our shorelines and worrying how much more the night would bring. Just before dark the wind gusted to the mid twenties and Allora settled back about fifteen feet closer to shore than she had been. Our starboard shoreline went momentarily slack and the depth rose to twenty five feet. It began to rain. We donned foulies and went on deck ready to take more drastic action if it turned out that our anchor was actually not holding. We tightened up the breast line chained to the rock to pull us out into deeper water, and checked the GPS. We finally decided that the low tide had allowed some slack in our chain which the gusts shook out and we were holding fine. We made sure the dishes were away and everything was ship shape for the night, just in case, and then the wind quit completely, the rain settled in gently. In the middle of the night we woke up to an amazing stillness, just the finest pitter patter of rain. Light from a still nearly full moon softly lit the stunning granite faces that guard the entrance to the cove and the fine rain softened their reflection in the still water. It felt like a big reassuring landscape hug for a wonderful, still, uneventful night of sleep. ~MS
Seaforth River, Dusky Sound
It took us three tries to get the anchor to hold in Shark Cove. Communication from bow (Diana) to the helm (Marcus) is always a bit challenging (West Marine sells headsets called “marriage savers”). The view is different, too. We did alright for the first couple of attempted sets, but both got a little impatient and grumpy by the third. It held, and we were finally tied up, but tired and neither of us feeling great about how the teamwork had held up. There’s a lot at stake — sudden weather switches, unpredictable williwaws make it crucial to get this right. Every couple of days we get another chance to see if we can improve on our mutual desire to work together.
We got a little of a late start for the longish dinghy ride over to Supper Cove where the Seaforth River enters the Sound. It’s reported to hold brown trout! The Dusky trail slopes along the banks, through mud puddles and a podocarp forest of magnificent rimu, kahikatea, miro, mataī and tōtara trees. The river tumbles off some boulders and then flattens like a lake for several kilometers. Tea stained with tannins, spotting fish (the only way to fish in New Zealand) was tough. Ultimately we didn’t see any, though a few rocks got some very intense attention.~MS We took Namo over to the next bay, Supper Cove, to be able to hike on the Dusky Track. It’s an advanced tramper track – 84km one way, but we just did 6km and found it muddy but heavenly (not bushwhacking).
While Wet Jacket Arm and Breaksea Sound are still part of the Dusky/Tamatea Complex, I’ve broken them up, if for no other reason than my own sanity, so I can feel a sense of progression, ha! ~DS
Last Cove, Preservation Inlet
My first series of thoughts were about the precariousness of our situation, and how much we depend on our engine, despite being a sailboat. What in the world would Captain Cook do? We had arrived at the entrance to Preservation Inlet a couple of hours too early, despite our attempts to slow Allora down. No wind but a big southwest swell colliding with a northerly chop was making going slow under power uncomfortable, the mainsail slatting back and forth despite the preventer. We had already decided to edge up toward Dusky Sound (another twenty miles onward) and go in there instead as long as the forecast northerly held off. I’d barely turned Allora in that direction when the wind began building, directly on our nose, gusting up to 16 knots. No harm in poking a little further that way, to kill time. The Puysegur lighthouse flashed bright and high on our beam, a reminder of where in the world’s oceans we were. Puysegur hosts gale winds or stronger 300 days a year. The weather models showed the next gale arriving by afternoon, by which time we needed to be safely tied up at anchor. The first issue with the engine I noticed was that the display at the nav station was off. Weird, I thought. Then I noticed the gauges in the cockpit, shutting off and popping back on. Very weird. Then the engine warning came on, beeping insistently. What the heck? Thinking mainly at this point of not waking Diana who’d had a very rough night already struggling to get to sleep for the first few hours of my watch, I quickly shut the engine down. Then as we slowed in the airless swell, I pushed the button to start it back up. It flashed and went off. I tried again, it stayed on long enough for me to get a couple slow, battery dead, rolls of the engine. I had been thinking it was time to replace this starter battery, in fact, I had just had a conversation with Willy on Pazzo about how you know when your starter battery is dead. I should have known better than to bring this up with him, since the last boat conversation I’d had with him was about our flawless autopilot, which literally failed the next day (the first time in six and half years). For a few panicked moments I couldn’t think about anything except the weather forecasts I’d been looking at that predicted wind on the nose if you tried to sail for Dusky and no wind at Puysegur until the arrival of the gale. I guess Captain Cook would just have had to sit there roll in the three meter swell and wait for however many hours it was going to be until the gale chased him in. I didn’t like the sound of that at all. I went below and switched the starter battery to combine with the house batteries and the engine started up. Phew! But the engine warning was still blaring CHCK ENGINE. Amazingly, Diana was still sound asleep, despite about the blaring warning lights, or me running up and down the companionway, starting and stopping the engine. Okay, I checked the oil. I checked the temperature. I checked the cooling system. I checked the transmission. All good. The engine sounded absolutely fine. I’d installed the display at the Nav because supposedly it might give me more information than just CHCK ENGINE… how about check battery, or check electrical system? I reluctantly woke up Diana to tell her about the situation. It definitely did not seem like a good idea to head toward Dusky, we agreed. I figured out how to make the engine warning beep a little bit quieter below and she tried to get back to sleep. I started a slow zig zag toward Puysegur lighthouse, chugging along at under 3 knots, keeping a wary eye on the churning cauldron of Balleny Breaks less than a mile northeast of us and slowly got used to the steady ringing of the engine warning. We motored up the stunning Preservation Inlet to Last Cove as I kicked myself for ignoring my instinct to replace that starter battery. I’d checked it and it seemed okay, but it would have been relatively cheap and easy to replace it, just in case, and not be in this situation. Our first anchorage in Fiordland. We’ve been working on how to set our anchor and lines, a sleepless night from the passage and an engine with a steady CHCK ENGINE still blaring did not make it easier. With a big blow coming we wanted to get it right. 300 feet of rode and two lines to shore.
The weather models, all four that we download via satellite, predicted this narrow window for rounding the great cape on Stewart Island and sailing with an easterly breeze up to the notorious Puysegur before the wind switched northerly with forecast 50+ knot gusts. We put a lot of faith in them, and they were spot on. After a long nap, I started the project of dealing with the starter battery. My idea was to replace it with one of the house batteries. In the process, I had the thought to check the Duo Charger which regulates the battery charging from the engine’s alternators. The installation showed two fuses and as I pulled the wires to find the inline fuse, I noticed the one for the starter battery was a bit loose. I tightened it up, started the engine, and the charging voltage jumped up right to where it belonged. A loose wire. That was all. Three turns of a screw. ~MS
Cascade Cove, Preservation Inlet
We arrived as the announcement came over the PA on a small Real Adventures cruise boat anchored at dead center in the cove, “the generator will be turned off at 9:30 and then back on again at 6:00 for your convenience…” Two crew walked to the bow, short sleeved black uniforms and to our delight, weighed anchor, the boat disappeared past the head of the cove and left us to the cheerful sound of a small waterfall pouring down the rocks next to a stout blue shoreline. We dropped our own anchor and tied up a boat length from shore. One of our books said that brown trout inhabit the river which flows into the lake above the dramatic falls at the head of the cove. A mere two kilometers as the Tui flies. All we needed to do is scramble up the side of the falls, then bushwack along the lakeshore. We clambered up, relying on roots and branches for hand holds, worrying about the way back down, and somehow made it to the top of the falls. The steep sided outlet of the lake forced us up and up over fallen mossy logs and broken rock faces. Every step was a miniature triumph as we inched and wiggled and scooted minutely closer. The edge of the lake, walking in the shallow was better for a while, until it became a mote of surprise waist deep holes and fallen logs. After hours invested in about a kilometer of progress, we admitted defeat and turned back, now knowing what lay ahead. Many times we expressed gratitude for the near absence of sandflies and the forest herself was pure magic of green mosses and deep ferns and wise old trees. Back at the outlet of the lake where for a brief time there had been trail flags to follow, we found a row boat pulled ashore that we had walked right by. Those Long River brown trout will never know how close them came. The biggest challenge was finding our way back down to the dinghy tied up in the outflow below the falls. We had cleverly laid out markings with sticks on our way up to mark the way, but those didn’t work out any better than bread crumbs did for Hansel and Gretel. We cliffed out, over and over again, but eventually, banged, bruised and muddy found a way down, never more happy to find Namo, dutifully waiting to take us home.
Next stop: Fiordland/Dusky Sound
Port Pegasus
After a long period in the 19th century of surprisingly energetic efforts to master and exploit the natural “resources” of Rakiuru, whaling, mining, seal fur trade, fishing and harvesting lumber, New Zealander’s finally left most of this southern island alone, so that ninety-eight percent of the island is under the management of the Department of Conservation (DOC). It is wild again, and feels that way. There are a few DOC huts scattered about, and a system of trails but most of the island is difficult to reach in any other way than a boat. Port Pegasus still has the remans of some of the settlements, rusted and covered in the bush, but arriving by sea it feels beautifully raw and untouched with very few visitors. We saw a few other boats, including Pazzo, who we met in Lyttelton. The fishing was ridiculously prolific. We caught something on nearly every drop of the jig, and it took less than fifteen minutes to have our first legal sized Blue Cod for tacos. All in all, a very special, wild, rarely visited place that was a little chilly from steady winds that certainly had a whiff of Antarctica on them.
Of all the places Allora has taken us, North Minerva Reef, is a stand out. The reef literally emerges only 90cm at low tide, and when walking on what feels like the Pacific’s very precipice, we had the surreal sensation that we’d been transported to another world. I urge you to read this article from New Zealand Geographic, which lays out the inherent hazards and contentious history of this fascinating ‘land:’
We, like many others, made a stop at Minerva North, to break up the often difficult passage between Tonga and New Zealand. Most boats poise themselves to try to stop, but the weather conditions have to be right to enter the pass and take the time in ‘pause’ mode as opposed to continuing onward, so we felt lucky to manage 3 days in the fold of the protected lagoon. We weren’t alone, though! The 30 boats at anchor around us were dubbed, ‘The Minerva Yacht Club!’
Woven belted mats, ta’ovala
worn over black missionary garb
maze of lifted islands pushed up by the Tongan trench
friendly islands, plotting Cook’s demise
faint volcano in the distance, a perfect cone
further south, the world’s newest island
space alien squid hovering by the swim step
weekly troughs of rain and wind and gray
hard scrabble bottoms for the anchor
numbers for the anchorages keep sailors from learning the hard to pronounce names
everything at the Neiafu market is four dollars
fish and chips on a floating barge
God is Alive bar, blasting music across the still water
Ag festival for the King
dead zebra sharks on display,
a temporary binge in the off limits fishing zones
people go crazy to show what they have
soft coral, rocks and canyons, nudibranchs and filefish
lobster, lobster, grab one if you dare
outer islands, Ha’apai, people live simple lives
weaving, fishing, making babies
it’s a long boat ride to the nearest grocery store
power from a solar project paid for by Japan
kids play on the beach
leap from the trees into the sand
make toys of VHS tapes, decorating wood fences with shiny ribbon
sailing the flat water behind the lagoon
hove-to for humpbacks
whales sing as we dive
high pitched songs, deep rumble in your chest
rolly anchorages, whale nursery anchorages, long beach anchorages
coconut heart pancakes!
Sleeping mom’s providing whale-sized nourishment using her Antarctic reserves
tail slapping to keep junior in line
rambunctious males, out for a good time
call mmmhhh mmwwwhmmm whummmmmmh
Cetacean society,
any whale who’s any whale is here
Tonga’s the place to be, leviathan
no predators, warm water, but no food either
what if humans vacationed the way humpbacks do
on a diet
no Piña coladas, might just put cruise ships out of business
think of the savings in fuel!
~MS
We had all 3 kids (and Liam, too) visit over the course of our 3 months cruising around Tonga, so you’ll see some family faces among the locals:
Our stop in Suwarrow was comprised mostly of hiding from 30 knots winds created by a squash zone from a gigantic 1044 high in the south with effects that had people digging in from the Gambier to Tonga. So we don’t have much to offer about what you might do there to enjoy yourself. What we found out was more what you can’t do, and after French Polynesia and the Tuamotos the list felt onerous. Here’s what the ranger who was running things in the winter of 2019 said:
No anchoring except at anchorage island by the ranger station. Period.
No diving. Period. (Why?)
No fishing inside the lagoon.
No going ashore on ANY motu in the park anywhere except the ranger island (supposedly because of their rat eradication program)
Technically the rules even dictate when you can leave through the pass (not before noon) though I have no idea how they think they would enforce that.
There are more no no’s, mainly things you’d expect to be prohibited. At the bottom of the list, there’s a caveat that says the ranger can add anything he wants to the list, and the current Ranger took that to heart.
That leaves snorkeling, pretty much, and nothing else.
Unfortunately, though this obviously feels excessive and extreme, the behavior of some yacht visitors has served to make the ranger feel more adamant about enforcing and expanding his rules. It doesn’t help that some people feel they have a right to harvest coconut crabs and even lament not having taken more when they found out they could sell them for big money in Niue. Or that some members of the ARC (Atlantic Rally for Cruisers) showed up before the legal opening, trashed the place (according to the ranger) and left their flag planted on the beach. Suwarrow is a designated sanctuary and should be treated with the same respect as a national park anywhere.
Because the forecast called for the possibility of SE winds over 50 knots we asked for permission to anchor in the better protected SE corner and were denied. Unwilling to test the ranger’s theory that the allowed anchorage would be safe (there is at least one yacht sunk on the NW corner of that tight anchorage with south exposure), we moved, despite his objections to the south east corner, invoking our right under international law to ‘safe haven.’ Our biggest concern was the 3 mile fetch that the allowed anchorage would be exposed to. The anchoring was very poor in the SE, with coral and bommies everywhere, but it was definitely a safer spot. If we did drag we had miles to react rather than the tight lee shore of the approved anchorage. This decision did not make us popular with the head ranger, but we felt we had no choice for the safety of our boats. In the end I don’t think we saw over 35 knots, but I personally would make the same decision again.
We left as soon as it was over.
~MS
“It’s hot here,” the Pastor’s lovely wife said with a smile, “it’s always hot. Sometimes you can see some flowers blooming and you know it’s Spring, but it’s always hot.” The village of TeTautua does not own enough cars to have much of a road so its houses tend to meander along foot trails, which double as scooter and motorcycle paths, a web centered on the imposing blue and white Cook Island church. Ungirded by streets, houses with deep porches, windows without glass, only tattered cloth curtains, lay scattered at random angles. You might forget to notice that there are no dogs (they have been disallowed by the island council, which makes everything its business). Their absence, as much as the haphazard city planning, creates the feeling of a ghost town, especially if the children are in school and the hot sun is broiling the gray coral gravel underfoot.
The island is losing its population, slowly, people emigrating to bigger more populous islands, or New Zealand. Though there is an abundance of fish, there are few (maybe none) of the occupations that keep idle hands busy in even the smallest midwestern ghost town. In the big village on the other side of the atoll there is a nurse. There is a policeman, somewhere. There are teachers. But there are no stores. There are scant few gardens, a difficult enterprise in the hard limestone pavement that constitutes the earth of an atoll. There are thriving coconut groves, possibly the remnant of a copra operation, the kind that is still subsidized in French Polynesia. For a while there was a booming pearl farm business, which succumbed to cyclones and a disease among the oysters. Perhaps the mental, emotional, spiritual space that in North American suburbia is filled with cars and traffic lights, malls, donut shops, Home Depot and Costco, here is filled by the sea herself and the Cook Island Christian Church.
It’s no secret that missionaries did a number on the South Pacific. This is still one of the main places those white shirt and tie young scrubs in the Salt Lake airport are all headed. But it was news to me that God apparently doesn’t want you to fish on Sundays (I thought Jesus was a fisherman). No work, no play, no music, no swimming (sound familiar?). Like a friendly, island version of the Taliban, they take these injunctions seriously in Penrhyn and they made it their business to see that we anchored right by town to ensure that we weren’t off enjoying ourselves on Sundays doing the devil’s worst out of sight of the church’s two story pulpit.
Naturally, we were invited to church. Hats strictly required for women (strictly not allowed in Tonga) but definitely NOT permitted for men. Diana showed up with a beautiful head wreath from Rapa (made for church there) but here she was told she had to have a hat that covered the top part of her head (cuz God is looking down, I guess?). Long pants for men (in the tropics!), luckily Mike had a light pair I could borrow so I didn’t have to wear jeans. The Pastor’s white pants (God only knows how he kept them white) were unhemmed and about eight inches too long for him, so he walked on them, barefoot when he greeted us at his house and then under sandals for the service. He carried a bible, well worn with pieces of folded paper tucked among its pages, King James translated to Māori/Tongarevan, the language of the Cook Islands.
We arrived in the morning to find out that regular church had been cancelled because an elder woman, Mama Takulani, mother of 12, had died in her sleep early that morning. She had lived on Penrhyn her whole life, in this village of about fifty people, with barely one dirt road and about four cars to drive on it, no stores, no post office, nothing but a collection of very simple homes occupied by people who must know each other very, very well.
We gathered at her house, the palangi (foreigners) outside on plastic chairs to witness a three hour funeral, mostly singing, which seemed unscripted and improvised, arising spontaneously from the group of women seated on the patio floor. Men joined in, and the harmonies were unlike anything we’d ever heard, oddly discordant and complex, a fascinating mix of church hymns and Polynesian music, all the more intense as an expression of mourning. Speeches were given by men, long speeches, in the local language, with occasional acknowledgements in English to the visiting Palangi. The woman’s body was carried to the church, in through the left-hand door, briefly spoken over, then exited through the right-hand door. She was buried in a pre-built concrete crypt in a hole dug that morning by a backhoe outside her bedroom. She was covered with a tapestry and laid in the ground. It felt very odd to witness something so profoundly personal and significant for our hosts, though they went out of their way to make us feel welcome, and afterward there was a feast, with an insistence that visitors eat first.
The next Sunday (Father’s day!) respecting their local commandments and traditions, I did not fish. The first time that has happened since I became a father, 27 years ago. Instead, we went again to church to be harangued, mostly in Tongarevan, but also in English, by a series of men who (like the pastors of Rapa), utilized a hierarchically arranged pulpit (literally with stairs) to wield their authority. Maybe you need something organized like this on an island with nothing but turquoise water and sun and fish, to keep people from running amok, though it felt so out of place with the usual island vibe of very friendly, relaxed, open people. Singing provided some relief in the service, though the performance was more structured and a little more hymn-like than what we witnessed at the funeral. There’s a lot of this kind of singing in Penrhyn, all through the week, several times a day on Sunday. They grow up with this music, so they sing with passion and confidence and subtlety. The women often hold a hand to their face as they sing, and I wasn’t sure if it was to help them hear their voices (the way you might imagine Sting in a recording studio), or to hide their faces and wide open mouths. One young woman held a book that blocked most of her face. Afterward, there was another generous feast at the Pastor’s house, with pictures of the gathering of foreign visitors (representing several countries in Europe and North America) to be posted on Facebook.
When it seemed we would be on the island for another Sunday (waiting for a weather window to depart, and fishing) we decided we would skip church, but thought we’d better say something about our decision in advance. The Pastor seemed relieved (the unexpectedly large group of sailors must have been hard on his freezer, which would not be refilled until the next supply ship, months out). He did admonish us not to do anything on our boats, especially not swim, and seemed to joke (not sure here) that the sharks were in league with God and would enforce the no swimming on Sunday rule. Diana spent about five hours in the water cleaning our hull anyway, and lived to tell.
Though we chaffed at being required to observe the religious regulations of the island, presented to us as Law (which almost certainly cannot have been constitutional in a country governed by New Zealand) we were also overwhelmed by the generosity of their reception. Gift giving and hospitality is a pervasive and vibrant cultural practice throughout Polynesia, and they outdid themselves. We did our best to give back, too. And although the dogmatic Christianity was a tad stifling, we still managed to have some good connections. The Pastor was a bit of an odd duck in that way, at least for me, it was very hard to engage him in a regular conversation. His relationship to the visiting foreigners seemed mostly about the opportunity to give speeches and express the piety of his flock and the importance of his position as their spokesman.
We were the fourth boat to visit Penrhyn in 2019, but within two days there were eight more boats. Most of them part of a group of kid boats (that is, boats which have kids on them, who generally drive the social schedule), all loaded with school supplies to give to the children of Penrhyn. Liza, of the boat Liza Lu, is a teacher from New York whose class had started a pen pal relationship with Penryhn before coming. She had more postcards to deliver and spent time at the school helping the kids compose new post cards that she would mail back to her school. Our friends on Alondra, marine biologists with two girls, eleven and twelve, brought in microscopes and spent a day with the students peering at everything from fly eyes to butterfly wings and gecko toes. A huge hit. The boat ‘Panacea’ with Tuomo, Reka and their kids presented a slideshow about how they’d come to be there aboard a sailboat, and shared glimpses of all the countries they’d seen. The families aboard s/v’s Luminesce, Calle II, Itchy Foot and Caramba all participated, too, and Adagio’s crew were elemental helping with the mosaic. It was an unusually bustling ‘point in time’ on the sleepy eastern side of Penrhyn … ~MS
Diana spent a day at the school (and several more on the boat) helping them make a mosaic for the school using local materials but also glass from Italy that she keeps squirreled away in the bilges. She donated for a center element, a piece of glass given to her by a mentor in Ravenna. The theme for the month at school was “Love,” so that inspired the design, which was set up so that many kids could work on parts of it at once. Thanks too, to Mike and Katie (s/v Adagio) for jumping in to help. We hung it on the school wall with the assumption that it might outlive the actual building itself. ~MS
Every fisherman dreams about a secret fishing hole somewhere. Someplace no one knows about. No one goes. No one (or hardly anyone) has ever fished. A place where you show up knowing you won’t see a single soul and that the fish have never seen a fly. This dream fishing spot is naturally chock full of fish, too, everywhere you turn.
The Cook Island’s atoll, Penrhyn, might just be that place.
This atoll lays more than 800 miles of open ocean from anywhere. There are no flights. It is visited by just two supply ships a year. The only way to get here is in your own boat, sailing far off of the normal tradewind route. There was a time when expensive flights from the main islands of the Cooks occasionally brought an intrepid fly fishermen from New Zealand, though because there are no hotels or any other tourist infrastructure on Penrhyn the only way to fish these remote flats, even then, was to stay as a guest with the pastor at Te Tautua and have him take you. This apparently did happen at least once. Years ago. Basically, the only people who ever visit, in very, very small numbers are sailors. The intersection of committed bonefishermen and blue-water sailors who can actually get themselves to Penrhyn yields a very tiny slice of humanity. I’d bet there aren’t more than about five of us in the whole world, and that includes our friend Mike, who’s introduction to fly fishing was walking the flats with me in the Gambier and Rangiroa.
The pastor insisted on taking us to his spot, though we had our own dinghy and knew from Google Earth exactly where to go. Wishing to be gracious guests of the island, we accepted the ride. We spotted the first pod of fish even before getting out of the boats and over the next four hours (the limit of the pastor’s desire to stay and harvest noddy bird eggs), I landed at least fifteen bonefish (which is a lot of bonefish), considering the amount of time it takes to land each one and the fact that a fighting ‘kio-kio’ clears the immediate area on the flat of willing fish. Mike caught nearly that many, as well, and we were often doubled up with fish on at the same time.
We fished this singular spot for a couple weeks going back on our own, and it wasn’t always as good as the first day, the tide and the weather have a lot to say about how good the fishing is going to be, but it was always our spot and the fish were always there. They aren’t as big on average as the bonefish in French Polynesia, but Penrhyn is chock full of them.
We pinched ourselves regularly to make sure it was not just a dream. ~MS
For sailors, these outlying islands are tempting and we’ve had Maupiti in our minds since reading an article about it in a sailing magazine while still in Bozeman. It did not disappoint and it was fun to have some days to explore the little, sleepy island some call Bora Bora’s rival. Maupiti was our last stop before saying ‘au revoir’ to French Polynesia. We would have liked to be able to make it to its’ neighbor Maupiha’a (Mopelia), some 130nm away, but we felt the tug to gain momentum westward …
I’m going to ask Marcus to wax poetic about our final weeks in the Tuamotus. Suffice it to say that this region of French Polynesia is most definitely a favorite of ours and I even heard Marcus say he could live there. If fresh produce was available, I might be on board! For the time being, these pics can be a placeholder. These are shots from Tahanea, Fakarava and Rangiroa.
Tahanea, Tuamotus – April, 2019
We saw these dinner plate sized jellyfish while meandering around the SE corner of the lagoon searching for our anchorage. I hoped they’d stick around so I could get a closer look, because I could see that they were intriguing, but I HAD NO IDEA!! These shots were taken over 4 days of 15 -20 individuals. I was mesmerized!!! We were without wifi, so couldn’t even learn about the magic I was witnessing, but I was aware of being incredibly lucky to live on a planet where such a creature exists.
A quick search reveals a paucity of information about this jellyfish, but here’s a bit of what I found: Cephea is a genus of true jellyfish in the family Cepheidae. They are found in the Indo-Pacific and East Atlantic. They are sometimes called the crown jellyfish, but this can cause confusion with the closely related genus Netrostoma or the distantly related species in the order Coronatae. They are also sometimes called the cauliflower jellyfish because of the cauliflower looking crown on top of the bell.
Common Names: Crown Jellyfish, Cauliflower Jellyfish, Sea Jellies, True Jellyfish, Transparent Crown Jellyfish and Crown Sea Jelly
Scientific Name: Cephea cephea
We spent about 6 months in the Gambier between two visits, which was enough time to start to make some connections and get to know people a little bit. Herve and Valerie on the island of Taravai nurture these relationships with sailors, warmly welcoming everyone who drops anchor behind the reef. Eric and his family became near and dear and when tragedy struck (Tina was lost at sea in August of this year), we grieved together.
We learned our way around, becoming comfortable with how things worked with the supply ships, buying gas in 200L barrels and negotiating to pump diesel straight from the boat. We got used to the idea that it was nearly pointless to try to get an internet connection, even in town.
We got to know some of the people along the water in Rikitea’s harbor:
Mike the fisherman and his wife, Agnés, the school teacher, offered us fresh fish and tried to organize an excursion outside the reef with Marcus, but the timing never seemed to work out.
Vaitea, the guy at Jo Jo’s (the ‘magasin’ or market) who made key resources manifest when there were supposedly none and was the recipient of multiple loaves of banana bread.
Louison, the body builder who rented us extra scuba gear – always laughing and smiling, paddling his Va’a in the harbor, delivering us tanks and gear wherever, whenever.
Eric’s sister-in-law, Juanita, and her friend Tao who drove us around the island in search of fresh fruit and invited us into their homes with open hearts.
Tehoto, who grew up on Kamaka island, who’s wife, Noella runs the pizza place, which is sometimes open on the weekend, depending on what else they have going on, allowed us on his private island, sharing his haven with us.
Iolanie rented us her car for a couple island excursions and stored our bikes in her front yard and later, in her store and would accept nothing in return.
Josie and her husband from Las Vegas ran one of the magasins and they volunteered to bring us veggies out to our anchorage about 8 miles away, as they were going by to a nearby motu (island) anyway … and this on Christmas Eve!
And then there were the cruisers, considerably more this year than last, who sought refuge from inclement weather in these eastern Polynesian waters, namely cyclones. A comradery naturally developed as we ended up seeing the same boats around the islands. We sat out a tropical depression at Herve and Valerie’s place in Taravai with a handful of other cruisers and were all poised to help out our neighbors as need be. The community of sailors is one of the highlights of this nomadic lifestyle and generosity, much like in the local culture, is a ‘given’ concept and knows no bounds.
Over two seasons, we covered most of the waters that comprise the Gambier, and yet it was hard and strange to leave knowing we would probably never make it back to this beautiful, remote Archipelago apart from the world.
cerulean seas
rain storm snorkel,
diving (with and without weight belt),
sharks, shells, sand, sailing in the lagoon
bugs on the beach, turtles
coconuts and an ancient village
Taravai petanque, ukulele and guitar
gusts from the mountain
anchoring pandemonium,
slow time and quick time
Valerie’s painting with sand
more fish more music
more fish more fish
damsels, butterflies, leatherbacks, grouper
parrot fish, sling jaw, guinea fowl puffer
canyons of coral, warm water
singing, laughing, lazy days
~MS
Our 2019 ‘cyclone season’ in the Gambier kicked off with visits from our Mom’s and sisters. Mom and Lori arrived at the end of January and we enjoyed a couple of weeks aboard Allora, sharing our favorites (people and places) in this sweet eastern corner of French Polynesia.
Mom certainly knows her way around the boat, so she slips into very relaxed mode and we always marvel at her being ‘game’ to do just about anything. This was Lori’s first full-fledged stay aboard, so it was particularly wonderful to immerse her in our life afloat. These were full, rich days!!! ~DS
Through Lori’s Lens:
DIVE IN!We’ve been to the Gambier before, this little Archipelago on the southeastern edge of French Polynesia, clinging to the tropics by a few minutes of a degree. From any place to any other place in the Gambier it always seems to be six miles. Motus, reefs, mountain islands, all of French Polynesia on a small scale. Not a lot of people anywhere, basically one road on Magareva, no traffic lights, or stop signs or yield signs. No internet to speak of.
The business of the Gambier is pearls. Its cooler water temps and open lagoon are ideal for cultivating that one particular oyster which has captured the imagination of the world’s great connoisseur and collector ape, an irredeemable species with a bizarre obsession with grading things according to their level of perfection, and assigning abstract value. Toiling like 49’ers, cleaning the oysters, nurturing and counting them, performing delicate surgeries to create little iridescent balls of nacre.
We had lots of company in the Gambier this time around. Lots of time to go explore some of the places we missed the last. We thought it would feel like lots of time in general, but I guess Time doesn’t exactly work that way. First to arrive was Maddi, followed a few days later by Wyatt’s girlfriend, Heather. All passionate outdoors people, crazy about running over mountains and diving with sharks and mantas. Heather kept a diary of the fish she identified (as a scientifically trained person would). She and Wyatt would pour over Diana’s books at the end of their dives. Diana’s pretty good at this, but I’ve been slower remembering the names of (non-game) fish. One that Wyatt and Heather found that has stuck and is easy for me now is the Piano Fangblenny. Nice name for a fish with what sounds like a mean habit of eating other fishes scales. We had lots of music and card games for the rainy days. Maddi hooked a giant bonefish right off the shore in front of Eric’s. It charged her fly and then ripped into her backing. She landed the next one. Wyatt landed a nice fish there, too, a few before having eluded getting their picture taken by slipping off the hook at the very last second. We dove, exploring new places in the Gambier, had some gear trouble, and then got that fixed. We played volleyball in Taravai and climbed Mt Duff in the pouring rain. It felt quick (as almost everything seems to these days) but filled with memories.
The weather was unsettled during most our stay this year in the Gambier. Everyone says so. It’s a thing. We had great weather and we had rainy weather. We had calms that made it possible to swim with mantas at Ile Kamaka and spend a wonderful Sunday afternoon relaxing in the shallow water beach in front of Eric’s pearl farm. We also had the worse wind we have ever experienced at anchor, a glancing blow from a depression that plunged the barometer to the low 990’s. Top gusts of 54 knots and sustained winds of 40 knots. A proper gale. Other sailors certainly got tired of us commenting that it wasn’t like this last year.
Christmas day the festivities were held at Edouard and Denises, at the southern end of Taravai. We wore our hats from the Australs, and like everyone brought food to share. Herve supplied the pig for the roast (he introduced me to the doomed prisoner the day before) and Edouard made Tuamotuan-style bread on the fire from coconut heart and flour wrapped in leaves (delicious). We brought guitars and ukuleles and I backed up Maddi on few songs, then Wyatt came in. For me the best song of the afternoon was the one Wyatt and Maddi sang together “Wildermen.” It starts, “my brother and I”… but Wyatt sang “my sister and I.” They stopped and tried again, laughing when they each switched the line, and then on a third try got on with the song. Funny and relaxed, what a great afternoon! The song Maddi wrote for mother’s Day “Anywhere You Are” was also a big hit. We played the chorus a few extra times so everyone could sing along. After awhile, Herve brought out his Marquesan style ukulele, which confounded us at first because he’s left handed, though he hasn’t restrung the instrument to match, so he plays it upside down and backwards. It didn’t make it easier that here they use the do re mi system of notation in French Polynesia instead of A B C chords that we’re used to. But after a bit of mental gymnastics we were able to share some songs with him, too.
KAMAKA is a small, steep island on the south edge of the Gambier. Because the reef is submerged along this border of the archipelago the ocean swell is free to move in. There’s a patch of sand that great for anchoring (though watch out for a lost anchor on bottom about one third in from the east side), but the conditions have to be pretty calm for it to be comfortable. There is almost always a south swell breaking on the west side of the beach (in case you’re a surfer).
Taravai is a sort of sailors mecca in the Gambier. It’s a good anchorage in most normal weather even big southeast isn’t too bad. But the real attraction is Herve and Valerie. They live on this island with their son Ariki, the only child on the island. Herve’s uncle, Edouard and his wife Denise live at the other end. It’s kind of amazing in the 21st century to see such a gorgeous place so simply occupied. Gambier’s blessing for being enough off the beaten track and a place where sweaters maybe required in winter. On Sunday’s they put on a pot luck BBQ, usually chipping in some fish that Herve has speared and sailors bring food and drink to hang out, play petanque and volleyball. Hard to beat. Valerie greets newcomers with a warning not to beach their dink under the coconut tree which is tall and would be lethal if it let go a coconut as just the wrong moment. The games of volleyball are played with Taravai rules, which include a slightly lower than regulation net and an easy going vibe … Herve’s secret weapon, besides his wicked sense of humor, is the headshot. It never fails to unnerve the opposition. Valerie is a committed player, too, always giggling, saying “Fakarava!” when she misses. Herve calls her “my lady.” The games often persist until it is just too dark to see, so Diana had the idea to ask Wyatt to find a glow in the dark volleyball to bring along as a gift. It lights up when hit, and stays lit for some period of seconds. The first night we played until the only thing people could see was the ball.
In a calm but northeasterly breeze we decided to anchor on the west side of the island of Rurutu. The southwest swell wasn’t big and it was a pretty spot. The next morning the sea began to build with an eerie feeling as we lifted on long rollers at anchor and watched them break bigger and bigger onshore until it was pretty clear the dinghy pass there was no longer navigable.
Still, it was a pretty day and we set sail to the south to see the rest of the island before heading for the small harbor on the NE side. Not far along we caught a small Yellowfin tuna, what Diana calls ‘the perfect size.’ Then as we approached the harbor we spotted whales and drifted for a while watching what seemed like two juvenile humpbacks playing, left behind as though reluctant to leave the tropical waters and join the rest who were already headed south to Antarctica. A last hurrah, for us too. It was calm and lovely and there was only one boat in the very small harbor (friends from the Gambier last season) when we ventured in and anchored, tying a long line to the wharf to keep from swinging. We were the 4th boat to check-in to Rurutu that year (in November!)~MS
The Australs lie a few hundred miles south of Tahiti, some just barely within the tropic of Capricorn, more remote islands like Rapa lie distinctly out of the tropics at 27 degrees south. We’re talking water temps below 70 degrees. Brrrrr. The weather is often challenging here and so these islands get few visitors. Intrepid tourists fly to Rurutu (where Wyatt met us) for the whales which winter around the island to raise their calves, but there aren’t enough visitors to support even one taxi. Still, whenever we needed to hitchhike, the first car would always stop to pick us up.
Rurutu is a hybrid island, half lifted makatea (limestone from petrified coral) and half volcanic, caves with stalactites like the atoll Makatea in the Tuamotus, but also real peaks and steep rock faces. No lagoon.
One day as we prepped for Wyatt’s arrival, a man swam by Allora and stopped to chat with us. The next day he appeared again, this time at the wharf with a pickup and three huge bunches of bananas, two giant squash and bucket of limes. These were gifts. Welcome to the true heart of Polynesian culture. We told him we could not possibly take three bunches of bananas, but he insisted. Obviously, he knew more about bananas that we ever will. They were timed perfectly to ripen one bunch at a time. Bananas for a month! A couple of days later two women showed up waving half of a tuna. We got one half and Charlotte and Pierre (the other sailboat here) got the other half. A gift again. We gave them what we could quickly scrap together, some cartons of juices, an uneven bargain indeed.
Picture Rurutu, an island with a few moderate peaks, Wyatt with his trail running shoes running circles, mountain to mountain, with occasional breaks to explore limestone caves with his relatively more sedentary mom and dad.
Rurutu grows coffee and strawberries. Yum!
We threw out a second anchor when the wind started blowing from the east northeast, and it got a little bouncy and rainy for a day or two, but nothing worrisome. Could have skipped the extra hook. A real northeast blow would not be good, but even twenty knots was fine in the small harbor.
We sailed passed Tubuai, reluctant to miss out on it’s vegetable gardens, and burned a little diesel to make it to Raivavae before dark. Like Bora Bora without the tourists, jets skis and cruise ships. Dodgy weather keeps it that way, but it was fine for our short visit. Lychee nuts were in season and we were given bags full.
There are bonefish in Raivavae. Wyatt and I spent the first afternoon fishing what looked like a classic flat. We caught Brassy Trevally, but saw not a single bonefish. The next day I decided to follow Diana’s advice and ask a local, and this woman very confidently pointed us to the unlikely looking shallows along the motu away from the “classic” flat. Wyatt spotted the first one a hundred feet down the beach and hooked the first one a hundred feet later. There were lots of fish, but they were very picky. It took a while to get the presentation right.
There’s a point of sand that separates the classic flat and the long beach where the bones actually are. It’s a steep drop off and the trevally cruise the edge. We were having fun chasing those, Wyatt with popper, when a Giant Trevally (GT) swam up on the flat, in about two feet of water. I finally got a cast to it and it swirled on the fly, but didn’t hook up. It looked at the fly one more time, unconvinced, and then swam back toward the edge, right toward Wyatt. I yelled to him that it was coming and he cast the popper out into the deep and waited until the fish was close. I’m not going to be able to adequately describe the excitement of watching that huge fish (guess 80 pounds) charge after his fly, straight at him. It finally engulfed the popper with a furious and massive gulp just fifteen feet in front of Wyatt. Holy shit! At first it didn’t quite seem to know what’s up. I played Dad yelling, “Let it go, let it go!” afraid it would break him off immediately, and Wyatt’s yelled back, “He’s not running.” And then he did (may I say holy shit again) and never stopped. Finally Wyatt had no choice but to start adding drag and inevitably the fish broke off. It would have been a miracle to land a fish like that on an 8 wt fly rod. But who cares? That was unforgettable. If you want to get a real idea of what it looked like watch BBC’s Blue Planet II Part I, “One Ocean” about 14 minutes in. Let David Attenborough explain it to you. Giant Trevally gather at a particular South Pacific atoll to feed on fledgling birds, literally jumping out of the water and grabbing them mid air or swallowing them whole when they make the mistake of resting on the water. The whole series is awesome.
We hiked the peak, watching Wyatt traipse ahead in the distance, spec of a red shirt bobbing on the steep green slopes of the peaks. The view from the peak was beautiful, but all I could think about was a chance lost to get one of those GT, this time with a 12 wt rod that might stand a chance. We had to leave the next morning.
The sail from Raivave to Rapa wasn’t too bad, but like all the sailing in these latitudes, the winds were fickle compared to the steady trades we’ve been accustomed to in the Tuamotus. Very light from the east when we arrived. We took a rare opportunity to anchor in one of the northern bays. In stronger winds no doubt the waves wrap and make the anchorage uncomfortable at best.
Wild horses, cattle and stone foundations, the remains of earlier settlements. We explored the valley and the next day climbed the ridge, aiming for a nearby peak, but halfway up we spotted a group of outriggers paddling toward Allora. We weren’t sure who they were, but they finally spotted us up on the hill and paddled over, we climbed down to meet Alain and , the one Rapa policeman, plus paddling friends. They’d figured out we were here (having not checked in), so they came to greet us. They returned in the morning, we thought to check us in, but really to have coffee and muffins. They looked at our papers but then asked us to come see them in town to really check in. It was an elaborate process considering we were still in French Polynesia, but super nice guys. It probably didn’t help shorten the formalities that Diana kept making the yummy muffins and cookies, no doubt it could be done in one stop instead of three.
We heard somewhere that there was a compressor on the island for filling scuba tanks, owned by the community. To get our tanks filled we had to go see the mayor of Rapa, who is also the main guy at the post office (used for banking and many other purposes here). Once we got the nod, they would not take money, and sent three young guys to collect them, and then return them to the dinghy on the dock.
Everything in Rapa went like that. We were given as much tuna as we could carry. “No money. No money,” and bags of peaches and nectarines and a local berry kind of like a blackberry. We tried to gift back, Diana baked peach muffins and banana bread, and we gave them little things from the boat and fishing line, but really you can’t win a gift giving contest with a Polynesian. They have the home turf advantage. It was all light hearted and a real pleasure.
To manage their fisheries, the island has a general ban that is in place most of the time for the east side of the island called the Rahui. From time to time they lift the ban and the boon of fish is piled up on the docks and shared among the whole community. Everybody gets fish.
There is no airport in Rapa, and it’s quite isolated, so things have to work differently. Not much room for disparate income levels, and the pretense of independence that underscores our western culture. No doubt there are tensions that go with that. Everybody knowing everybody’s business. It’s a small island. Centuries ago, before the arrival of Europeans, things got really, really tense on Rapa, which is just five miles across. There are the remains of fifteen forts on the island, occupying all the peaks and high ground to be found.
Wyatt and I cleaned Allora’s hull in preparation for our passage to the Gambier. Deep water under cloudy skies. We were circled by curious Galapagos sharks for the whole hour or so underwater.
Before leaving we visited church, for the hats (amazing) and the singing (magical). We were told everyone went, but in fact, only about seventy out of the four hundred some odd souls of Rapa showed up. Alain, who told us everyone went, wasn’t there either. Children attended, minded by an imposing man with a very big stick. The program was dismally long, and heavy on patriarchal themes, but it concluded with a feast and more music, the insistence that we bring lots of leftovers away with us.
We prepared to weigh anchor in the rain, but our chain was trapped between two towering bommies in the deep anchorage. Diana had to put on scuba gear and dive sixty feet in the gloom among the sharks to free it.
On our way out, we spotted Raymond, our tuna and peach benefactor who was running shuttles across the deep channel to take people back from church. Wyatt scooted over in the dinghy with a Montana hat to give him. He laughed because we got him, he had nothing on him to give back! ~MS
THROUGH WYATT’S LENS:
Follow Wyatt and his buddy, Tully, as they embark on their northern Russia expedition: https://www.summerinchukotka.com
“This time is hard to find heaped under a mountain of machines and motivations all founded on hours and minutes.” ~Wyatt Stevens
The decision for Shannon, Josh and Wilder (3, almost 4) to visit came down fast, and within a week and a half we were picking them up at the little motu off the eastern side of the Gambier Archipelago. They dove in, they played, they pushed themselves. We laughed, we learned, we loved. It was a 3 week plan, which, in hindsight, should have been simply spent in the lagoon, but Josh was keen to take an ocean passage, so we gave it a shot. Shannon was facing some real demons by even considering the feat. There’s a superstition in the sailing world about not undertaking a passage departure on a Friday. Well … not only was it a Friday, but guess what the date was?! Yep, the 13th!! Needless to say – we ended up shifting gears; they flew instead and we met them with Allora in Fakarava, 5 days later. Plan B worked out great! The memories from this adventure have been distilled into flashes of Wilder being wonderfully true to her name, snippets of her remarkable imagination with words (notably ‘Shit Bullet’) and scores of her laughter as she’d commune with the fishes. We were struck by a force from which we will never recover. Oh, and yeah, her parents are sensational, too!
“To see the world as it awoke in its own defenseless candor.” ~WS
We underestimate gravity
living mostly in a flat world
or buoyed by the sea
or by the power of internal combustion engines,
jet turbines
until the boat heels just fifteen degrees beating to windward in moderate seas
and making coffee becomes a heroic adventure
I’m still trying to understand, to viscerally know
how gravity is mass bending space time
I do get that gravity is like time, in this crazy wingding world
falling toward the future
resisting it is an illusion
even our thoughts are not free of gravity
normal looks strange, titled just a little off angle.
~MS
Ian likes to plan and he has a knack for thinking through the details, even when the boat he’s planning for is not his own. He’s also devilishly persuasive. Long before we’d given any real focus to the question, he’d figured out that we needed to know where Maddi would fly in and out of when she came to visit in December. His suggestion turned out to be Fakarava, where by incredible coincidence, Makara (Ian and Erika) and Starlet (Jennifer and Mark) both intended to be for Christmas. We regretfully explained that while we didn’t really have a plan, per se, we would be much too far east by then, well on our way to the Gambiers. But every once in a while, he’d gently ask if these poor, confused American sailors had a plan yet. After luring us to join them in Moorea for an unplanned (by us) detour, we burned up enough time that, as predicted by Ian, Fakarava actually did make the most sense.
Lo and behold, we found ourselves Christmas eve, faced with an unusual northwest turn in the weather, sailing upwind and backwards (as in north and west), to get to Fakarava according to Ian’s plan, for a delicious Christmas dinner with Makara and Starlet.
This was only the beginning. Jennifer and Mark had their own devilish ways of derailing our plans, mostly involving Mark’s boyish grin and sentences like,”Let’s sail to Kauehi, dive the pass!” Why not? More north. Then all voices raised the call, “On to Toau!” West.
Ian, meanwhile, had been doing some more scheming. He was willing to concede that we did indeed need to start logging some south and east miles but… rather than sail back to Fakarava in April after visiting the Gambier (as planned?) it would make much, much more sense for us to sail north and meet them in Hawaii to join them for a northwest cruise up to Alaska and down the coast of North America. Back to our beloved Baja and from there, almost a year later than planned, we could hit the Palmyra and the Line Islands on our way to Tonga.
We actually got out Jimmy Cornell’s World Crusing Routes to check it out. Ian’s plan was diabolically clever (it sill sounds a little tempting).
It was only an extra 12,000 miles.
It was difficult indeed to finally turn southeast (as planned?) and leave our friends to continue their northwest journeys. This is the very hardest part of sailing. These goodbye’s feel so sudden and irrevocable. We will almost certainly see Starlet more, which is great, as they are circumnavigating along the same route, more or less, that we will be. But after Alaska, Makara is headed back to the Caribbean and then home to England.
And that’s a long way around for Starlet and Allora.
~MS
We’ve fallen in love with the Tuamotus, as most people do, so getting to share this utopia with Maddi over her winter break was really special. We’d promised a much needed rest, but ended up playing pretty hard, so hopefully her soul was recharged and enriched by the warm, turquoise waters brimming with life and the sun kissed days filled with simple, yet active goals. We ended up hanging out in Fakarava and Tahanea, two atolls with abundant wildlife/wilderness, (always appreciated by Maddi) and we just may have spent as many hours in the sea as out of it! We’d been renting diving gear from a local provider in the south of Fakarava, but once we met up with our cruising friends, m/v Starlet, they ‘hooked us up’ with tanks and together, with s/v Makara, we dove daily. Pics of these shared adventures will be on the next post, but here we focus on our middle daughter, the shark whisperer.~DS
“Groupers Shining in the Light”
Fakarava, famous for sharks
rows of teeth, sinister, graceful
ominous patience at the top of the food chain
keen senses for a slip-up, a moment of inattention
fish hide in the coral after dark
unaware of a tail poking out
sharks imprinted with curiosity
follow every lead, investigate every anomaly
de facto enforcers of the status quo
stick to the rhythm
you’ll be alright, maybe
it takes attitude to be a grouper
shining in the light
defending your rock
even more attitude to be a grouper at night,
You should try living among swarms of predators
try to sleep or procreate, try to enjoy a little leisure
not surprising that groupers get a little touchy about their neighborhood
food funnels with teeth in their gills,
they present themselves to the world mouth first
Prettier tropical specimens keep a wary eye
slip between branches of coral as though sipped by a straw
everybody seems to know
that the sharks know
they’ve traded decent eyesight and speed
for jaws and uncanny 3D senses for smelling fear and panic
traded chewing teeth for biting teeth
Six Gill sharks eat as little as once a year
(you don’t want to be reincarnated as a Six Gill shark)
Triggerfish, with beaver-like teeth
flopping, rooting, peering under rocks
Bluefin Trevally terrorize the shallows, manifesting classic symptoms of ADD.
Parrotfish seem to know that they’ve been named after birds
fluttering over the reef
crunching coral, shitting and spitting sand
along with their groupies, Maddi and I call “friends of parrotfish”
Moray eels scowl from their caves
Moorish Idols parade along the branching staghorn
huge green Napoleon Wrasse contemplate a sex change
an octopus camouflaged in the rocks
how much brain power it must take to run eight arms
and change color and texture instantly?
I can barely pat my head and rub my stomach at the same time
those unblinking eyes
that gambler’s mouth breathing tube
shoals of shimmering, blue, wide-eyed baitfish
birds above, predators below, strength and peril in numbers
bobbits with scissor-like jaws lurk in the sand
800 species of deadly cone snails
Everything that can be eaten
is
iridescent ink glows in perpetual darkness
volcanic vents in ocean trenches are planning for the future
human concentration suffers from lack of predators
evolution is happy to start over
when our moment of inattention
gets the better of us
~MS
Travel is like falling in love
new, unconsummated love
crooning love
love like the first glimpse of a Marquesan island
before the anchorage becomes rolly
or the tiny population shares a dose of their chronic strep throat
like a Central American jungle before you try to enter
and find that every tree, bush, wild house plant has thorns
crawls with ants that bite like a son-of-a-bitch
white sand beach love, faintly rosy with crushed coral
a place where you dream of living forever
a place where you might become homicidally bored
a place before
imperfect personalities, awkward intercourse
young hearts, seafarers, learning when to pull up anchor
But I think
love is not just a beating heart
love is often found in thorny jungles
on white sand beaches with sand flies
it is found in patience and acceptance,
love is arriving at the same island over and over
with wonder and a racing heart
Travel should be like that.
~MS
Found this Acanthaster (venomous Crown of Thorns Starfish) while snorkeling in 10′ of water off our boat.
They voraciously eat coral and are considered a scourge
These two were in less than 1′ of water and as I approached, one octopus reached out to ‘hold’ the other
I feel the same way when I get my hands on lettuce – don’t worry buddy, I’m just admiring you!
This small white tern lays its eggs on bare thin branches in a fork or depression without a nest.
A grandmother, mother and daughter
Winter break from school, they spend a month on the Island
away from home in Fakarava
clearing the coconut groves
a hammock by the beach
they don’t have a lot
but they have a tropical island
~MS
Heart of the coconut from recently sprouted coconuts.
This sponge replaces the milk space and is sweet and tasty-ish
Prolific Palms will sprout wherever they fall
In the internet we trust
we believe in our digital sources,
sailors climb in their dinghies with their hard drives
swapping terabytes
open source navigation, the pass current “Guestimator”
it all sounds good, so technologically clever it simply has to work
we’re going where sailors used to dread
watched over by the faint, triangulated signals of satellites
google earth stitched over the old charts
some drawn diligently a hundred years ago by men who were dedicated, but human.
Rand and Ellen of the Catamaran Golden Glow
who bequeathed us so much of this digital treasure one hectic evening in Nuku Hiva
told a story about a family sailing in Polynesia
the daughter at watch, at night,
they hit an uncharted reef going full speed
dismasted, the father ultimately lost his leg
it’s hard not to be haunted by stories like that
on watch at night, sailing between Atolls
we remember the northern Sea of Cortez
only a few hundred miles from Los Angeles, real civilization
charted islands that did not exist or were miles off
once we appeared to anchor in the middle of the sea
An email via satellite from our friends on Starlet
they’ve heard that there is no internet in all of French Polynesia
a cable cut to Hawaii
True it wasn’t working in Kauehi
and I couldn’t post my perfect bonefish picture
so I guess there are still real world connections to the buzzing web
some lonely cable, thousands of fathoms below in the darkness
just couldn’t hold it together anymore
no escaping the real, physical world, after all
~MS
The ‘Tridacna Maxima’ shows up in every imaginable color (This mosaicist is wild about them!)
These abandoned homes get occupied during the copra harvest (coconut for export)
Whitemouthed Moray Eel (feeding on crabs)
Last night with the moon just one day past full
you could see the sandy bottom and coral bommies in forty feet of water
chalky white like the moon
trade wind clouds shuttled gently overhead
and the surf on the reef seemed content and quiet
it’s good to be awake in the middle of the night
We are anchored in an atoll in the middle of the ocean
blue candy water
the haunting possibility of bonefish
Diana is not wearing clothes
when this winter front from down under passes and the wind settles back in again
what a beautiful place this will be
the passage down was textbook, two 180 mile days back to back
before the wind died for long enough to get a bunch of water made
and top off the batteries
arrived early to see the “pass” out of Raroia roiling like white water in Yankee Jim Canyon
When the internet is everywhere will all these remote places cease to exist
will they be like the color “dunia” of Otto-Raul’s Ten New Colors
undone by the ubiquitous web, always visible, available, knowable
Water makes us vulnerable to weather like nothing else
The wind swings and makes waves even in a protected lagoon
we put a lot of faith in our anchor rode
catching on coral rocks at the bottom
what does it take to break a piece of chain
if a pin works it way out of a shackle
everything we have could end up on the rocks
in a place too distant to recover it
Death by Coconut
Coconut palms are a funny weed to have so beguiled a species
they count as an invasive species here in the Tuamotus
a government subsidized invasive species
I guess so people have something to do, making copra
They are also incredibly dangerous
death by coconut is no joke
death by true love
is real too
you can keep looking up
but you can’t move fast enough
The stars above the motu shine in shrill dissonance
to conversations about digital apps
we are utterly dependent on GPS
and the stars wonder how they’ve become just window dressing
but nobody wants to hit a reef at night
the water sucks away from the cliff like edge and then hammers on like a threat
Kon Tiki wrecked here
Two boats sailed in today from the southern end of the atoll
tandem, tacking upwind in a light breeze
at a distance it looked like one boat
sailing as close as lovers, which it turns out they are
She eased her jib a little to fall back and follow
as they found a way through the coral heads
They moored to one anchor, one with a dark blue stripe, one light
tethered together with a boat length of line
He’s been single handing for six years
she wanted to learn
and when they met she’d already been looking at getting this boat
the same boat
So they sail together, she learning to sail alone
he’s not giving up on single handing,
since they are the same make of boat, they carry spares that work with each
on passage they can take turns watching each other’s boat sail by autopilot
watching for traffic and the hazards
they certainly have more space than they would with just one boat
no one has to climb the mast if there is an argument
but there are risks and downfalls to the arrangement
it’s much more expensive
if something goes on with the other boat, they can only help as much as they are able
they are still truly single handing
they admit that at some point they will move on to one boat
she says it will be hers
a point he is not yet willing to concede
As we sailed south from the Marquesas, Diana was looking for sharks, calm lagoons protected from the ocean swell, turquoise water and coral, safe anchorage within earshot of the surf breaking on the reef. I was looking for flats — wide expanses of water that doesn’t rise above your knee in depth. Ideal for flyfishing. To reach the Archipelago of the Tuamotus, you sail by the Isle du Disappointment. We wished we had the time to detour, to see it for ourselves, if nothing else so we could say we’d been to the actual Island of Disappointment, but it was night when passed and low lying atolls are dangerous in the dark. We slipped by beneath the whisker of a moon.
Disappointment is a prerequisite for flats fishing. You must be comfortable in the waters of frustration. Particularly, if you go looking for fish that might or might not even be there. Bonefish inhabit the tropical oceans of the world, but they are not on every flat. And on the flats they do visit, they are not there every day. And when they condescend to haunt that ephemeral world, they come armed in ghostly mail, reflecting the dazzling world around them, barely visible. Liminal shapes. But you have to see them to catch them. You might spot a bonefish and she will turn and disappear right before your eyes. You will wonder if you have seen her at all. Often the only thing you can see is not the fish itself, but its shadow on the sandy bottom.
These atolls have long been known by sailors as the Dangerous Archipelago, and before GPS and Google Earth came along, most gave them a wide berth on the downwind run from the Marquesas to Tahiti. They get more visitors nowadays, but their isolation means that beside a select, well known few with air strips, the only practical way to visit is to sail there in your own boat. It took us twenty-five days to reach the Marquesas from Panama and another three days of fast sailing to reach the first of the atolls.
It’s a long way to go and nobody sails that far just to go bonefishing. Not even me.
We chose the Raroia atoll as our first stop because it was the most windward of the Tuamotos that we could easily reach from the Marquesas. It also has a well known, well charted pass for entering through the reef. We had no idea what we might find on the flats there, and nothing in google earth showed up that looked like the classic sandy bottomed expanse you’d find in the Bahamas. I expected something like the gentle reefs of Turneffe flats in Belize, but what we found was not like either. The reef itself looks like a rocky moonscape when the tide is out. It is hard bottomed and the rocks and coral are viciously jagged. Near where we anchored, there were the rusted remains of a shipwreck, the massive engine block and parts improbably strewn through the shallow water. It was easy to imagine the churning caldron that this South Pacific reef would be in a storm. The surf breaking over the reef at high tide sent wavelets rippling over the flat and the current in the cuts reminded me of wading the Madison River. It was a live, active environment. It did not look like a place you’d find bonefish, and I did not.
What we did find, was first and foremost, sharks. Black tipped reef sharks make a fine living in the Tuamotos. As a top predator, they seem like the sign of a healthy ecosystem. The coral here teems with fish like an aquarium. The closest I could find to a “flat” were some sandy shallows on the lagoon side between the fast running Hoa’s (Tuamotan for the cuts in the reef). There were also lots of other fish, and I quickly hooked my first Bluefin Trevally which went screaming across the shallows just like a bonefish. It happened fast and was so easy, I initially underestimated this species. These crazy, nervous, spooky, wild fish have since put me in my place. Bluefin Trevally is a beautiful fish, and the couple that rushed in and grabbed my fly, as opposed to the dozen that bolted away at the speed of light when they heard the line hit the water, were as powerful as any bonefish, maybe a little less fighter jet and more raw power, but ripping into my backing nonetheless. One of the first I landed broke the tip of my new eight weight rod. I also caught some smaller blue jacks that were fun (one shadowing a shark), and a less than gorgeous but hard fighter called a Long Nosed Emperor fish. On Raroia, I found a version of flats fishing, but not bonefish.
I had read that we might find bonefish on Kauehi, another atoll due west from Raroia. A Montana fly fishermen (like myself) posted a short article about catching them there years ago. He and his wife had crewed on a sailboat crossing from Panama to Tahiti, and Kauehi is a natural, first stop in the Tuamotos. A beautiful island with a charming village, the seductive if elusive promise of internet at the post office, and baguettes on Saturday and Wednesday (a slightly chewy “wonder bread” version). This is one of the atolls with flights from Papeete.
I saw what I thought must be a pair of bonefish almost as soon as I waded out onto the town flat. But they disappeared quickly and soon I was questioning if that’s what I’d seen at all. It took more than an hour to find another pair. I blew the cast completely, trying to compete with 15 knots of wind. Now the question was if I’d get another chance to cast, or if I’d just botched a very rare opportunity. When I finally spotted the next fish, I forced myself to slow down and tiptoe quietly into a crosswind position and wait until I could make a short cast. It paid off, and I had my first Polynesian bonefish on, ripping way across the flat throwing rooster tails of water as it unspooled line like no tomorrow.
An old man (well, not that old, but with a gray beard like me) was taking a Sunday afternoon nap under an awning at the beach. With the southern winter trades, the temperature in the shade is perfect. I felt bad disturbing him marching across the beachfront of his idyllic bit of paradise, but he waved me over in that friendly Polynesian style, and I showed him a picture I’d taken with my phone of the bonefish I’d just caught on the flat in front of his house. He confirmed that they are called kio kio here and told me (in French) that they made excellent Poisson Cru, which is a yummy dish we experienced in the Marquesas, made there with raw tuna, lime and coconut milk. He didn’t seem particularly startled to see me out wandering around the two mile long flat near town, but when I asked Gary, the french dive master of Ephe Mer Plongeé, who’d been living aboard a sailboat in Kauehi with his wife and son for five years how often he saw people fishing out on the flat, he said, “Never. Nobody ever fishes out there.”
Obviously the locals do, I saw them come in with parrot fish and trigger fish they had harvested with a spear. So that’s not what Gary meant by nobody. He meant no off-islander with a fly rod. The young Polynesian man who showed me his spearfish catch, thought the triggerfish would eat my fly when I showed him what I was fishing with. And they did, though it wasn’t quite that easy, though certainly more than it must be stalking these skittish fish with a spear.
Fishing here is a way of life and it’s about food. It fits most people’s image of fishing — casting a baited hook into the dark water and waiting to see what you might happen to drag up. Flyfishermen are not that different from other fishermen, in most basic respects. Their attraction to the game varies according to the particular part of it that keeps bringing them back, the aspect of flyfishing that rewards and maybe also torments them. It’s like other games, like love even (yes, I did say that). For some size matters. For some it’s the battle and the conquest. For some it is the flirtation and the take. It’s first sight, the beating heart of the approach, the cast. The strategy and the plan. You only have to walk into any fly shop to realize that for some, it’s the fashion. For me, though there’s no doubt, it is true love, for all of the above.
A passion (or possibly an addiction) for salt water flats fishing, particularly bonefish, is something one comes to naturally as a fly fishermen for trout. It’s particularly seductive for a dry fly fisherman whose been bitten by the bug of rising fish sipping small dry flies in the gin clear waters of Montana.
Seeing the fish, stalking, presenting the fly. Precision. Timing. Delicacy. The take and the set. Those are the common elements of the game. A dry fly fishermen must remove himself from the fly, and any hint of current that might pull on the line, so the presentation floats naturally on the surface. The bonefishermen needs to learn how to move the fly the way the bonefish expects it to move, learning the timing of their body language to know when they’ve taken the fly and give them enough time not to pull it from their grasp.
Dumb luck will catch a certain percentage of fish anywhere. But it won’t work often enough to keep it interesting. If a game is too easy, it’s not really worth playing, right? On the flats, like so many things in this concentrated environment, mistakes comes fast and furious. Miss the cast, miss the set, break off. Bonefish almost never give you a second chance.
In Toau, the next atoll we visited, Diana saw bonefish swimming under the boat. In general they were concentrated closer to shore, probably because even though the flat is huge, most of it has three feet or more water even at low tide. Also, nobody lives here most of the time. The shallow edges go on for a couple miles. This atoll is one big step further away from the world. You cannot fly here. It’s only seventeen miles from one of the biggest and most populated atolls, Fakarava, so it isn’t that far. I saw the first pair before I really stepped into the water after taking the dinghy ashore. Another single within a few minutes after that. I landed the first fish within an hour of stepping onto the flat. Which was a nice start.
It hasn’t been non-stop like that, by any means. These fish aren’t easy. They spook at the line more than the fly, but they don’t like to hear it plop down. I started using a long tippet and tying my flies with lighter bead eyes so they can land more quietly. The colors that look right to me in this environment are tan with a touch of orange. It needs to belong but can’t be camouflaged — just sparkly enough to get some attention. They bead eyes are heavy enough to make sure it sets on the bottom which I think is crucial here, but not so big that they make too big a splash. In my previous iteration, I used ‘bunny fur,’ which I thought would be good for the splashdown, but I think it was too white. My final pattern used tan squirrel with 6 strands or so of iridescent flash. I caught 7 bones in total, six on this fly in less than three hours on the flat. I’ve been catching fish in water with no ripple on it, right up against the long beach, so I can watch them investigate the fly. Occasionally, they are pretty aggressive about grabbing it, but mostly they follow first, then take it only after it drops like it’s trying to hide. They seem to be used to the idea that whatever it is they are eating, shrimp or crab, is going to try to bury itself in the sand, not swim away. You really have to wait on the set. See them root down on it. They don’t take as long as the Triggerfish, which flop back and forth over the fly like they just can’t get ahold of it, and no wonder with that little mouth which looks overdo for a visit to the dentist. I try to resist casting to them now, because they almost always mangle or break off my fly, and I have a limited number of hooks in my fly tying kit. There are no fly shops for hundreds if not thousands of miles. That said, the other day I couldn’t resist, stupidly, casting to a grouper when I reached the rocks at the far end of the flat. He grabbed the fly in a dash and then didn’t seem to realize he had it, chasing away another small fish that had come out to investigate. I had to give him a tug for him to feel the hook and then he was off, straight for his favorite rock. After walking over reeling up all the line, I could feel he was still on, but I couldn’t pull him out from under the rock and eventually broke him off. After a bit he came out, the fly gone from his mouth, and glared at me like he was considering picking a fight.
Probably the most exciting thing about Toau bones is that sometimes I find tailing fish. It’s not like smaller Belize bones tailing in groups on the flat, these are pairs or big singles. Big tails. They don’t work a spot for very long, but they aren’t in a hurry either. I hooked a really big one in about eight inches of water. I was lucky because he was moving directly at me. Even so I spooked him and had to recast as he scooted along, now broadside. This time the fly hit the water in the right way and he turned to find it. The take was clear and obvious, an easy set. The fight was unforgettable. He was off at warp speed (of course) and ran toward the shallow without stopping until he reached the shore. Then he turned a hard one eighty. I started reeling frantically (as you do) wishing at that moment I had a large arbor reel instead of my classic old Abel. But nothing was going to keep up with this fish. I reached for the line to start stripping by hand out of desperation, and then jumped. This huge bonefish nearly ran me over in his panic. I still had backing out, and he was zinging past my feet. I assumed he was long gone, but then he hit the end of the line, still on, and turned on a rocky shallow spot. Some poor fish there leapt skyward to get out of his way as he ripped across less than six inches of rock strewn water and in a second it was finally over. Somewhere the tippet had found a sharp piece of coral.
Day 3 on the Toau flat, I think (nice to be losing track), the fish conspired to humble me. My first big theory that it would be good to have low tide in the middle of the day turned out to be exactly wrong. Despite great visibility, and probably because of it, I did not see nearly as many bones. Fewer sharks even, until the tide started to come in as the sun dropped. After three thirty it gets hard to see at any distance except over by the shore where the windless water reflects the darker trees. I finally landed one fish out of a pair, but before that, it was either, wrong time, wrong fly, wrong cast, wrong presentation. They followed but would not take. I could see their eyes as they came in that close, but they wouldn’t pick the fly up.
With their 3D world reduced to two dimensions, and the sun a glaring light, Trevally are a nervous wreck in shallow water. They don’t know what they want to do. They cruise at high speed looking for an ambush with none of that sharklike cool. When they blow up at the slightest provocation, they streak away and then seem to worry that they’ve made a mistake and streak back in to see what they’re missing, then blow up and away again. They dart at the fly as if they know they are making a mistake. I cast to a pair of Trevally cruising inches off the beach and they left so panicked, I think they moved to the next atoll. But then later, I was able to get a cast fifteen feet in front of a pair coming toward me, a little further off. The first fish charged the fly from that distance so fast I have no idea whether I was stripping or what I was doing, but he was on! Another Trevally half an hour later startled me by bashing something under the ledge of the coral right at the shore and then came racing out my way. I cast to him, but I don’t think he saw the fly. He was too busy looking right at me.
I guess I have been a little skittish on the flats, too, and maybe for the same reason. There are always lots of black-tipped reef sharks everywhere I wade. Curious as cats, with (presumably) bigger teeth. Early on, two of them, inspired by my splashing in shallow water charged in and hit my leg. Unnerving to say the least. Several others came swimming in at high speed, and finally I ended up bumping one six footer on the head with the butt of my rod to stop it. So there it is, full disclosure, there are lots and lots of sharks in the Tuamotus. I started carrying a walking stick for discouraging sneak attacks.
8:30 is about as early as the light works. The water feels cooler in the morning, but I think the light is more significant. These bones seem to stick to the very skinny water and so when it’s straight overhead they are skittish or not around. I saw more bonefish early, including tails. But I was having trouble getting the sequence of things right. Fish headed the right direction. Cast close enough, but not too close. Fish seeing fly but not spooking because it’s moving too fast. Timing right on the set, not too soon, not too late, not too quick, but quick enough. Tight line on the fight, keeping fish away from any rocks. Landing and releasing the fish without alerting any of the bigger sharks. It’s a long list. I headed back a little later than I had planned, around 10:30, Cast, hooked, landed two fish on the way back. The sharks found me after releasing the second one. I thought the bonefish must be okay, but the bigger shark, darker in color was very aggressive in swimming directly up to me. I think he could smell the bonefish in the water about me and he was sure he would find it at my feet or in my hands. I still don’t think he would bite me unless that bonefish was actually there and he could take it from me. That might be a different story. Though, I told myself, since evolution would not have designed them to bite human legs, standing ones anyway, I wonder if he would or even could be able to turn sideways in the shallow water in order to take the bite. So maybe he couldn’t bite my leg even if he wanted to. These are the kinds of things you think about on a Polynesian flat. I had to beat the water with my shark stick a couple times and then it tore off. I assumed it was because I had taught it a lesson about messing with a stick carrying member of homo sapiens. But then he started zig zagging at high speed. My heart sunk. He was chasing something. What’s truly astonishing about these sharks is how far away they must be able to sense a panicked or tired bonefish. Somehow they know the fish are too fatigued to outrun them. I’ve seen them working the flat where I’ve just released a fish like bird dogs in Montana.
Because of the couple of sneak “attacks,” I’ve developed the habit now of turning all the way around ever so often to make sure I’m not being stalked. It seems like a good idea anyway. On a flat, unlike a river, a fish could be coming from anywhere. One of the things I’ve noticed is that sometimes there’ll be a couple of nervous blue jacks following my mud trail. I think the sharks come from that direction for the same reason. They investigate all anomalies on the flat. You (if you are a shark) never know. This time about twenty or thirty yards behind me at the end of the faint trail I was leaving in the sand was a bonefish following me. I turned and made the short cast to an easy fish. He tailed on the fly nicely. Now I was sure that this new fly pattern, which had evolved from my short experience in Toau and in Kauehi, was the perfect Polynesian bonefish fly.
Day five on the Taou “town” flat. We explored “town” today. So far what we can find are the remains of a half a dozen structures. There are a couple of hard hats around that must be for the safety of working in the coconut groves, but the shacks are falling down. This was my most successful day fishing so far. The High tide was 6:52 and low tide was 13:06. I didn’t leave until 10 because we spent the morning doing some boat work. I scooted off, guiltily, leaving Diana finishing the job, cleaning oven parts on the stern. As soon as I started toward the flat after tying up Namo (our dinghy), I came upon two Trevally working quickly up the beach, as they do, not two feet off the edge of the water. I moved up the bank and walking as fast as I could without running I was just barely able to catch and pass them. I kept moving until I had time to get down to the water’s edge and strip off enough line for a cast. I made the cast at least ten or fifteen feet short, so I could move the fly when they got close. Even at that distance they reacted at the speed of light. My thought process barely had time to catch up with what was happening. They spooked right? Even with plenty of wind to hide my line noise and even casting way ahead of them. They are so hyper sensitive, they just blew up. No way to catch them in this scenario. Except that… my body was moving ahead my conscious thought process, and I stripped out of habit. And, unbelievably, a fish was on. Besides sailfish in Mexico, these are the most beautiful fish I’ve ever caught (okay, maybe not the mug, which is a little dopey) but the coloring is spectacular. The second Trevally did not abandon his buddy for a good part of the fight and I found out when I landed him that these Bluefin do have small teeth, like a brown trout.
It was a nice start and it got even better but then worse. I had barely waded onto the flat when I spotted a pair of bonefish. They were moving slowly enough that they were clearly looking for food. When I’ve cast to fish here that are really moving across the flat, they spook, or if they follow I get a refusal. These fish were in 6 inches of water. Really. I was lucky with my cast. The wind subdued any line splash down, and the fly went into the water without too crazy a plop. The one fish turned on it followed and took the fly without hesitation. Because I didn’t want to lose the fish to a shark and because I knew my tippet was stout, I pressed the bonefish pretty hard and when he was close I leaned heavily into the rod to get his head up and bring him in. I slipped the barbless fly out of his mouth and as soon as I let him go, I noticed what had happened. I had broken my rod tip. I’d already broken my eight weight at Raroia on a Trevally (also no spare tip, yes I’m that foolish). Looking at the tip of the rod was a lot like looking at the water when you’ve dropped some crucial boat part overboard (like the oil drain plug on the outboard for instance). Something you can’t just replace with a clever substitution. You just can’t believe that something so irrevocable has happened so quickly that could have such major consequences. The most immediate consequence was that I had to stop fishing after a late start with low tide just two hours away. I had one more rod. An eleven weight, which was going to make delicate casts a challenge, but at least, I had something to fish with for the next two weeks before the Lawsons, Maddi and Wyatt meeting us in Tahiti could rescue me with spare tips.
Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice… right? Two Titan Triggerfish on the flat, doing their clowny triggerfish thing. I’m thinking, this is exactly where I saw them yesterday. This must be their “spot.” But I don’t cast to triggerfish, right, that’s my rule, especially when I have just one left of my amazing new fly design that has been working so well. Nope, not doing that. I should also be remembering what happened the last time I hooked one of these goofballs, right here where I am. Just yesterday. The fish didn’t run, just swam casually over to a hole under a rock that you would not imagine was there out in the middle of the big flat. How’d that work out, Einstein? No, I’ll only cast to this triggerfish, if he makes it so tempting I cannot resist. What? Yep. When he ended up under the same rock with my precious fly again, I could see there were only a few inches of tippet ahead of the leader. Still I did not feel like reaching under that rock. I haven’t been touching the triggerfish cause I think they have some mean spines on their dorsal fin and I definitely don’t want any of my fingers anywhere near that mouth of theirs. Those beaver teeth could snap a finger off, I’m sure. I tried goading him out with my shark stick to no avail, so I finally resigned myself to losing my fly and walked away, glad there was no one… absolutely anywhere for miles and miles who could have been watching me behave like such an idiot.
But on the northwest side of Toau we moored next to some friends, Rand and Ellen on the catamaran, Golden Glow. Rand was curious to see bonefishing firsthand and we ended up visiting a flat south of there — Rand Ellen, Diana and me. It was a little nerve-wracking because I’m not used to having an audience and there were obviously no guarantee we’d even see fish. I hadn’t even see the flat before. It just looked right on Google Earth. Luckily it didn’t take too long to find a group of bonefish which were waiting for the tide to get deep enough to get through a shallow pass to an inner lagoon. With camera’s trained on me, I hooked one and then, miraculously even landed it, giving everyone a completely wrong impression about how bonefishing usually goes. I hooked another a bit later, but lots of sharks started showing up and I felt lucky to allow the fish to throw the hook before they found him.
Sharks add an element to fishing here which I have never experienced in any other kind of fishing anywhere else (no toothy predators on a spring creek, though there may be other hazards for your sanity). The first adjustment requires getting comfortable with their constant presence and relentless curiosity. That can make being on the flat a little edgy. Constantly reminding yourself that sharks are best dealt with calmly. Escalating is always a bad idea. There’s the occasional really big shark like the one I had to bonk with butt of my rod in Raroia, that makes you question if what you think you know about them is really accurate. And then there’s the dilemma of trying to practice catch and release in a fiercely competitive, predator rich environment. The Tuamotos teem with fish like nowhere else I’ve ever been. The ecosystem feels as close to undisturbed as I can imagine. Sharks are everywhere and they are a part of that. When we dive the pass, there are hundreds of them and they demand our attention and fascination. They are not dumb fish. But looking over your shoulder when you hook a fish adds an unwlelcome extra challenge to the fight. Watching a fish explode in a puff of red, when a shark gets him, and then watching the shark really getting his sharks instincts up, makes you at least momentarily question the whole game. Obviously its not a game the bonefish want to play, and it wouldn’t be a hard argument to make to suggest that maybe it’s unethical. I’m sure it’s a coming argument that catch and release of any fish isn’t ethical treatment of animals, especially when it endangers their lives. On the other hand, sharks need to eat, too.
Anaa is an atoll without a pass for boats to get inside. This means we could only visit in certain conditions which just happened to occur as we were sailing back from Tahiti to Tuamotus. We tied up to the massive buoy that used to be used by the weekly supply ship. It wasn’t a great situation, and eventually we dropped anchor, but the bottom’s rocky and we had to worry about getting our anchor back. To get inside you shoot a tiny little pass in the dinghy between waves breaking on the reef a few feet to either side. The first time it was a bit hairy, not knowing how deep the water would be once we cleared the gap. Inside the atoll is an absolute bonefish heaven. There are flats everywhere. Diana tooled around on her bike and found one of the ‘magasins’, which turned out to be connected with Anaa Flyfishing. The woman who ran it said there was a small place, Pension Anaa To Ku Kaiga, where flyfishermen came to stay and fish the atoll. There’s a small airstrip with weekly flights. I found fish quickly, though they seemed spookier than the fish on Toau or Kuehi. I discovered soon enough why. After breaking one off on the set, and then losing one on the only branch stuck in the sand for miles, I got another hooked properly. It screamed off the flat into the deeper water and then came back. I was just getting ready to pull it in when two sharks showed up out of nowhere. They definitely were not messing around. They knew this game. I tried loosening my drag which only made a mess of my backing and the sharks got the fish anyway. I decided to move on rather than risk losing another fish to the sharks. What I ran into instead was a school of thirty to fifty sharks that were chasing baitfish under birds in the shallows. They literally churned the water in their frenzy. I watched one small shark run a baitfish right up on the beach and grab it. The anchorage was too uncomfortable to stay another night, so that was the limit of my experience in the only atoll with a flyfishing business, Anaa. Though the fishing seems endless, figuring out a strategy for dealing with sharks that have learned from a dozen or so people fishing each month that bonefish are vulnerable when hooked, would be key to fishing there. So is it strong tippet and try to bully them in, or light tippet and break them off if the sharks show up? I’m not sure.
Curiosity is an essential element of the flat. All the creatures there are looking for something in that thin slice of a watery world. A human being walking a flat is an unusual event, and so I should expect a little attention. Of my many curious visitors, a beautiful red and rust brown turtle was the most conspicuous creature I’ve seen on the flat. From a long distance he was indistinguishable from a rock, except in that he moved. The first time we met, I followed him for a little way until I could tell what he even was. I’d never seen a brown turtle before. At about twenty yards I stopped to watch him, and then he turned and began very slowly swimming my way. I wanted to take a picture, but I didn’t want to spook him by taking my phone out, so I left it in my pocket and didn’t move. At about fifteen feet he poked his head out of the water and looked at me. And then he kept swimming over. Who knows what he might have been thinking. When he was literally about to touch my ankle with his snout, I blinked. I moved my leg just a tiny little bit, in case he was thinking of pecking at my foot. I wish I hadn’t because that settled it for him. Whatever kind of tree he thought I was, its roots were not supposed to move. He turned at a turtle’s version of light speed and swam away. We bumped into each other the next two days, but then as soon as he poked his head up out of the water and saw it was me again, he was out of there. So I guess he didn’t want to be my flats buddy after all.
Galapagos to the Marquesas Islands, French Polynesia 4/25 – 5/13/17
It’s been 6 months since Allora’s first ocean crossing. I am writing this from French Polynesia, eking out the time and wifi to finally share this treasury of experience. Gathering our 3 kids, Haley, Madison and Wyatt, as crew (we call them, ‘GREM’, to be explained later) was ideal and a bit of a miracle at this point in their busy and widespread lives. I have to say, I love that it felt imperative to each of them to make the voyage – what adventurous souls! Haley had already crossed the Indian Ocean with SeaMester; I think she knew something of the quiet and solitude we’d be experiencing.
We’re family, yes, but in this experience, we formed an alliance, a team. I was reminded of leaving Montana to live in Ravenna, Italia; we were drop shipped into a new culture – it was palpable, the intense newness of it all – but after that year, our family had shared something indefinably rich. Here, out on the illimitable sea, we truly relied on each other once again to ‘navigate the waters.’ Though I think each of us came away with an impression that also felt wholly personal, as I look back at those sweet days, I see a point in time in which we were able to slip into an eddy in our lives, to come together and share this magic – we were uncertain and proud, bored and content, tired and euphoric, collectively.
I hope to always recall the slow but sure rhythm of these 18 sweet days. My mosaic work often feels like this – bit by bit, piece by piece and one day, something’s manifested. In this case, we, with the wind, landed in paradise, Fatu Hiva, Marquesas. ~DS
Stats:
Distance: 2,956nm (3,401miles)
Avg. speed from Isla Isabela, Galapagos to Fatu Hiva, Marquesas: 6.895 knots/hr (7.9 mph)
Avg. 24 hr distance: 165nm (189.8 miles)
I’ve been thinking about the tuna I killed
the exhausted fish bleeding into the water
after our gaff cut its gill then came apart and fell overboard
clouds of blood, Maddi thought of whaling
what it would be like on another scale
the rivers of whale ichor gushing into this exact ocean
from a heart bigger than all five of us
even this, probably average tuna, appears from its deep refuge like a giant
the mass of muscle that challenged our arms despite enormous mechanical advantage
We confounded the powerful, sleek prince of blue water
though we cannot actually lift him, but barely heave him aboard
like a deer drug through the snow
our muscles are spent
chunks of sashimi as big as an elk quarter
deep in the cheek, beautiful stuff I could, should eat from my knife even as I filet
I never ate deer raw
I worry I may one day think I have taken something I shouldn’t have
more than is left to take
for a man living in a world where food is easy
taken invisibly with efficient economic precision
swaddled in styrofoam and plastic
a big mac or burrata
seared tuna or sushi
for anyone who indulges a whim
anywhere, anytime
even in places that in my lifetime once offered only boiled meat and potatoes
peaches and apricots in the season of miller moths beating against the screen door
the man across the street in Hillrose, Colorado had collections of arrowheads
chipped stone for killing, scraping and digging
New technology just a few decades or a century ago
Here we see white fishing boats with towers for spotting the game
powerful motors for dragging it from the deep
fishermen like whalers still, raw
distant lives, sheltered by unquestioning pragmatism
shortsighted, strong armed servants of a frivolous city dwelling species
below us shifts Melville’s eternal blue noon
the multitude of shades of azure
that would have names if we were like eskimos naming snow
it all deepens to black
red squid and sperm whales
all that’s left of the world falls like ash into the deepest sea
~MS
Archipelago de Colon, April 15-25, 2017
Where is the tempo set?
on the avenues of new york london tokyo paris
or are they older than that
set by Luther’s hammer on the church door
the herd school flock shifts in rhythm to what secret signals
why does it matter if a man has something to do today
too much or too little
the sun is busy, the moon too with her secrets
and naked celebrations
water is always about to do something unexpected
the sky on a mission that does not tabulate human considerations
the stars are moving so fast they have time for little else
they don’t think for a moment about the implications of an infinite universe
belittling space and time and the business of anything or anyone, even stars
we move because life is motion
though even rocks are not still
there is no still point
no rest for the wicked
no rest
no rest
anticipation of the next wave or swirl of wind
is enough
until a stomach cramp, or the same anxious energy that brings a smile and satisfaction
sets a leg to tapping
mind worrying about something far away I cannot change
a fish and a hook
a plan and minor success to distract from the basic fact
that there are no ringing triumphs
or perfect endings
stubbed toes and broken knuckles and mosquito bites
that are more real than the scale of these mountainous islands
as out of touch as dreams and manmade stories
~MS