Position: At anchor in Tahanea, Tuamoto Archipelago
May 31, 2008
The day started by our pulling up the anchor to assure the chain was not twisted around coral heads. This was important because the weather gurus forecasted a southeastern blow, and having a fouled anchor in such conditions is a truly bad idea. The other cruisers in this anchorage -- four Swedish boats and one from Australia -- explained to us how they had anchored, a trick using floats attached every 30' on their anchor chain, thereby allowing the anchor itself to bite but keeping the chain off the floor and off the coral.
Sal and Elena had found three washed up fishing floats on the beach yesterday, which were promptly put into service on Pax. This morning Sal got in the dinghy with her snorkel gear on, Elena stood at Pax's bow ready with the windlass, and Brad steered as directed by the crew. The anchor reset process was accomplished with all hands involved: Sal leaning over the dinghy with her head in the water, directing Brad to steer left, right, and straight ahead until the chain straightens and the anchor lifts. Elena stood ready to raise and redrop the anchor onto a designated sandy spot.
All proceeds well until.... SHARK!!! A warning shout from the captain and Elena, and Sal promptly pulls herself back into the dinghy as a curious reef shark swims underneath. This might have been a more worrisome problem, but for yesterday's introduction to the local fauna. Sal and Elena were scrubbing the grudge off Pax's waterline, and working back toward the skeg rudder when Sal decided it was time to get into the water and scrub from closer range. Brad was keeping a sharp eye out when he calmly said "There are three sharks heading this way like a military convoy." Rumor has it that Sal launched herself out of the water and fully into the dinghy in a nano-second, leaving the reef sharks wondering what happened. The subsequent photos taken of the beasts with Elena's underwater camera are impressive.
This afternoon while Brad worked on navigation planning and solar panel challenges, Sal and Elena headed toward a secluded blue lagoon with Elena's camera. Along the way they spotted hundreds of hermit crabs that love to eat coconuts left open on the beach by the kindly Australians. They rowed the dinghy over coral heads in water so clear that they could photograph the iridescent blue fish from above. Up the atoll a ways, Sal and Elena found a completely secluded and sheltered blue lagoon, surrounded by coconut palms. The bottom of this particular lagoon was covered with crushed white coral sand, allowing even the most timid swimmer to see if anything was coming. The two of them found this personal swimming hole to be perfectly peaceful and unencumbered by unwelcome albeit curious marine life.
Pax Vobiscum
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Friday, April 24, 2009
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Enfin Tuamotu
May 29, 2008 2100 UTC, 1100 Local
Position: 16 degrees 51 min. S, 144 degrees 42 min. W
Nous arrivons. We anchored in the Tuamotu atoll of Tahanea at about 9:45 local time this morning. Last night we made excellent time in a 10 to 12 knot northeasterly breeze. There was some tension as we weaved our way through a line of atolls in the pitch dark. Our GPS lead the way, but passing through and close to low, unlit islands that we could not see nevertheless got our full attention. We arrived off Tahanea at 7 AM and hove to for several hours waiting for the right tide and sun conditions to enter the pass into the atoll. The passes in the Tuamotus must be traversed on the correct tide. The current emptying into or out of the atoll can create seas that are dangerous for small vessels such as Pax when the current is running strong, especially if it is running against a sea. Once in the atoll, we can only safely travel in the daylight and with the sun at our backs because all these atolls contain uncharted coral heads that can only be seen if they are visible below the surface. Glare from a sun ahead in the direction of travel effectively blinds us to this danger.
Ironically, after a slow passage the wind is now whipping up at anchor. Our friends Jan and Joan are reconsidering their plan to leave the Marquesas tomorrow because of possible high seas on the route -- quite different from what we experienced in our week-long passage. Meanwhile, we are now in a sheltered spot, in the wind but out of the seas. Two hundred yards ahead is a deserted sandy motu covered by palm trees. The water, 30 feet deep under our keel, is a deep blue so clear that the sand and coral on the bottom are plainly visible. There should be great swimming and snorkeling once the wind calms down.
We as yet have not made plans on how long we will stay here. Our next stop will be the larger island of Fakarava, whose closest pass is about 45 miles away. For now we will enjoy a quiet day of relaxation.
Pax Vobiscum
Position: 16 degrees 51 min. S, 144 degrees 42 min. W
Nous arrivons. We anchored in the Tuamotu atoll of Tahanea at about 9:45 local time this morning. Last night we made excellent time in a 10 to 12 knot northeasterly breeze. There was some tension as we weaved our way through a line of atolls in the pitch dark. Our GPS lead the way, but passing through and close to low, unlit islands that we could not see nevertheless got our full attention. We arrived off Tahanea at 7 AM and hove to for several hours waiting for the right tide and sun conditions to enter the pass into the atoll. The passes in the Tuamotus must be traversed on the correct tide. The current emptying into or out of the atoll can create seas that are dangerous for small vessels such as Pax when the current is running strong, especially if it is running against a sea. Once in the atoll, we can only safely travel in the daylight and with the sun at our backs because all these atolls contain uncharted coral heads that can only be seen if they are visible below the surface. Glare from a sun ahead in the direction of travel effectively blinds us to this danger.
Ironically, after a slow passage the wind is now whipping up at anchor. Our friends Jan and Joan are reconsidering their plan to leave the Marquesas tomorrow because of possible high seas on the route -- quite different from what we experienced in our week-long passage. Meanwhile, we are now in a sheltered spot, in the wind but out of the seas. Two hundred yards ahead is a deserted sandy motu covered by palm trees. The water, 30 feet deep under our keel, is a deep blue so clear that the sand and coral on the bottom are plainly visible. There should be great swimming and snorkeling once the wind calms down.
We as yet have not made plans on how long we will stay here. Our next stop will be the larger island of Fakarava, whose closest pass is about 45 miles away. For now we will enjoy a quiet day of relaxation.
Pax Vobiscum
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Dipping South
May 28, 2008 1900 UTC, 9:00 a.m. local time
Position: 15 degrees 47 min. S, 143 degrees 52 min. W
We are within one day of landfall at the Tuamoto Archipelago or the Iles Tuamotu as our French charts state. Although our passage has been slower than expected, the time on the ocean away from sight of land has been splendid, with easy seas and deep friendships developing. We have seen only one other passing ship in a week, a freighter west bound, and the azure blue sky and deep blue water have surrounded us in very kindly ways during the thirteen hours of daylight.
Last night our watches were especially entertaining, as if the night sky was putting on a grand spectacle just for the three of us. Astronomers classify twenty named stars bright enough to qualify as "1st Magnitude," and eighteen of the twenty, plus Jupiter, Saturn, and Mars were visible during the night. The last waning quarter of the moon did not rise until midnight, giving us much time to see constellations rarely visible.
As we sail further south, the Big Dipper is getting lower and lower in the sky. Last night the scupper part of the dipper was seemingly scooping water below the horizon, and only the last three stars of the handle were visible to us. The midnight temperature was 79 degrees, and the soft salty air had a sweet expectant scent. We sailed on a port tack with a southeasterly heading of 195 degrees magnetic, and the Southern Cross was lighting up the sky just to the left of our mast. Crosby Stills and Nash sang about the Southern Cross, Richard Henry Dana wrote about it in his book Two Years Before the Mast, and now we too have sailed south by its coordinates.
Surrounding the Southern Cross and notably stretching north to south is the Milky Way. Without city lights or the moon to dim it, the Milky Way over the ocean provides a ribbon of light to guide our way. Surprisingly bright here, the Milky Way illuminates the night sky from one horizon to the other, and we could clearly see our way across the very pacific ocean in all directions. Sal has often found her dark night watches to be a bit scary when the seas are high and the wind is blowing hard, but those fears have dimmed this past week in the South Pacific.
Pax Vobiscum
May 28, 2008
Position: 15 degrees 47 min. S, 143 degrees 52 min. W
We are within one day of landfall at the Tuamoto Archipelago or the Iles Tuamotu as our French charts state. Although our passage has been slower than expected, the time on the ocean away from sight of land has been splendid, with easy seas and deep friendships developing. We have seen only one other passing ship in a week, a freighter west bound, and the azure blue sky and deep blue water have surrounded us in very kindly ways during the thirteen hours of daylight.
Last night our watches were especially entertaining, as if the night sky was putting on a grand spectacle just for the three of us. Astronomers classify twenty named stars bright enough to qualify as "1st Magnitude," and eighteen of the twenty, plus Jupiter, Saturn, and Mars were visible during the night. The last waning quarter of the moon did not rise until midnight, giving us much time to see constellations rarely visible.
As we sail further south, the Big Dipper is getting lower and lower in the sky. Last night the scupper part of the dipper was seemingly scooping water below the horizon, and only the last three stars of the handle were visible to us. The midnight temperature was 79 degrees, and the soft salty air had a sweet expectant scent. We sailed on a port tack with a southeasterly heading of 195 degrees magnetic, and the Southern Cross was lighting up the sky just to the left of our mast. Crosby Stills and Nash sang about the Southern Cross, Richard Henry Dana wrote about it in his book Two Years Before the Mast, and now we too have sailed south by its coordinates.
Surrounding the Southern Cross and notably stretching north to south is the Milky Way. Without city lights or the moon to dim it, the Milky Way over the ocean provides a ribbon of light to guide our way. Surprisingly bright here, the Milky Way illuminates the night sky from one horizon to the other, and we could clearly see our way across the very pacific ocean in all directions. Sal has often found her dark night watches to be a bit scary when the seas are high and the wind is blowing hard, but those fears have dimmed this past week in the South Pacific.
Pax Vobiscum
May 28, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Thinking, Remembering
May 27, 2008 2200 UCT, 1200 LCL
Position: degrees min. S, degrees min. W
Dawn found us motoring once more. With the wind gone and sails slatting, Sal started the engine at 4:30 AM. Pax had been drifting south in a two knot northeasterly, swinging her boom and banging her blocks every minute or two as a new series of small waves started her rolling. Elena had come off watch at 4 AM tired and frazzled. Trying to keep the boat moving and quiet in these conditions is an exercise in frustration.
Now Sal and Elena are asleep below and it is the Captain's watch. Small ripples cover the sea in all directions, heralding the arrival of a modest breeze that will allow sailing later in the morning. Shearwaters a mile or two to starboard hover over and feed on a school of small fish. No boats or land can be seen, no conversation is possible. The sun rises off the port quarter bathing the cockpit in an orange glow and streaming down through the companionway to light up the dark teak of the nav station and the hard black plastic of the main DC circuit board. Just above the panel and below an old barometer the warm morning light reflects off a shiny brass plate inscribed "James Holmes Bagshaw, In Loving Memory."
A 14-foot plywood runabout turns a bend in the Annisquam River as herring gulls swarm over the sandy clam flats in search of their evening meal. The warm glow of the late afternoon sun lights up the 40 horsepower Johnson two-cycle as a young father shows his 10 year-old son how to recognize the sandbars while the boy steers down river towards the dock in Smith's Cove near their Gloucester Harbor home. Then the engine sputters and dies, and the navigation lesson becomes a lesson in switching fuel tanks and restarting the engine without panic as the small boat drifts down the channel into the path of a tired old side trawler heading for market with a full load of cod and haddock.
At sea we are at such close quarters, yet at times we are so alone. These times allow the mind to wander down a river now far away, to be again with a father once so young, but now gone forever. A father sorely missed, and lovingly remembered.
Pax Vobiscum
Position: degrees min. S, degrees min. W
Dawn found us motoring once more. With the wind gone and sails slatting, Sal started the engine at 4:30 AM. Pax had been drifting south in a two knot northeasterly, swinging her boom and banging her blocks every minute or two as a new series of small waves started her rolling. Elena had come off watch at 4 AM tired and frazzled. Trying to keep the boat moving and quiet in these conditions is an exercise in frustration.
Now Sal and Elena are asleep below and it is the Captain's watch. Small ripples cover the sea in all directions, heralding the arrival of a modest breeze that will allow sailing later in the morning. Shearwaters a mile or two to starboard hover over and feed on a school of small fish. No boats or land can be seen, no conversation is possible. The sun rises off the port quarter bathing the cockpit in an orange glow and streaming down through the companionway to light up the dark teak of the nav station and the hard black plastic of the main DC circuit board. Just above the panel and below an old barometer the warm morning light reflects off a shiny brass plate inscribed "James Holmes Bagshaw, In Loving Memory."
A 14-foot plywood runabout turns a bend in the Annisquam River as herring gulls swarm over the sandy clam flats in search of their evening meal. The warm glow of the late afternoon sun lights up the 40 horsepower Johnson two-cycle as a young father shows his 10 year-old son how to recognize the sandbars while the boy steers down river towards the dock in Smith's Cove near their Gloucester Harbor home. Then the engine sputters and dies, and the navigation lesson becomes a lesson in switching fuel tanks and restarting the engine without panic as the small boat drifts down the channel into the path of a tired old side trawler heading for market with a full load of cod and haddock.
At sea we are at such close quarters, yet at times we are so alone. These times allow the mind to wander down a river now far away, to be again with a father once so young, but now gone forever. A father sorely missed, and lovingly remembered.
Pax Vobiscum
Monday, May 26, 2008
Cow Pie of the Sea
May 26, 2008
Position: 13 degrees 53 min. S, 142 degrees 32 min. W
Last night the wind piped up to 10 knots giving us a nice ride for about 12 hours. Unfortunately, it has settled down again and left behind a lumpy sea. Our destination is directly downwind, but heading off in that direction results in slow going and an unpleasant roll, with the sails pulling the boom to windward, to leeward, and back again, over and over. The lines, the blocks, and everything not tied down bang back and forth. Down below the hull magnifies all, and it sounds as if Pax is trying to shake herself apart; this is the least favorite point of sail for all cruisers. So, an hour ago we put our poor bruised vessel onto a quieter and faster reach, sacrificing progress for peace. This is proving to be a slow passage.
Last night right before sunset Sal's and Elena's fishing efforts bore fruit in the form of a 23" long 10 pounder identified by fishing master Sal as a bonito. He was quite an attractive fellow, looking like a small tuna, bright silver all over with iridescent side stripes, as if dressed in a tuna tux and all ready for Neptune's prom. Sal hooked the stylish fellow by rod and reel, and Elena hauled him aboard with her bare hands - no gaff needed by this hearty fishing crew. As soon as the rod began to flex, the Captain hustled to his fishing station down below, far away from the impending blood and gore, and began to read. Thankfully, his Bowditch is dense enough to distract him through a year's worth of fishing.
Sal dispatched her catch with a few hearty blows of the winch handle and immediately filleted the bonito right there in the cockpit. Elena busied herself cleaning up the considerable mess. It took her many, many buckets of salt water and the whole process took long enough for the Captain to get through two dense chapters of Bowditch before he dared show his head above deck.
The barbecue was then lit, and within an hour of the mayhem ending we were all settling down to a fresh fish dinner. Unfortunately, it tasted awful and we wound up feeding most of it to the sharks. Our friend and fishing guru Ken Ewing had warned us that bonito were not good eating (in his folksy Arkansas way he told us cow pies were tastier). We should have listened.
Tonight the Captain is hoping for clam linguini, secure in the knowledge that the clams are already in the can. He noted however that after studying the cruiser's fishing guide to make sure no mistakes in fish preparation had been made, fishing lines were quietly run out again today during his afternoon nap. Pax's fishing master and her formidable assistant do not easily give up.
Pax Vobiscum
Position: 13 degrees 53 min. S, 142 degrees 32 min. W
Last night the wind piped up to 10 knots giving us a nice ride for about 12 hours. Unfortunately, it has settled down again and left behind a lumpy sea. Our destination is directly downwind, but heading off in that direction results in slow going and an unpleasant roll, with the sails pulling the boom to windward, to leeward, and back again, over and over. The lines, the blocks, and everything not tied down bang back and forth. Down below the hull magnifies all, and it sounds as if Pax is trying to shake herself apart; this is the least favorite point of sail for all cruisers. So, an hour ago we put our poor bruised vessel onto a quieter and faster reach, sacrificing progress for peace. This is proving to be a slow passage.
Last night right before sunset Sal's and Elena's fishing efforts bore fruit in the form of a 23" long 10 pounder identified by fishing master Sal as a bonito. He was quite an attractive fellow, looking like a small tuna, bright silver all over with iridescent side stripes, as if dressed in a tuna tux and all ready for Neptune's prom. Sal hooked the stylish fellow by rod and reel, and Elena hauled him aboard with her bare hands - no gaff needed by this hearty fishing crew. As soon as the rod began to flex, the Captain hustled to his fishing station down below, far away from the impending blood and gore, and began to read. Thankfully, his Bowditch is dense enough to distract him through a year's worth of fishing.
Sal dispatched her catch with a few hearty blows of the winch handle and immediately filleted the bonito right there in the cockpit. Elena busied herself cleaning up the considerable mess. It took her many, many buckets of salt water and the whole process took long enough for the Captain to get through two dense chapters of Bowditch before he dared show his head above deck.
The barbecue was then lit, and within an hour of the mayhem ending we were all settling down to a fresh fish dinner. Unfortunately, it tasted awful and we wound up feeding most of it to the sharks. Our friend and fishing guru Ken Ewing had warned us that bonito were not good eating (in his folksy Arkansas way he told us cow pies were tastier). We should have listened.
Tonight the Captain is hoping for clam linguini, secure in the knowledge that the clams are already in the can. He noted however that after studying the cruiser's fishing guide to make sure no mistakes in fish preparation had been made, fishing lines were quietly run out again today during his afternoon nap. Pax's fishing master and her formidable assistant do not easily give up.
Pax Vobiscum
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Driftin'
May 25, 2008 0200 UCT, 1600 LCL (May 24)
Position: 11 degrees 48 min. S, 141 degrees 53 min. W
The flying fish launched at dawn across water as still as the most secluded pond. His first six feet were marked by dimples in the water left by the beat of his small winged fins. For 15 seconds he turned and banked silently within inches of the surface before plunging back in, to be constrained once again by the thickness of the water.
We have no wind. It died, completely died, about 11:30 last night towards the end of Sally's watch. There was no fair warning. We had eaten the Captain's favorite dinner of linguini with marinara sauce and mushrooms in the darkening dusk. Our now old friends Alpha Centauri, Beta Centaurus and the Southern Cross materialized with the setting sun, and as we were enjoying our dessert of fresh baked brownies a nearly full moon, swelled by the refraction from a hot earth, rose out of the sea. We talked with vigor and respect of prayer, spirituality and the scientific method. We each stated our case and, we each patiently listened as the others stated theirs. And, in the end, we each remained convinced of the opinions we had held at the outset. So it goes, in the South Pacific, and everywhere else. The off-watch turned in and all was right with the world; then, the wind died.
From midnight we motored. Motoring is good for charging the batteries, making fresh water, and stabilizing the boat when there is no wind holding the hull down against the water. Of course, motoring also moves the boat towards its destination, but at a price. Noise and vibration destroy the stillness, they build a barrier that walls off the natural world as effectively as the cabin of an air-conditioned car speeding down the highway. And motoring uses diesel fuel, a precious liquid that must be hauled in the dinghy two five-gallon jugs at a time - if a source for it can be found at all. So at 8 AM we turned the motor off and started drifting. First in no wind, now generally to the south pushed by the barest breath, but at least pushed, at least for now.
It is quiet. Sometimes when the wind dies everything not tied down bangs from side to side in a nasty roll left over by the forgotten breeze. Not today. The swell is gentle and we rise and fall so lazily to it that the boom rarely moves. Today we we have silent sunshine, no cooling breezes, but time for quiet talk in the shade and for books that had been put off to another day, a day that has now arrived. Tomorrow the computer forecast promises that a small wind will blow fair for the Tuamotus.
We will wait for it.
Pax Vobiscum
Position: 11 degrees 48 min. S, 141 degrees 53 min. W
The flying fish launched at dawn across water as still as the most secluded pond. His first six feet were marked by dimples in the water left by the beat of his small winged fins. For 15 seconds he turned and banked silently within inches of the surface before plunging back in, to be constrained once again by the thickness of the water.
We have no wind. It died, completely died, about 11:30 last night towards the end of Sally's watch. There was no fair warning. We had eaten the Captain's favorite dinner of linguini with marinara sauce and mushrooms in the darkening dusk. Our now old friends Alpha Centauri, Beta Centaurus and the Southern Cross materialized with the setting sun, and as we were enjoying our dessert of fresh baked brownies a nearly full moon, swelled by the refraction from a hot earth, rose out of the sea. We talked with vigor and respect of prayer, spirituality and the scientific method. We each stated our case and, we each patiently listened as the others stated theirs. And, in the end, we each remained convinced of the opinions we had held at the outset. So it goes, in the South Pacific, and everywhere else. The off-watch turned in and all was right with the world; then, the wind died.
From midnight we motored. Motoring is good for charging the batteries, making fresh water, and stabilizing the boat when there is no wind holding the hull down against the water. Of course, motoring also moves the boat towards its destination, but at a price. Noise and vibration destroy the stillness, they build a barrier that walls off the natural world as effectively as the cabin of an air-conditioned car speeding down the highway. And motoring uses diesel fuel, a precious liquid that must be hauled in the dinghy two five-gallon jugs at a time - if a source for it can be found at all. So at 8 AM we turned the motor off and started drifting. First in no wind, now generally to the south pushed by the barest breath, but at least pushed, at least for now.
It is quiet. Sometimes when the wind dies everything not tied down bangs from side to side in a nasty roll left over by the forgotten breeze. Not today. The swell is gentle and we rise and fall so lazily to it that the boom rarely moves. Today we we have silent sunshine, no cooling breezes, but time for quiet talk in the shade and for books that had been put off to another day, a day that has now arrived. Tomorrow the computer forecast promises that a small wind will blow fair for the Tuamotus.
We will wait for it.
Pax Vobiscum
Friday, May 23, 2008
Shark Bait
May 23, 2008. 2030 UCT, 1030 LCL
Position: 10 degrees 38 min. S, 140 degrees 55 min. W
We tired of waiting for the wind and set sail yesterday afternoon for the Tuamotu Islands. We have now been sailing for 21 hours in light but serviceable winds from the east, allowing us to beam reach at about four knots. We are pleased to be moving without needing to resort to the engine and hope this continues despite a forecast for very light air. We plan to stop first at Tahaena Atoll which is about 500 miles to the south southwest, a stop recommended to us several weeks ago by our new friend Pierre from the sloop Ke'a. Pierre and his crewmember Claude by now should be a third of the way to Vancouver. We hear that a clear blue coral atoll, white sand beaches and coconut palms await our arrival in Taheana. Thanks to Sandy Brown and our new crew member Elena Leonard, we can make our own cold drinks. No ice though, Chris.
Last night Sally put out the fishing line and around sunset she hooked a big one. After patiently reeling in and out for half an hour, something even larger swallowed the first catch. For 10 minutes Sal struggled and struggled, out went line and more line and the reel became quite hot, but there was no landing this one. Finally the 300 pound-test leader broke where it held the hook, leaving the two inch long steel hook with the fish, but the rest of the rig with us. We surmise that a large shark gulped down in one bite what was to be three or four meals of tuna for us. Those nasty hooks will give him indigestion, though.
This morning we had what will be a daily radio check-in with Jan and Joan on Casteele, with whom we have had a grand time these last few days. We left them yesterday at anchor in a lovely bay on Ua Pou Island. Today they set sail for Anaho Bay, our favorite, and in a week or so they will be following us to the Tuamotus. It was great to catch up with friends from Seattle, and it is great to have them listening for us should something go wrong. We were introduced back in Seattle by mutual friend and world-cruiser Nancy Erley.
Our new crewmember Elena, a sailing instructor at Windworks since sending her three kids off to college, has been a joy to have aboard. We are having fun showing her Pax and sharing with her our brand knew knowledge of the bluewater cruising life. She has blended into our little crew seamlessly and we look forward to learning from her as much as we can of the vast store of knowledge she has acquired in her sailing career.
We are now getting back into the routine of round-the-clock watches. With three of us on board we are each doing one four-hour day shift and two two-hour night shifts. The seas are low with swells under three feet, so the sleeping is easy. Today is full of sunshine, and I am typing this while cooling off after my 6 AM to 10 AM day watch. A cold Hinano awaits, followed by lunch and a little nap. There are worse ways to spend the day.
Pax Vobiscum
Position: 10 degrees 38 min. S, 140 degrees 55 min. W
We tired of waiting for the wind and set sail yesterday afternoon for the Tuamotu Islands. We have now been sailing for 21 hours in light but serviceable winds from the east, allowing us to beam reach at about four knots. We are pleased to be moving without needing to resort to the engine and hope this continues despite a forecast for very light air. We plan to stop first at Tahaena Atoll which is about 500 miles to the south southwest, a stop recommended to us several weeks ago by our new friend Pierre from the sloop Ke'a. Pierre and his crewmember Claude by now should be a third of the way to Vancouver. We hear that a clear blue coral atoll, white sand beaches and coconut palms await our arrival in Taheana. Thanks to Sandy Brown and our new crew member Elena Leonard, we can make our own cold drinks. No ice though, Chris.
Last night Sally put out the fishing line and around sunset she hooked a big one. After patiently reeling in and out for half an hour, something even larger swallowed the first catch. For 10 minutes Sal struggled and struggled, out went line and more line and the reel became quite hot, but there was no landing this one. Finally the 300 pound-test leader broke where it held the hook, leaving the two inch long steel hook with the fish, but the rest of the rig with us. We surmise that a large shark gulped down in one bite what was to be three or four meals of tuna for us. Those nasty hooks will give him indigestion, though.
This morning we had what will be a daily radio check-in with Jan and Joan on Casteele, with whom we have had a grand time these last few days. We left them yesterday at anchor in a lovely bay on Ua Pou Island. Today they set sail for Anaho Bay, our favorite, and in a week or so they will be following us to the Tuamotus. It was great to catch up with friends from Seattle, and it is great to have them listening for us should something go wrong. We were introduced back in Seattle by mutual friend and world-cruiser Nancy Erley.
Our new crewmember Elena, a sailing instructor at Windworks since sending her three kids off to college, has been a joy to have aboard. We are having fun showing her Pax and sharing with her our brand knew knowledge of the bluewater cruising life. She has blended into our little crew seamlessly and we look forward to learning from her as much as we can of the vast store of knowledge she has acquired in her sailing career.
We are now getting back into the routine of round-the-clock watches. With three of us on board we are each doing one four-hour day shift and two two-hour night shifts. The seas are low with swells under three feet, so the sleeping is easy. Today is full of sunshine, and I am typing this while cooling off after my 6 AM to 10 AM day watch. A cold Hinano awaits, followed by lunch and a little nap. There are worse ways to spend the day.
Pax Vobiscum
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Good Morning Sunshine
May 20, 2008 Hakahau Bay, Oa Pou Island
We finally left Anaho Bay last Friday after a marvelous three-week stay, and we sailed to Taiahoe Bay once more where we were to pick up our new crew member Elena on Sunday. At the appointed time Sal and I (well, Sal mostly) were doing our laundry in a bucket on the small boat quay. Miraculously, Elena arrived on schedule. She had just completed a 36-hour odyssey from Seattle to L.A., to Papeete, to the Nuku Hiva airport, and to the quay via a 90 minute 4-wheel drive taxi bumping along on a mostly unpaved road. We were surprised and delighted to see Elena step out of the taxi as we had no way to communicate with her in the likely event that she were to be held up somewhere along the way.
We had not met Elena before, but had no problem identifying her for she was the one carrying the refrigerator; yes, we now have cold beer again, and not a moment too soon. We are grateful to Elena for carrying the fridge 4000 miles, and we are especially grateful to Sandy Brown who on hearing that our onboard frige had given up in the tropics, researched the portable refrigeration options, got us the details, advanced the funds, purchased the frige and delivered it to Elena. Without Sandy's energy and enthusiasm we would be finishing this trip without cold beer, mayo, cheese, meat and many of the other items made possible by refrigeration that we all take for granted back home.
Yesterday we sailed 25 miles south to Oa Pou, a small volcanic island. From 20 miles out we can easily see the dramatic basalt spires created when magma welled up in the fissures of the young volcano that formed this island; one cruise book we have on board calls this the most dramatic landfall in the South Pacific. We had a lovely sail, close reaching in an 8-10 knot breeze all the way across the channel that separates this island from Nuku Hiva. We arrived in the late afternoon immediately behind a red-hulled cutter named Casteele that motored in from Tahuata. Casteele is crewed by our friends Jan and Joan from Seattle. We had communicated by e-mail from time to time and had hoped to meet up, but the coincidence of arriving here right behind them was a surprise. After we had each set both bow and stern anchors (to keep the boats pointed into the swell coming into the small harbor) we had cocktails in Pax's cockpit. If George Bush has ears in Oa Pou they are burning this morning.
At 6 AM the island freighter Aranui III woke us up with its booming fog horn as it neared the entrance to the little harbor we call home today. We and the crews of the other eight boats who were wedged into this tiny harbor bailed out of bed to watch the large freighter lower two launches from its main crane. The launches sped into the harbor to clear the way for the freighter which continued steadily towards us at two or three knots. We knew the Aranui intended to maneuver alongside the concrete dock a few hundred yards east of us to deliver the supplies that this island would need for the next several weeks. It looked to us like the harbor was too congested for this to happen and that we were all going to have to pull up our anchors in short order and clear out. But to our relief the launches left us alone to focus solely on a small sloop called "Sunshine" that had anchored 100 feet north of us, apparently too much in the narrow channel for the comfort of Aranui's captain. As the Aranui moved slowly into the harbor the two launches circled Sunshine, anxiously yelling and gesturing. Sunshine's master, a middle-aged American and his crew, a Polynesian girl of 12 or so, scrambled to get the boat moving. The master of the little boat launched his tiny dinghy and rowed frantically back to haul his stern anchor. When he could not get it up quickly, one of the launches came over and took up the heaving for him. Back rowed the master to Sunshine where he started pulling on the bow anchor, heaving hand over hand for he had no windless. Soon he was boarded by a crewmember from the other launch who scrambled up Sunshine's side to heave along with him. As Sunshine moved forward on its anchor chain she moved more and more into the channel. The Aranui, not willing to stop and wait for Sunshine to clear, rounded the small breakwater and moved into the channel from the sea. Then there was the loud clattering of huge chain links against a steel hull as the Aranui let go its main anchor, but she did not stop on the anchor; she kept coming right at Sunshine. From our vantage point only 100 yards away it seemed that Sunshine was against the high steel side of the freighter when Sunshine's anchor finally cleared the surface and the tiny sloop turned abruptly away, disaster seemingly averted at the last minute. The Aranui continued on at her steady, slow pace as she had throughout. Now her launches ferried lines to the quay that the ship used to winch herself alongside. The main anchor she had dropped on the way in would be her means of exiting the tiny harbor. With no tugs she had no other way to get pointed back out to sea after unloading other than to pull her bow around with the main anchor.
By 7 AM, on Pax's back deck, with coffee mugs now in hand, we were able to watch the Aranui beginning to unload. Meanwhile, Sunshine had anchored in shallow water near the head of the harbor, where her captain and young crew could recover from their morning's excitement.
Meanwhile, it looks like we will be in the Marquesas a little while longer. The usually steady tradewinds that we had counted on to carry us on to the Tuamotus have taken what we hope will be a short vacation. We are now planning to push on to the southwest by the end of the week.
Pax Vobiscum
-------------------------------------------------
We finally left Anaho Bay last Friday after a marvelous three-week stay, and we sailed to Taiahoe Bay once more where we were to pick up our new crew member Elena on Sunday. At the appointed time Sal and I (well, Sal mostly) were doing our laundry in a bucket on the small boat quay. Miraculously, Elena arrived on schedule. She had just completed a 36-hour odyssey from Seattle to L.A., to Papeete, to the Nuku Hiva airport, and to the quay via a 90 minute 4-wheel drive taxi bumping along on a mostly unpaved road. We were surprised and delighted to see Elena step out of the taxi as we had no way to communicate with her in the likely event that she were to be held up somewhere along the way.
We had not met Elena before, but had no problem identifying her for she was the one carrying the refrigerator; yes, we now have cold beer again, and not a moment too soon. We are grateful to Elena for carrying the fridge 4000 miles, and we are especially grateful to Sandy Brown who on hearing that our onboard frige had given up in the tropics, researched the portable refrigeration options, got us the details, advanced the funds, purchased the frige and delivered it to Elena. Without Sandy's energy and enthusiasm we would be finishing this trip without cold beer, mayo, cheese, meat and many of the other items made possible by refrigeration that we all take for granted back home.
Yesterday we sailed 25 miles south to Oa Pou, a small volcanic island. From 20 miles out we can easily see the dramatic basalt spires created when magma welled up in the fissures of the young volcano that formed this island; one cruise book we have on board calls this the most dramatic landfall in the South Pacific. We had a lovely sail, close reaching in an 8-10 knot breeze all the way across the channel that separates this island from Nuku Hiva. We arrived in the late afternoon immediately behind a red-hulled cutter named Casteele that motored in from Tahuata. Casteele is crewed by our friends Jan and Joan from Seattle. We had communicated by e-mail from time to time and had hoped to meet up, but the coincidence of arriving here right behind them was a surprise. After we had each set both bow and stern anchors (to keep the boats pointed into the swell coming into the small harbor) we had cocktails in Pax's cockpit. If George Bush has ears in Oa Pou they are burning this morning.
At 6 AM the island freighter Aranui III woke us up with its booming fog horn as it neared the entrance to the little harbor we call home today. We and the crews of the other eight boats who were wedged into this tiny harbor bailed out of bed to watch the large freighter lower two launches from its main crane. The launches sped into the harbor to clear the way for the freighter which continued steadily towards us at two or three knots. We knew the Aranui intended to maneuver alongside the concrete dock a few hundred yards east of us to deliver the supplies that this island would need for the next several weeks. It looked to us like the harbor was too congested for this to happen and that we were all going to have to pull up our anchors in short order and clear out. But to our relief the launches left us alone to focus solely on a small sloop called "Sunshine" that had anchored 100 feet north of us, apparently too much in the narrow channel for the comfort of Aranui's captain. As the Aranui moved slowly into the harbor the two launches circled Sunshine, anxiously yelling and gesturing. Sunshine's master, a middle-aged American and his crew, a Polynesian girl of 12 or so, scrambled to get the boat moving. The master of the little boat launched his tiny dinghy and rowed frantically back to haul his stern anchor. When he could not get it up quickly, one of the launches came over and took up the heaving for him. Back rowed the master to Sunshine where he started pulling on the bow anchor, heaving hand over hand for he had no windless. Soon he was boarded by a crewmember from the other launch who scrambled up Sunshine's side to heave along with him. As Sunshine moved forward on its anchor chain she moved more and more into the channel. The Aranui, not willing to stop and wait for Sunshine to clear, rounded the small breakwater and moved into the channel from the sea. Then there was the loud clattering of huge chain links against a steel hull as the Aranui let go its main anchor, but she did not stop on the anchor; she kept coming right at Sunshine. From our vantage point only 100 yards away it seemed that Sunshine was against the high steel side of the freighter when Sunshine's anchor finally cleared the surface and the tiny sloop turned abruptly away, disaster seemingly averted at the last minute. The Aranui continued on at her steady, slow pace as she had throughout. Now her launches ferried lines to the quay that the ship used to winch herself alongside. The main anchor she had dropped on the way in would be her means of exiting the tiny harbor. With no tugs she had no other way to get pointed back out to sea after unloading other than to pull her bow around with the main anchor.
By 7 AM, on Pax's back deck, with coffee mugs now in hand, we were able to watch the Aranui beginning to unload. Meanwhile, Sunshine had anchored in shallow water near the head of the harbor, where her captain and young crew could recover from their morning's excitement.
Meanwhile, it looks like we will be in the Marquesas a little while longer. The usually steady tradewinds that we had counted on to carry us on to the Tuamotus have taken what we hope will be a short vacation. We are now planning to push on to the southwest by the end of the week.
Pax Vobiscum
-------------------------------------------------
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Please Don't Pass the Freedom Fries
Anaho Bay - May 15, 2008
Vive La France!!
The Americans have moved on through and now we are with the Europeans. Pierre on KE'A has until recently been a manager with Sunsail Charters in Raiatea, recently merged with Moorings. He sailed single-handed to French Polynesia 16 years ago and stayed in sailing serving the charter trade. Now he again is free to set sail. He left yesterday for Vancouver, B.C. with crewmember Claude, now 60ish, but who as a young man sailed here from France on a 22 foot sloop. His lived through the experience, triumph enough for one lifetime.
Pierre spent hours with us annotating our cruising guides to tell us where to go and what to look for in the Tuamotu and Society Islands. His advice springs from genuine experience, and we will pay attention to it. He gave and gave of his time, wanting nothing to more than to tell us what he knows. We gave him a book of charts of Puget Sound and advice about dealing with our peculiar currents, and we invited him and Claude over for dinner the night before they departed. Pierre, the expansive extrovert came over in a clean pressed shirt that might have been worn by a Mayan sun-god, Claude, a substantial man of few words, arrived in a red tank top wearing a broad smile. They brought a pear custard dessert baked by Pierre that we inhaled after a lovely dinner of clam linguini prepared by Sal. KE'A was going straight to Vancouver rather than making the usual stop in Hawaii because Pierre had been unable to get a U.S. visa. For him to get a visa our country requires him to fly to Fiji, a substantial expense that he was not willing to undertake. We have a consulate in Tahiti, but it exists only to help U.S. citizens, not to make life easier for fine Frenchmen who would visit America. Pierre wants to see the wonders of Alaska, but will stay next winter in Victoria while he attempts to get his U.S. visa from there. The trip is more arduous without the stop in Hawaii, but they will make it; they are true sailors.
We heard from Pierre that the extraordinary single-hander Eric has decided to go to Japan rather that North America because he does not yet have a U.S. visa. He will try to get to Alaska next year because he too wants to see the great natural beauty of our greatest wilderness. We wish this extraordinary young man the best of luck.
The night before we met Pierre we had a French couple from the vessel SEA LANCE over along with a young couple from PANGEA, a Seattle boat owned by a French - U.S. citizen and a Seattle veterinarian. The French couple were as nice as nice could be. They told us of a cruise they had to Antarctica right after 9/11 on which they had wonderful times at the Russian station and with everyone else they met with one unfortunate exception. They needed certain supplies and asked for help from the NOAA Antarctic research ship. The Captain told them that he had surplus supplies that he would be happy to share, but not share with the French because that country had failed to support the U.S. adventure in Iraq, (All hail Freedom Fries.) Today this couple hiked two hours over the hill to the next village. Because they knew that Sal had done the hike yesterday only to find both stores out of bread, they brought us a fresh loaf. They refused all payment for this kindness, proving with their feet and their hearts that they do not hold a grudge.
Pax Vobiscum flies the American flag from its backstay, a tradition we began on the Fourth of July several years ago to honor our fathers, proud veterans both of the Second World War. We long in vain to find pride in the present as well as the past. Maybe next year.
Pax Vobiscum
Vive La France!!
The Americans have moved on through and now we are with the Europeans. Pierre on KE'A has until recently been a manager with Sunsail Charters in Raiatea, recently merged with Moorings. He sailed single-handed to French Polynesia 16 years ago and stayed in sailing serving the charter trade. Now he again is free to set sail. He left yesterday for Vancouver, B.C. with crewmember Claude, now 60ish, but who as a young man sailed here from France on a 22 foot sloop. His lived through the experience, triumph enough for one lifetime.
Pierre spent hours with us annotating our cruising guides to tell us where to go and what to look for in the Tuamotu and Society Islands. His advice springs from genuine experience, and we will pay attention to it. He gave and gave of his time, wanting nothing to more than to tell us what he knows. We gave him a book of charts of Puget Sound and advice about dealing with our peculiar currents, and we invited him and Claude over for dinner the night before they departed. Pierre, the expansive extrovert came over in a clean pressed shirt that might have been worn by a Mayan sun-god, Claude, a substantial man of few words, arrived in a red tank top wearing a broad smile. They brought a pear custard dessert baked by Pierre that we inhaled after a lovely dinner of clam linguini prepared by Sal. KE'A was going straight to Vancouver rather than making the usual stop in Hawaii because Pierre had been unable to get a U.S. visa. For him to get a visa our country requires him to fly to Fiji, a substantial expense that he was not willing to undertake. We have a consulate in Tahiti, but it exists only to help U.S. citizens, not to make life easier for fine Frenchmen who would visit America. Pierre wants to see the wonders of Alaska, but will stay next winter in Victoria while he attempts to get his U.S. visa from there. The trip is more arduous without the stop in Hawaii, but they will make it; they are true sailors.
We heard from Pierre that the extraordinary single-hander Eric has decided to go to Japan rather that North America because he does not yet have a U.S. visa. He will try to get to Alaska next year because he too wants to see the great natural beauty of our greatest wilderness. We wish this extraordinary young man the best of luck.
The night before we met Pierre we had a French couple from the vessel SEA LANCE over along with a young couple from PANGEA, a Seattle boat owned by a French - U.S. citizen and a Seattle veterinarian. The French couple were as nice as nice could be. They told us of a cruise they had to Antarctica right after 9/11 on which they had wonderful times at the Russian station and with everyone else they met with one unfortunate exception. They needed certain supplies and asked for help from the NOAA Antarctic research ship. The Captain told them that he had surplus supplies that he would be happy to share, but not share with the French because that country had failed to support the U.S. adventure in Iraq, (All hail Freedom Fries.) Today this couple hiked two hours over the hill to the next village. Because they knew that Sal had done the hike yesterday only to find both stores out of bread, they brought us a fresh loaf. They refused all payment for this kindness, proving with their feet and their hearts that they do not hold a grudge.
Pax Vobiscum flies the American flag from its backstay, a tradition we began on the Fourth of July several years ago to honor our fathers, proud veterans both of the Second World War. We long in vain to find pride in the present as well as the past. Maybe next year.
Pax Vobiscum
Monday, May 12, 2008
To Get to the Other Side
Sal's hike to Stephen King Beach
May 12, 2008
On the southwest corner of the island lies a quiet little harbor called Hakatea, which is perfect for sailboats. It's also known as Daniel's Bay, named after a friendly Marquesan who for decades, encouraged sailboaters to come to his home, sign his guest book, and freely enjoy his potable water. A true gentleman and much appreciated when showers and good water are hard to find.
Diagonally across the island along the northeast shore is a very different type of beach. Called Haatuatua Bay, it is directly exposed to the east wind and ocean swell, so sailboats avoid it as an anchorage. It is nonetheless beautiful if you can reach it -- secluded white sands and palm trees line it - and it is surrounded by razor sharp volcanic cliffs and hills covered with palms, breadfruit, and lemon trees. It is over the ridge but within walking distance of Anaho Bay where we are anchored. Sal was in one of her exploratory moods, and she took off this morning with a jug of water, her camera, and two different kinds of bug repellant. Little did she realize she was heading alone for Stephen King Beach.
She reports the walk eventful. The entrance to the path led through an active coconut palm grove. The palms are 60+ feet tall and multiply freely. Although the international market is not what it was a decade ago for coconut oil (something about the cholesterol issue), coconuts are still grown and harvested by the extended Anaho Bay family. The trees are naturally groomed when they drop large branches and ripe coconuts without warning and sufficiently often that we have been counseled to never stop under a coconut tree. Sal can attest that she narrowly avoided a large palm frond and a half dozen coconuts this morning that dropped suddenly from on high at her feet.
As she continued on her eastward hike, the grassy trail opened up on the other side of the grove where animals abound. Cows and small horses graze. Some are tethered and others not. The horses are reputedly the progeny of French stock introduced to the islands two hundred years ago. Running near the horses and looking for food, red and gold-feathered feral roosters chase after their brown hens who in turn are clucking after young chicks. Well-fed and well-mannered dogs with pointy ears and long legs lounge outside the few houses along the way.
The path follows the contour of Anaho Bay through a semi tropical forest alive with bird calls and full of fragrances. The salt air of the ocean cresting on the basalt below combines with sweet smell of plumeria and gardenias, warmed lemons falling from the trees, horse sweat, and burning coconut piles. The villagers in Anaho Bay take pride in their homes, and regularly burn coconut husks and fronds as a way to keep the bugs down and keep appearances up. Sal said that the burn piles she passed along the way reminded her vaguely of some sweet burning smells from her college dorm days.
Sal's walk continued up and over the ridge, where the vegetation changed abruptly to more semi-arid type plans. She passed two tidy lean-to style huts, again well tended, with watermelons growing in well watered gardens. Her "bon jour!'s" went unanswered and her hopes for some fresh melon were dashed.
The forested way to the beach became a twist of woody trunks similar to mangrove trees, apparently blown over from last season's hurricanes. Sal scaled over trunks and around branches, crawled through some dead wood and walked up the last hill. At the top she stopped dead in her tracks: below was a white sand beach extending over a mile north and south, with nary a soul, a Hilton, or human footprint anywhere. A few untethered horses raised their heads and sniffed the wind at her, and a family of wild goats that had been grazing along the beach moments before melted back into the hillside.
Sal reapplied the bug repellant. Having been devoured by no-no's at Daniel's Bay, she now knows the drill. Multiple layers of bug goo including a final bath in some citronella- smelling coconut oil are in order. It feels like applying Wesson oil, but it apparently drowns the no-no's before they are able to bite.
She walked down the hill to beach and noticed thousands of black crabs running just where the surf wetted the sand. These crabs are FAST and they stick together. Before Sal was even on the beach the crabs spotted her. The group closest to the ocean ran into the waves, and others scattered back to their castles - a thousand conical piles of sand twelve inches high just above the high tide line, with a deep hole dug behind it. These crabs are known locally as coconut crabs, as at night they come out of their holes and effectively drill into the coconuts that have either rolled down to or been washed up on the beach. The crab claws are prized for their sweet meat and they are captured at night by dazzling them with a bright flashlight. The locals and some brave cruisers will venture into the crab condos after dark, shine their flashlights into the crab's eyes, grab the crabs from behind and wrench off one claw. The crabs continue to live and reputedly can grow a new claw. Although they survive, Sal is convinced they hold a grudge.
As she walked along the beach she discovered the no-no's were finding her skin interesting and were beginning to circle. Despite the assurances printed on the bottles of bug goo, the no-no's were landing with serious attitude. This was enough to cut the beach stroll short. In addition to the bugs, the crabs started taking a stand. Rather than diving for cover as they did initially, they stopped and were LOOKING at her. Crab eyes by the dozens are intimidating. One crab raised his claws in a defiant two-clawed salute. Others were starting to leave the water and started sidling toward the brave one in solidarity. Sal has read enough science fiction novels to comprehend that this beach was very likely to be one of those used by the French government to secretly test their post-war nuclear weapons, and the defiant crabs were the mutant result. Rather than pressing the point she wisely retreated, leaving the bugs and the crabs for Stephen King's next novel.
Pax Vobiscum
May 12, 2008
On the southwest corner of the island lies a quiet little harbor called Hakatea, which is perfect for sailboats. It's also known as Daniel's Bay, named after a friendly Marquesan who for decades, encouraged sailboaters to come to his home, sign his guest book, and freely enjoy his potable water. A true gentleman and much appreciated when showers and good water are hard to find.
Diagonally across the island along the northeast shore is a very different type of beach. Called Haatuatua Bay, it is directly exposed to the east wind and ocean swell, so sailboats avoid it as an anchorage. It is nonetheless beautiful if you can reach it -- secluded white sands and palm trees line it - and it is surrounded by razor sharp volcanic cliffs and hills covered with palms, breadfruit, and lemon trees. It is over the ridge but within walking distance of Anaho Bay where we are anchored. Sal was in one of her exploratory moods, and she took off this morning with a jug of water, her camera, and two different kinds of bug repellant. Little did she realize she was heading alone for Stephen King Beach.
She reports the walk eventful. The entrance to the path led through an active coconut palm grove. The palms are 60+ feet tall and multiply freely. Although the international market is not what it was a decade ago for coconut oil (something about the cholesterol issue), coconuts are still grown and harvested by the extended Anaho Bay family. The trees are naturally groomed when they drop large branches and ripe coconuts without warning and sufficiently often that we have been counseled to never stop under a coconut tree. Sal can attest that she narrowly avoided a large palm frond and a half dozen coconuts this morning that dropped suddenly from on high at her feet.
As she continued on her eastward hike, the grassy trail opened up on the other side of the grove where animals abound. Cows and small horses graze. Some are tethered and others not. The horses are reputedly the progeny of French stock introduced to the islands two hundred years ago. Running near the horses and looking for food, red and gold-feathered feral roosters chase after their brown hens who in turn are clucking after young chicks. Well-fed and well-mannered dogs with pointy ears and long legs lounge outside the few houses along the way.
The path follows the contour of Anaho Bay through a semi tropical forest alive with bird calls and full of fragrances. The salt air of the ocean cresting on the basalt below combines with sweet smell of plumeria and gardenias, warmed lemons falling from the trees, horse sweat, and burning coconut piles. The villagers in Anaho Bay take pride in their homes, and regularly burn coconut husks and fronds as a way to keep the bugs down and keep appearances up. Sal said that the burn piles she passed along the way reminded her vaguely of some sweet burning smells from her college dorm days.
Sal's walk continued up and over the ridge, where the vegetation changed abruptly to more semi-arid type plans. She passed two tidy lean-to style huts, again well tended, with watermelons growing in well watered gardens. Her "bon jour!'s" went unanswered and her hopes for some fresh melon were dashed.
The forested way to the beach became a twist of woody trunks similar to mangrove trees, apparently blown over from last season's hurricanes. Sal scaled over trunks and around branches, crawled through some dead wood and walked up the last hill. At the top she stopped dead in her tracks: below was a white sand beach extending over a mile north and south, with nary a soul, a Hilton, or human footprint anywhere. A few untethered horses raised their heads and sniffed the wind at her, and a family of wild goats that had been grazing along the beach moments before melted back into the hillside.
Sal reapplied the bug repellant. Having been devoured by no-no's at Daniel's Bay, she now knows the drill. Multiple layers of bug goo including a final bath in some citronella- smelling coconut oil are in order. It feels like applying Wesson oil, but it apparently drowns the no-no's before they are able to bite.
She walked down the hill to beach and noticed thousands of black crabs running just where the surf wetted the sand. These crabs are FAST and they stick together. Before Sal was even on the beach the crabs spotted her. The group closest to the ocean ran into the waves, and others scattered back to their castles - a thousand conical piles of sand twelve inches high just above the high tide line, with a deep hole dug behind it. These crabs are known locally as coconut crabs, as at night they come out of their holes and effectively drill into the coconuts that have either rolled down to or been washed up on the beach. The crab claws are prized for their sweet meat and they are captured at night by dazzling them with a bright flashlight. The locals and some brave cruisers will venture into the crab condos after dark, shine their flashlights into the crab's eyes, grab the crabs from behind and wrench off one claw. The crabs continue to live and reputedly can grow a new claw. Although they survive, Sal is convinced they hold a grudge.
As she walked along the beach she discovered the no-no's were finding her skin interesting and were beginning to circle. Despite the assurances printed on the bottles of bug goo, the no-no's were landing with serious attitude. This was enough to cut the beach stroll short. In addition to the bugs, the crabs started taking a stand. Rather than diving for cover as they did initially, they stopped and were LOOKING at her. Crab eyes by the dozens are intimidating. One crab raised his claws in a defiant two-clawed salute. Others were starting to leave the water and started sidling toward the brave one in solidarity. Sal has read enough science fiction novels to comprehend that this beach was very likely to be one of those used by the French government to secretly test their post-war nuclear weapons, and the defiant crabs were the mutant result. Rather than pressing the point she wisely retreated, leaving the bugs and the crabs for Stephen King's next novel.
Pax Vobiscum
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Bay Watch
Anaho Bay - 5/10/08
Hot and humid - the good and the bad of the tropics. This weather is delightful, so long as there is a breeze. Now we sit at anchor with all of our portholes and hatches wide open. Over the forward hatch we have a "Windscoop," a piece of nylon fabric cut in the shape of a small spinnaker, the bottom of which is fastened to our hatch coaming. The Windscoop directs a steady breeze into the forward cabin and back through the whole boat; it is delightful and the cool air is directed downward and flows without using any precious electricity. On many days a small dark cloud comes by in the late morning or early afternoon and it begins to rain, sometimes quite hard, and we scramble to close all the hatches and portholes. Almost at once the sweating starts - with the breeze cut off the boat goes from pleasant to stifling in an instant.
The rain usually ends in five minutes and we can then reopen everything again, unless we see another cloud with more rain right behind the first. The more challenging is when we are asleep at night. Sometimes the first hint of rain comes in the form of raindrops on a sleeping face through a portal, then out of a sound sleep we scramble to close everything up before the rain starts in earnest. The rain soon stops - then the guessing game begins. Is that it, or is there another cloud hiding in the darkness behind this one? Is it all over, or will it rain on and off again all night? If we go through the fire drill twice then we generally leave it closed up for the night. Our small D.C. fans are turned on, and our sheets and pillows will get damp with sweat - but we can sleep undisturbed.
A variation on the theme occurs when the wind is gusty and shifty. The Windsock works best when the wind comes straight at it, so when a gust comes from a new direction it bangs and thrashes about until the boat turns to face the new wind. Then we have a cool breeze again until the next wind shift starts the banging anew. Now the game becomes how much we will put up with. If it keeps waking us up, then a trip on deck to lower the Windsock is in order. If we let it go too far, as we did last week, the Windsock shakes apart some of its seams and we find pieces on the deck in the morning.
The up and down for Sal is no big deal, since she is generally up several times during the night anyway, cataloging stars and enjoying the quiet night sky. She has devoured the book Gene Carlson gave her on the Stars, and is learning more about the sidereal day and the hours of longitude. Many of the stars and constellations we could see in Seattle are below the horizon here, and new ones appear every night.
The heat has loosened our temperate customs. Long sleeves and long pants are long put away. Socks too are never worn on board, we rarely have a use for footwear of any kind, and we certainly have no need for sweaters, fleeces or even rain coats - (Macs as our new British friends call them). The rain is so warm we just enjoy when caught out in it, secure in the knowledge that it will soon end and that we will quickly dry out.
I gave up shirts when out of the sun sometime ago, and most younger men get their full tans and hardly ever wear shirts at any time. My vanity and my still white belly restrain me somewhat more. Sal is finally giving up on shirts when we are alone together below, a development that I rate one of the great benefits of the climate. I now have a deeper appreciation of why the crew of the BOUNTY so enjoyed being greeted by topless Tahitian women, and unlike that unlucky crew, I do not need to foment mutiny just to continue the fun. All in all, times are good here in Anaho Bay.
Pax Vobiscum
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Hot and humid - the good and the bad of the tropics. This weather is delightful, so long as there is a breeze. Now we sit at anchor with all of our portholes and hatches wide open. Over the forward hatch we have a "Windscoop," a piece of nylon fabric cut in the shape of a small spinnaker, the bottom of which is fastened to our hatch coaming. The Windscoop directs a steady breeze into the forward cabin and back through the whole boat; it is delightful and the cool air is directed downward and flows without using any precious electricity. On many days a small dark cloud comes by in the late morning or early afternoon and it begins to rain, sometimes quite hard, and we scramble to close all the hatches and portholes. Almost at once the sweating starts - with the breeze cut off the boat goes from pleasant to stifling in an instant.
The rain usually ends in five minutes and we can then reopen everything again, unless we see another cloud with more rain right behind the first. The more challenging is when we are asleep at night. Sometimes the first hint of rain comes in the form of raindrops on a sleeping face through a portal, then out of a sound sleep we scramble to close everything up before the rain starts in earnest. The rain soon stops - then the guessing game begins. Is that it, or is there another cloud hiding in the darkness behind this one? Is it all over, or will it rain on and off again all night? If we go through the fire drill twice then we generally leave it closed up for the night. Our small D.C. fans are turned on, and our sheets and pillows will get damp with sweat - but we can sleep undisturbed.
A variation on the theme occurs when the wind is gusty and shifty. The Windsock works best when the wind comes straight at it, so when a gust comes from a new direction it bangs and thrashes about until the boat turns to face the new wind. Then we have a cool breeze again until the next wind shift starts the banging anew. Now the game becomes how much we will put up with. If it keeps waking us up, then a trip on deck to lower the Windsock is in order. If we let it go too far, as we did last week, the Windsock shakes apart some of its seams and we find pieces on the deck in the morning.
The up and down for Sal is no big deal, since she is generally up several times during the night anyway, cataloging stars and enjoying the quiet night sky. She has devoured the book Gene Carlson gave her on the Stars, and is learning more about the sidereal day and the hours of longitude. Many of the stars and constellations we could see in Seattle are below the horizon here, and new ones appear every night.
The heat has loosened our temperate customs. Long sleeves and long pants are long put away. Socks too are never worn on board, we rarely have a use for footwear of any kind, and we certainly have no need for sweaters, fleeces or even rain coats - (Macs as our new British friends call them). The rain is so warm we just enjoy when caught out in it, secure in the knowledge that it will soon end and that we will quickly dry out.
I gave up shirts when out of the sun sometime ago, and most younger men get their full tans and hardly ever wear shirts at any time. My vanity and my still white belly restrain me somewhat more. Sal is finally giving up on shirts when we are alone together below, a development that I rate one of the great benefits of the climate. I now have a deeper appreciation of why the crew of the BOUNTY so enjoyed being greeted by topless Tahitian women, and unlike that unlucky crew, I do not need to foment mutiny just to continue the fun. All in all, times are good here in Anaho Bay.
Pax Vobiscum
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Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Hangin with the Cat in the Bay
May 6, 2008, still in Anaho Bay
Two days ago everyone pulled out of the Bay except us, and as they left a 45-foot Lagoon catamaran named "MAVERICK DREAM" pulled in. For the last two days it has been just the cat and us in the Bay. "MAVERICK DREAM" is crewed by four men. Owner Mark from Australia came by in his dinghy yesterday to borrow some socket wrenches, and I wound up spending a few hours helping one of his crew, 21 year-old Francis, figure out how to pull the cylinder head off MAVERICK DREAM's starboard main engine. When that engine would not start, the crew had discovered coolant in one of the cylinders, and they were hoping to find that the problem was a blown head gasket that they thought they could fix here in the Bay. The engine now sits in pieces, and unfortunately it looks like there is a crack in the cylinder head that will require a replacement that must be supplied from the States, a long and expensive process.
Last night Sal and I had diner on MAVERICK DREAM. Mark, who looks to us to be in his early 40s, made his money by starting a computer training company. He retired and bought his boat three years ago in Europe. He has cruised the Mediterranean, and crossed the Atlantic twice. He has sailed most of this time with Louis, a 32-year-old Dutchman. The love of Louis' life is an Ethiopian woman whose father was executed a few years back by the Etrians. He plans to move soon to Ethiopia, get married and start a business. He has convinced himself that the business climate is good for foreigners there; such is the power of love. Francis and Minnow round out the crew. Both had been teaching kite-surfing and windsurfing in Aruba when they signed on with Mark. Francis, who was born in Australia but lived most of his life in Holland, had gone to Aruba with his parents at 17 for a long weekend and stayed four years, all without a visa or any other formality. He lived and crewed on a wooden boat that took tourists sailing. It had no electricity and few systems. Minnow, who is Dutch, has a degree in Naval Architecture and had been a charter skipper in Greece, sometimes leading flotillas of foreign charter boats as the expert in the local waters. He plans to go back to Naval Architecture when he feels the need for a real job. None of these four men wore anything but a bathing suit in our time with them. When Francis would overheat during the many hours it took him to pull off the cylinder head he would just leap in the water to cool off, then hop back on the boat and go back at it.
e were fed fresh tuna that they had caught early that morning in their dinghy just outside the Bay. Straight off the barby as Mark would (and did) say. Tonight the MAVERICK DREAM crew will dine on the claws of land crabs that Louis had gathered that evening on the beach. The land crabs come out after dark and bore their way through coconuts that have fallen to the ground. Louis hunts the crab with a bright flashlight that temporarily confuses them. He then twists off one claw and lets the victim go. Louis claims the crab will survive and grow back its missing claw to provide some future cruiser with another meal. The claws that Louis brought back while we were having wine continued to writhe and snap out at fingers when touched.
The wildlife continues to be plentiful. As we sat on MAVERICK DREAM's back deck having wine we saw the dorsal fin of a good sized black tip shark prowling the reef that lines the shore, and this morning while having coffee in Pax' cockpit I saw a very large turtle surface near the boat. Yesterday as I was gazing out the porthole in the head (deeply in thought) a booby dove by three feet from my nose, splashed into the water and flew away with one of the small colorful reef fish that have taken up residence under Pax. Yesterday afternoon Sally came face to face with four wild pigs as she returned from her three-hour hike over the northwest ridge-line into the adjacent village. They snorted, she stared, and thankfully, they scattered.
This morning MAVERICK DREAM left the Bay under one engine to motor towards Daniel's Bay. They will then visit Rangiroa in the Tuamotus before heading for Tahiti where they will pick up Mark's wife, a 28 year-old body builder from Russia, and with luck, a new cylinder head. The notion of sailing 750 miles (think Seattle to Santa Barbara) with an engine in pieces does not seem so foolish now as it would have six months ago. The young Russian body builder, on the other hand . . .
So we are completely alone in this lovely spot. Tonight we will barbecue frozen chicken legs that Sal lugged back from the village yesterday. Chicken and bread are subsidized here, so they are the exceptions to the otherwise expensive fare. The box of chicken was packaged by Tyson in Arkansas. How interesting to find it here, where the chickens and roosters roam freely on every road and path.
Pax Vobiscum
Two days ago everyone pulled out of the Bay except us, and as they left a 45-foot Lagoon catamaran named "MAVERICK DREAM" pulled in. For the last two days it has been just the cat and us in the Bay. "MAVERICK DREAM" is crewed by four men. Owner Mark from Australia came by in his dinghy yesterday to borrow some socket wrenches, and I wound up spending a few hours helping one of his crew, 21 year-old Francis, figure out how to pull the cylinder head off MAVERICK DREAM's starboard main engine. When that engine would not start, the crew had discovered coolant in one of the cylinders, and they were hoping to find that the problem was a blown head gasket that they thought they could fix here in the Bay. The engine now sits in pieces, and unfortunately it looks like there is a crack in the cylinder head that will require a replacement that must be supplied from the States, a long and expensive process.
Last night Sal and I had diner on MAVERICK DREAM. Mark, who looks to us to be in his early 40s, made his money by starting a computer training company. He retired and bought his boat three years ago in Europe. He has cruised the Mediterranean, and crossed the Atlantic twice. He has sailed most of this time with Louis, a 32-year-old Dutchman. The love of Louis' life is an Ethiopian woman whose father was executed a few years back by the Etrians. He plans to move soon to Ethiopia, get married and start a business. He has convinced himself that the business climate is good for foreigners there; such is the power of love. Francis and Minnow round out the crew. Both had been teaching kite-surfing and windsurfing in Aruba when they signed on with Mark. Francis, who was born in Australia but lived most of his life in Holland, had gone to Aruba with his parents at 17 for a long weekend and stayed four years, all without a visa or any other formality. He lived and crewed on a wooden boat that took tourists sailing. It had no electricity and few systems. Minnow, who is Dutch, has a degree in Naval Architecture and had been a charter skipper in Greece, sometimes leading flotillas of foreign charter boats as the expert in the local waters. He plans to go back to Naval Architecture when he feels the need for a real job. None of these four men wore anything but a bathing suit in our time with them. When Francis would overheat during the many hours it took him to pull off the cylinder head he would just leap in the water to cool off, then hop back on the boat and go back at it.
e were fed fresh tuna that they had caught early that morning in their dinghy just outside the Bay. Straight off the barby as Mark would (and did) say. Tonight the MAVERICK DREAM crew will dine on the claws of land crabs that Louis had gathered that evening on the beach. The land crabs come out after dark and bore their way through coconuts that have fallen to the ground. Louis hunts the crab with a bright flashlight that temporarily confuses them. He then twists off one claw and lets the victim go. Louis claims the crab will survive and grow back its missing claw to provide some future cruiser with another meal. The claws that Louis brought back while we were having wine continued to writhe and snap out at fingers when touched.
The wildlife continues to be plentiful. As we sat on MAVERICK DREAM's back deck having wine we saw the dorsal fin of a good sized black tip shark prowling the reef that lines the shore, and this morning while having coffee in Pax' cockpit I saw a very large turtle surface near the boat. Yesterday as I was gazing out the porthole in the head (deeply in thought) a booby dove by three feet from my nose, splashed into the water and flew away with one of the small colorful reef fish that have taken up residence under Pax. Yesterday afternoon Sally came face to face with four wild pigs as she returned from her three-hour hike over the northwest ridge-line into the adjacent village. They snorted, she stared, and thankfully, they scattered.
This morning MAVERICK DREAM left the Bay under one engine to motor towards Daniel's Bay. They will then visit Rangiroa in the Tuamotus before heading for Tahiti where they will pick up Mark's wife, a 28 year-old body builder from Russia, and with luck, a new cylinder head. The notion of sailing 750 miles (think Seattle to Santa Barbara) with an engine in pieces does not seem so foolish now as it would have six months ago. The young Russian body builder, on the other hand . . .
So we are completely alone in this lovely spot. Tonight we will barbecue frozen chicken legs that Sal lugged back from the village yesterday. Chicken and bread are subsidized here, so they are the exceptions to the otherwise expensive fare. The box of chicken was packaged by Tyson in Arkansas. How interesting to find it here, where the chickens and roosters roam freely on every road and path.
Pax Vobiscum
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Thinking of Tahiti
May 3, 2008 - still in Anaho Bay, Nuku Hiva Island
We have now been in this spot a week which makes us the senior cruisers in residence. There were three boats at anchor when we arrived and they are long gone now, each headed southwest towards Tahiti. Other boats have come and go; several nights ago there were 11 boats in the Bay, now we are down to five, including one mega sailing yacht that arrived yesterday. It is quite an impressive sight with a four-spreader mast that must be 120 feet high. After the anchor was down the whole transom swungout on hydraulics and out rolled an impressive little motor boat that this morning has been cruising around the Bay.The mega yacht is not at all typical of this cruising community. Long distance cruising, unlike local yachting, does not seem to be predominantly a diversion of the well-to-do. Typical are Sylvie and Steve who sold their London flat to afford their cruise on "SECOND WIND" a small steel cutter that they brought here from Europe via the Canal, Alaska and the U.S. west coast. It will remain their home after they reach Australia, Steve's homeland. They do not eat out much even when the opportunityprovides, and they told us yesterday they felt a little guilty buying a baked chicken to bring back to the boat. Chuck and Diane of "BEAR," another steel boat (you get more for your money with steel they told us), have likewise sold everything to go cruising and are living on a budget. For these and many other cruisers this is their lifestyle, one that substitutes boat for home, and self-sufficiency for purchased expertise. As accepted as we have been in this group, we are nevertheless misplaced,here for a short time before we return to our big-city condo life. Not that this is a life of luxury for us either (or perhaps I should say for Sal). As I am writing this Sal is returning in the dinghy with four jugs of water she has gathered from a nice spring feed pipe ashore to replenish our tanks. We do not run our tiny watermaker in the Bay where it might become contaminated. After all, everyone, us included, runs the toilet exhaust directly into the Bay. (The norm everywhere in the worldexcept the U.S.).The marine life continues to surprise. Yesterday Sal threw some moldy rice overboard and the sea exploded as 20 or more foot-long bright red reef-fish tore into this gift from the skies as soon as it hit the water. It happened so fast that they had to hanging around right under the boat. Where they seeking shade from the sun, protection from predators or just hanging around hoping for a meal. We may never know, but the show was such fun that Sal went back to the (inoperative) fridge and foundsome more rice (not moldy) and threw that overboard. BAM, the red fish were back on the attack, and when they were done a hundred or so smaller blue-green striped fish gobbled up the left-overs.Three nights ago during the midst of our local population explosion we had a pot luck on the beach and we got to know of each other's cruising adventures. Still most impressive to me is single-hander Eric from Switzerland. He has been at this nearly five years now. Everywhere he stops he gets to know the locals. He goes to the service at the local church wherever he lands, he takes the local transportation, and he walks a lot, talking freely with everyone he meets. He fishes and he bakes. Hetold me that the only provision he needs to buy for Alaska is 15 kilos of flour. Eric is very nearly self-sufficient. He plans to sail to Kodiak Island next, but his Visa is in postal limbo now - the Marquesan post office sent it back to Switzerland before Eric arrived, and it has not yet arrived there or returned here. If he cannot sort this out in the next week or two he will change plans and sail to Japan next, saving Alaska for next year. He has heard good things about the kindness the Japaneseshows to cruisers. To say Eric's schedule is flexible would be an understatement.Our schedule is changing as well. We have decided to stick with our original plan and continue on towards Tahiti rather than start towards Hawaii and home. Our good friend Mark Larson will join us on May 11, after which we will head southwest to the Tuamotu Islands, called the "dangerous archipelago" in the days before GPS. These islands are volcanos eroded down to just crater rims which are then built up with coral. Low islands and beaches surround clear, blue lagoons. Since they are low, theyare hard to see as they are approached and very dangerous to ships that do not know exactly where they are. Fortunate for us, we live in the age of GPS. We will be four or five nights at sea to get from here to the Tuamotus and we will then spend some yet undetermined amount of time in that slice of paradise before continuing on to Tahiti.
Pax Vobiscum
We have now been in this spot a week which makes us the senior cruisers in residence. There were three boats at anchor when we arrived and they are long gone now, each headed southwest towards Tahiti. Other boats have come and go; several nights ago there were 11 boats in the Bay, now we are down to five, including one mega sailing yacht that arrived yesterday. It is quite an impressive sight with a four-spreader mast that must be 120 feet high. After the anchor was down the whole transom swungout on hydraulics and out rolled an impressive little motor boat that this morning has been cruising around the Bay.The mega yacht is not at all typical of this cruising community. Long distance cruising, unlike local yachting, does not seem to be predominantly a diversion of the well-to-do. Typical are Sylvie and Steve who sold their London flat to afford their cruise on "SECOND WIND" a small steel cutter that they brought here from Europe via the Canal, Alaska and the U.S. west coast. It will remain their home after they reach Australia, Steve's homeland. They do not eat out much even when the opportunityprovides, and they told us yesterday they felt a little guilty buying a baked chicken to bring back to the boat. Chuck and Diane of "BEAR," another steel boat (you get more for your money with steel they told us), have likewise sold everything to go cruising and are living on a budget. For these and many other cruisers this is their lifestyle, one that substitutes boat for home, and self-sufficiency for purchased expertise. As accepted as we have been in this group, we are nevertheless misplaced,here for a short time before we return to our big-city condo life. Not that this is a life of luxury for us either (or perhaps I should say for Sal). As I am writing this Sal is returning in the dinghy with four jugs of water she has gathered from a nice spring feed pipe ashore to replenish our tanks. We do not run our tiny watermaker in the Bay where it might become contaminated. After all, everyone, us included, runs the toilet exhaust directly into the Bay. (The norm everywhere in the worldexcept the U.S.).The marine life continues to surprise. Yesterday Sal threw some moldy rice overboard and the sea exploded as 20 or more foot-long bright red reef-fish tore into this gift from the skies as soon as it hit the water. It happened so fast that they had to hanging around right under the boat. Where they seeking shade from the sun, protection from predators or just hanging around hoping for a meal. We may never know, but the show was such fun that Sal went back to the (inoperative) fridge and foundsome more rice (not moldy) and threw that overboard. BAM, the red fish were back on the attack, and when they were done a hundred or so smaller blue-green striped fish gobbled up the left-overs.Three nights ago during the midst of our local population explosion we had a pot luck on the beach and we got to know of each other's cruising adventures. Still most impressive to me is single-hander Eric from Switzerland. He has been at this nearly five years now. Everywhere he stops he gets to know the locals. He goes to the service at the local church wherever he lands, he takes the local transportation, and he walks a lot, talking freely with everyone he meets. He fishes and he bakes. Hetold me that the only provision he needs to buy for Alaska is 15 kilos of flour. Eric is very nearly self-sufficient. He plans to sail to Kodiak Island next, but his Visa is in postal limbo now - the Marquesan post office sent it back to Switzerland before Eric arrived, and it has not yet arrived there or returned here. If he cannot sort this out in the next week or two he will change plans and sail to Japan next, saving Alaska for next year. He has heard good things about the kindness the Japaneseshows to cruisers. To say Eric's schedule is flexible would be an understatement.Our schedule is changing as well. We have decided to stick with our original plan and continue on towards Tahiti rather than start towards Hawaii and home. Our good friend Mark Larson will join us on May 11, after which we will head southwest to the Tuamotu Islands, called the "dangerous archipelago" in the days before GPS. These islands are volcanos eroded down to just crater rims which are then built up with coral. Low islands and beaches surround clear, blue lagoons. Since they are low, theyare hard to see as they are approached and very dangerous to ships that do not know exactly where they are. Fortunate for us, we live in the age of GPS. We will be four or five nights at sea to get from here to the Tuamotus and we will then spend some yet undetermined amount of time in that slice of paradise before continuing on to Tahiti.
Pax Vobiscum
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