Syzygy Sailing

POST DATED

(written 5/24)

I am very fond of this quaint little anchorage.  We arrived mid-morning yesterday after an overnight passage (~30 hours) from Nuku Hiva, beating upwind the entire way.  Fortunately the seas were relatively calm for us, so the upwind work was bearable.

We pulled into the anchorage to find one other boat, Magenta.  Kim and Larry on Magenta waved us off the dock when we departed Mexico, and we were in touch with them on the radio as we crossed the ocean, so it was a treat to meet up with them unexpectedly.

It is plenty windy in this anchorage, which is keeping the boat cool and ventilated and topping off our batteries at the same time.  There are goats somewhere on the hillsides–we hear them occasionally but have been unable to spot any.  We slept out in the cockpit last night under the stars, with a pleasant breeze.  The next day we dinghied to the beach to find the crystal clear spring-fed swimming hole reported by others.  By god this pool was wonderful.  The chilly water was gratifyingly refreshing, and the pool was surrounded with green plants and flowers and grass and mint, which went right into the iced tea.

We have multiple independent reports confirming that our next bay, Hanamoenoa on Tahuata, has crystal clear water where manta rays will swim with you, and empty white sand beaches.  This spot is nice, but we’re excited about the next one, so tomorrow we plan on filling up our watertanks with the spring water and then heading off.

POST DATED

(Written on 5/22)

Nuku Hiva provided a nice sheltered anchorage for us to recuperate from 25 days at sea.  I can’t say that it’s the sort of paradise that I’ve been dreaming about: Taiohae bay, where we sat around for a few weeks (with the brief excursion to Hakatea in the middle) has rocky black beaches and cloudy opaque brown water.  Now you know we’re all thinking of perfectly clear turquoise water and white sand beaches, and we also know the south pacific has such places (bring it on).  The town was small, not tiny.  It had one restaurant (serving pizza for the white peeps), one resorty-type hotel, two small grocery stores, a basic hardware store, a few trinket shops, a large school, a church, and two food trucks that would park along the waterfront (which served an excellent burger).  The french have fully modernized this place; everything is clean and current.  It’s really hard to believe the last reported case of cannibalism was only 80 years ago!  Everyone drives pickups or suvs, the grocery stores have all the usual products (just smaller selection).  There are plenty of cell phones and satellite dishes.  The most exotic aspect of the place is how many chickens, hens, horses, and dogs everyone seems to have on their properties.  But aside from the animals running around it feels like it could be a town somewhere in europe, populated with dark-skinned marquesans of course.  Granted, this town of Taiohae is the largest in the Marquesas, and the administrative center, so it is unlikely that the other bays and islands are as familiar-feeling as this place is.

Neither is it as tropical as I expected.  Supposedly some of the more southern islands we will visit are closer to the rainforest jungle feel that I had imagined.  On Nuku Hiva there is a mix of low scrub and palm tree forest; some hillsides are covered with palm trees, others look not unlike the side of a mountain in utah with scraggly brush struggling to find moisture.

The terrain is pretty impressive–although the island is small, the hills are steep, and it looks like you could have some really exciting times negotiating the dirt roads that go over the mountains during the muddy season.

Yeah but now let’s talk about how I got a tattoo.  I have been talking about getting one for years; multiple times I’ve tried to come up with my own design, but a) there never seemed to be sufficient meaning to it and b) my designs looked stupid.   Now that I’ve crossed the pacific ocean, I felt that a Marquesan tattoo would be extremely meaningful and relevant.  Brice is a marquesan who studied his tattooing craft in france, and it seemed like everyone was visiting him to get their tattoos.  His tattoos are a modern take on the traditional marquesan symbols, and I was impressed with all the tattoos he had done for other cruisers.

The traditional marquesas tattoos are very geometric and symmetric, consisting of dozens or hundreds of smaller symbol elements.  The smaller elements are built up in geometric blocks and rows and columns (more or less) to build the tattoo.  It requires a big area to get the full effect of an old-school marquesan tattoo–the negative space is as important as the actual inked areas, and ideally there are no edges.  The Marquesan warriors would have entire limbs covered, often their entire body (including the face).  You can count me out of the whole body option . . .

ironic that despite the years of thinking about what tattoo I wanted, when it came down to it I ended up being impulsive and spontaneous about it.  I felt strangely willing to give him free rein and see how it turned out.  Formerly, the design of the tattoo had clearly been in the detailed and anal part of my personality, and somehow it ended up in the impulsive, leap-before-looking part of me.  Perhaps the recklessly impulsive element is a necessary condition for obtaining a tattoo–how many people do you know that plan every last detail of their tattoo design and still end up with one?  It doesn’t do to think about it too much, if you actually want to end up with a tattoo.  Another factor was that Brice speaks no english and I lack the vocabulary in french to talk about anything as complicated as designing a tattoo, so I couldn’t really communicate anything to him anyway.  In the end, I just wanted something that looked great–it was enough meaning for me that I would end up with a Marquesas tattoo after crossing an ocean.  So I pointed at some pictures, made some miming gestures, and submitted my shoulder to an act of chance.

So how did it turn out?  Well it’s pretty bad-ass, if I do say so.  Brice used the individual symbols that comprise the traditional designs, incorporating them into a more flowing, dynamic container, rather than the straight-edged blockiness of the ancient style.  A scary looking tiki dominates the center, with a spiral of traditional marquesan symbols around the outside.  Among others, he used the symbols for waves, sky, the “marquesan symbol”, the “warrior symbol”, love and sex, me and karen.  And I got some spiky-things as an added bonus.  Karen ended up getting one also–a small one on her back, much more elegant and feminine than mine

So we’ve wrapped up with Nuku HIva.  All in all, it was wonderful to be sitting at anchor being lazy for a few weeks, not getting tossed around out in the ocean, but we’re eager to visit the more exotic and exciting islands down the road.  Moving on!

a quick note to tell everyone that karen and I just arrived in Fakarava an hour ago–this is the first time we have had internet access since departing Nuku Hiva on the 22 of May.  Since then, we have visited five other remote islands: Hiva Oa, Tahuata, Fatu Hiva, Makemo, and Tahanea, and we both have a number of blog posts already written that will be added in the next few days.

Everything is going really well.

Two weeks ago on Fatu Hiva we hiked 10 miles to purchase a phone card to call jon to leave a message on his voice mail telling him to meet us on Fakarava on the 14th of june–plus or minus 5 days.  Well we’re in the anchorage and haven’t been to land yet or talked to anyone or even been able to receive email, but according to Jon’s last two posts he may still be in tahiti, or here, or on his way here, so all looks well.

jon if you read this we are towards the north side of the anchorage, one boat to the north of the large dark-hulled megayacht

all stories to follow

This must start with Jerome, who while not Tahitian, still must top the list of kindness that I have encountered here.  Jerome is a couch-surfer.  Or more to the point he has couch-surfed before and now, being in the land of Paradise, hosts other couch-surfers.  I found him on couchsurfing.org, which I signed up on two days before my flight to Tahiti.  He, and another couple both replied nearly immediately that I was more than welcome to stay at their place for a few days.

What an incredible resource!  For all those travelers out there who say that want a more intimate experience, more contact and connection with locals, more exchange of culture, more of an insider’s view into some new place,  I can’t think of a better way than by staying with someone who actually lives there.  The experience seems so much different than staying in a hostel with other travelers.  And while that also provide its own benefits, mainly an excited sense of immediacy to do as many things as possible now, I feel like you just can’t beat a local’s perspective and knowledge of the area.

He has taken me to the beach, which interestingly enough, there are not that many of in Tahiti.  The postcard beaches are mainly reserved for other islands.  He provided me with snorkeling gear to use there, and my first time snorkeling in over a decade was fantastic.  He didn’t join in because it was overcast and 80 degrees, instead of the usual sunny and 85 degrees.  I told him he was spoiled and jaded.

Jerome owns his own jet-ski and so despite another day of overcast weather, I think he sensed my excitement to go and so three of us went ripping out over the lagoon and into the ocean.  It was in the ocean where it was truly fun, as Jerome piloted us over waves, jumping into the air and crashing down, more than once nearly knocking me off.  And then on our return to his place he topped 80 km/hour, skimming the flat lagoon and plowing into the light drizzle that had started.  Yes, even in paradise it rains.  In fact it has rained every day I’ve been here.

So thank you Jerome, for a great start to my trip.

At the market yesterday, I wanted to buy some breakfast and eyed some bananas.  I asked how much for two of them.  Apparently however, you are supposed to buy them in bunches of 6 or 7 and I wasn’t up for that much banana.  I smiled sheepishly as I tried to communicate, a poor attempt I’m sure as I know about two dozen words in French and no Tahitian.  The young, pretty, Tahitian smiled back, and she waved that I could simply have them.  Free breakfast!  Thank you Tahiti.

At a pier-side cafe, watching World Cup Soccer, a few Tahitians struck up a conversation with me.  Luckily they spoke English and we chatted about soccer, the weather (we had all escaped from the downpour that was deluging us) and Tahitian life.  They asked many questions about my trip and I tried my best to make myself understood.  It would be very nice to know how to speak French.  

They also told me, much to my chagrin, that the cargo ship I am taking today may or may not be leaving.  Apparently there is a strike going on with the fireman and some dockworkers.  I knew this, actually, as when my plane was above Tahiti they came on the intercom and said they were trying to negotiate a landing for us.  Negotiate a landing for us!?!? Not exactly what one wants to hear when circling your destination.

A short time later, my bill for my coffee disappeared, and in it’s place was another one, again with no bill.  Timmy and Joe had picked up my coffees and were now offering me donut-like rolls, insisting I take not just one but three or four.  I had to accept.  A couple of minutes later, I asked them how to eat some strange small fruit I had bought a couple dozen of from the market.  They laughed when I motioned in question as to whether or not I could bite into it.  No, no, you must tear it open and the fruit was inside.  They kindly turned me down when I offered them some, happy to simply give and not receive.  Tahitian kindness. Thank you Tahiti!

For the last three days, I’ve slept in a bed (incidentally a step up from the floor that I’ve been using for the last four months) and   when I wake up, I shower and then have coffee made in a kitchen with a fridge where I pull out some Gaia apples from New Zealand.  I choose those over the California varietals.  It just wouldn’t have seemed right.

I’ve gone into town and been able to buy generally whatever I want.  There is a grocery store two blocks away.  Walking to town, I pass a Porsche dealership, an auto-supply store, and a Fed Ex.  I know where the ACE hardware store is.  The drum of traffic is ever present as cars race by, and the hint of pollution hangs in the air.  The air overhead buzzes with planes.

The TV is on in front of me.  It’s a flat screen.  The computer next to it is constantly hooked up to the internet and so I have non-stop access to email.

This morning, I watched World Cup soccer in a restaurant while drinking a European style coffee with a thoroughly American style Starbucks price.  I played poker until 1 am two nights ago.  I lost.  Badly.

Some things, it seems, never change no matter where you are in the world.

I am not however, in Denver despite how similar all of the above experience might seem to the humdrum of my previous life.  I am in Papeete, Tahiti.

Tahiti is geographically almost as far from Denver as possible.  Likewise, my life now is nearly as far away as can be imagined from about a year ago.  The last year has been an incredible roller coaster.  I have been assailed with many difficult situations, happiness, depression, intense disappointment, renewed appreciation, lost relationships, and much to my delight a resurrection of another one I had long thought dormant or gone. Like a roller coaster ride pulling back into the station, My life has come full circle and I am once again about to join this sailing adventure we started planning now five years ago.  Six months, a year, two years, forever…. My mom I’m sure does not want to hear the latter, and to assuage her trepidation, I can’t imagine it either.

The year long roller coaster ride, however, had its affect, its ride while intense, has been emotionally exhausting, taxing.  Lately I have become nearly singularly focused on the transition from one ride to another, from one chapter of my life to another.  I’ve spaced out in conversations with friends, lost in reflection on the past year, and truthfully in moderate disbelief of what the next year might hold.  I am fond of saying right now that I am as happy as I have ever been, and what I have rediscovered in the last month has contributed to fairly well cementing that to be true.

I have not emerged unaffected, however from the year long roller coaster ride.  I told my dad I no longer have the feeling of unencumbered happiness.  He liked that phrase.  It is something between guilt, which is a terrible word to describe it, and quiet reflective pensiveness and appreciation of how my reality has settled and I have thus landed in Tahiti.  When you look at a baby or young child you can see that unencumbered happiness.  Bliss.  Now my happiness, while great, is more quiet, silently acknowledging that much happened which was out of my control to bring my here.  I suppose I am trying to respect that for the first time in my life, true sadness played a role in my being where I am in life, and that deserves acknowledgment from me.

After three days in Papeete, today I begin to travel to Fakarava.  In the Tuomotu’s internet connection is effectively non-existent, and so I am jealous of boats like Io who are able to update their blogs from their boat. Trust that I am writing frequently and prolifically, but updates may be slow in coming until we return to Tahiti, about a month from now I believe.  Now I must go catch a cargo ship!

There are some seriously strange plants and animals here.

In the states, I feel perfectly comfortable out in the woods–I feel no fear of what I will encounter, I stride purposefully and confidently through our wilderness.  Until now, I hadn’t realized that the primary reason for that confidence is my familiarity with all of the plants and animals out there.

Embarrassingly, I find that I am uncomfortable in these woods.  To start with, they aren’t even woods–it’s clearly a sort of jungle, though far drier than your stereotypical jungle.  There are fruit trees everywhere: coconut, papaya, mango, pamplemoouse, pistach, noni, banana, and many others for which I have no translation.  This is a land of plenty: you could survive off of the fruit hanging from trees alone, not even considering the abundance of sea life.  We have almost none of these trees at home, and they have none of our trees.  So I’m walking through a strange jungle, that’s cool, I can dig it.

The creatures are another thing.

We sailed over to Hakatea Bay, the bay next door, for a four-day excursion with our friends Mike and Hyo from the boat Io.  Mike is a marine biologist, so he’s a good one to have around when you’re getting spooked by the local floral and fauna.

Hakatea bay has no town, no road to reach it, and only a few rough huts spread out along the beach.  As we dinghied to the beach, getting ready to jump out into the water to drag the dinghy in through the surf, Mike informed us to “watch out for” the many black-tipped reef sharks that hung out right up in the surf.  Sharks?  His nonchalant statement implied a lack of danger, and in this case, “watch out for” was meant as “look for them because they’re very cool to catch a glimpse of.”  These black-tipped reef sharks were about a foot long, and didn’t seem overly interested in ankles, so they went onto the list of ‘not so dangerous’ (as long as they come in the mini variety, at least).

As soon as we rolled up onto the beach, we noticed the crabs.  They were all over, but that turned out to be just the advance party.  We wandered a little ways into the jungle on the edge of the beach in search of coconuts, and discovered crabland.  The ground was covered with dirt and palm fronds, and the crabs had dug enormous holes and networks of tunnels, pockmarking the entire area.  The crabs were about the size of a large outstretched hand, with a large right claw and small left one, two beady eyes sticking up on little wiggly eyestalks, and a translucent white shell.  They could run very fast in a sideways direction–as fast as you can jog.  And there were thousands of them, everywhere, making a creepy collective clicking noise as their crabby body parts click together.  As you stepped over palm fronds and downed logs and what not you had to be careful not to step on them, and if you got too close they would dart out on a sideways run, or else wave their pincher.  Lift up a big frond and there will be twenty of them crabbing away, wiggling their little beady eyestalks at you.  The question again: are these things dangerous?  Well, no, not really, you can just reach down and pick them up if you’re fast enough.  Be careful not to get pinched by that big claw, but that’s easy to avoid.  But man did they creep me out.

My final experience with them was particularly unnerving.  Mike and I dinghied in to the beach in the dark that night in an attempt to nab some lobster that he had seen earlier.  On our way in Mike tells me to “watch out for” both needlefish and stingrays, and this time it wasn’t just for a cool sight.  Apparently needlefish are attracted to flashlights and have a sufficiently pointy sharp snout as to impale you, and Mike had seen some on our way to shore.  And the stingrays, well to be honest I don’t even know where they are or how they’re bad for you, whether they cut or poison or what, and right there you see that it’s the unknown that is fearful.  So we’re jumping out in the surf on this moonless night and I’m thinking “how can I avoid this stuff when I don’t even know where it is going to be lurking or what it will do?”

We drag the dinghy up onto the beach and then he shines the light on a shallow pool of water, and there’s a sight that I don’t expect to ever see again, which is a vast carpet of thousands upon thousands of those crabs, covering the entire clearing, all clicking in that particularly creepy way, so dense that they were crawling on top of each other.  It could have been a scene from a horror movie, if you just threw someone onto that carpet of crabs and watched them devour the body–of course in actuality they would all just run away, but boy oh boy was it a creepy sight.  The sound was the clincher, all that evil little clattering of carapaces as they scurried around the bend en masse.  Just creepy as all hell.

The next day we all hiked two hours into the jungle along a well-travelled path to the base of a large waterfall.  The cascade is currently only a trickle, owing to an extended dry spell, but there was a freshwater pool at the base of these impressive precipitous cliff walls.  It looked refreshing, until Mike pointed out the little crayfish jobbies.  They ringed the shallows of the pool, waiting for something to pinch on.  They happily swam up to pinch ankles, whatever you put in there.  That made hanging out in the pool mildly unattractive.  And then the eels showed up.  Big-ass freshwater eels, four feet long and four inches in diameter, with a disgusting little face up front, with their large mouth held partially open.  As you splash the surface of the water they come closer, curious to see if they can eat the source of the splashing.  Neither the crayfish nor the eel seemed to be afraid of us–they seemed rather willing to take a test nibble of whatever, before buggering off.

I do not consider myself easily spooked, freaked out, or scared.  But these new water creatures have been beyond my understanding and I admit that I am made uncomfortable by it.  I don’t know what the dangers are, is the thing.  I don’t know what I can and can’t do.  If I stick my hand in the water, is the eel going to dart away or is he going to swim up and take a bite?

I realize that the confidence and utter lack of fear that I feel in the united states is largely a result of my familiarity with the environment.  Being in this foreign land of strange new creatures, and feeling weirded out by them, is humbling.

It does make things exciting.  Like being in an Indiana Jones movie with snakes and booby traps and poisonous things.  I just have to sack up and pet the eels, so to speak.