Chapter 14: The Mascarenes

 

Passage from Cocos to the Rodriguez Island

Four days out of Cocos, the wind and seas were easing considerably and I was lying idly in the cockpit, shaded beneath our impromptu bimini, when I heard a "whoosh" and felt a mist of spray. A whale, about 30 feet in length, had surfaced to port. Intrigued with our trolling generator's propeller spinning on its line astern, the creature began swimming nose to the screw, while maintaining the pace effortlessly.

Initially we were enrapt with the whale's sublime presence, but when it began disporting, maneuvering around and under Suka, we grew concerned. One time it breached, lifting vertically out of the water to about half its length before crashing broadside into the water. The minke, as we identified it, remained with us for about an hour, spending half that time transfixed at the generator prop. The occasion was dramatic, but we were relieved when it finally sought amusement elsewhere.

The days rolled on repetitiously. Mid mornings and evenings we enjoyed participating in the scheduled ham radio interchanges among the members of our far flung fleet. Eight yachts were equipped with transceivers, while a few had only all-band receivers. With these, the convivial group went to no little effort to entertain itself.

Jim McCane aboard Michael Stuart assumed the role of radio net controller. He dubbed it the "Rum Line Net", on the basis that those behind were allegedly navigating by following the line of empty rum bottles disposed overboard by those ahead. This of course was banter, as none of us drank when in rough seas.

Dean Poore aboard Distant Star declared the passage a race. This met with some protest, in jest, on the basis that Dean had a multi-day head start on most of the other sailboats, except for M'Lady who had a two day head start on him. Dean solved the latter problem by declaring M'lady excluded. Richard Molony aboard Nikki objected because he and Diane were headed for Chagos, and was finding little wind.

Based on weather fax charts transmitted from stations in Darwin and on Reunion Island, I issued the daily weather synopsis.

John Hauk aboard Joggins related that a whale had bitten off his trolling generator's propeller.

One afternoon Jim and Liz performed a duet over the radio, singing their rendition of "Camp Grenada Blues" or some such thing.

“Hello Mudder, hello Fadder
Here I am out, on the wader.
We are sailing, to Rodriguez,
And are worried that some other boats may beat us.

“For a few days, seas were rotten,
And M'Lady, showed her bottom.
They survived but, one thing's certain:
They'll be scrubbing beat juice 'til they get to Durban.

“Distant Star is, buddy boatin',
'Cross the Southern, Indian Ocean.
Quark is leading, that's our best guess,
But we won't be sure until they make Rodriguez.

“Chorus: Give them wind, oh Mudder, Fadder give them wind.
The gods are so unfair;
Poor Nikki's praying for some air.

“Suka's whale was, a nice feller,
'Til he bit off, Joggins' propeller.
Now John's using, solar power,
And his signal's getting weaker by the hour.

“Jim was cooking, in the galley;
Not exactly, up his alley.
Kerosene smoke, filled the cabin,
And we ate our cold spaghetti out of the tin.

“Now all you strangers,
Out there listening,
To our tales of, South Seas glistening,
You don't know what, you are missing,
But perhaps you're better off just staying home and wishing.“

After a sailor has been at sea a week or two, various mental transitions may begin taking place. One acquires one's sea legs. And as one adapts to the ocean borne environment, the constant motion becomes so familiar, so ingrained, that the fatigued mind begins accommodating to the point of actually filtering out the motion. Eventually, in the sailor's mind, the motion may almost cease to exist. And at this point some rather strange events may begin happening. For example, as though now possessing minds of their own, loose lying objects will travel about, seemingly of their own volition - when actually the ship's lurching is animating the object. Nevertheless, this effect can be a problem for the navigator. His pencil becomes pugnacious; like a wild mouse it will scurry away unless constantly restrained. If not secured in its special holder, or in a hand, in a trice it will fly away. The same with a book, a calculator, or a cup - ill mannered, one and all.

On the evening of September 15, after fourteen wet and wild days of bowling across disquieted seas, Suka drew close to the island Rodriguez. Thick clouds pervaded, and although Jenny and I watched ahead for several hours, we saw nothing. Occasionally, though, the sat-nav produced a set of position coordinates, which we then plotted on the chart as an "X." This method allowed us to "see" our position in relation to the island. Even so, the mind longed for a specific reference; we wanted a genuine glimpse of land.

During the past several days a pair of sails had dotted our horizon, being those of Crypton and Mestizo, and we had been in VHF short range radio contact with their crews. The three of us sailed more closely now - on into the night - cautiously approaching our invisible objective while watching one another's masthead lights.

Of the three, Suka was the only one with a sat-nav. At 10:30 I felt we should stop, to avoid sailing past the island, unseen. I spoke into the microphone with our friends. "Sat-nav indicates we're about 15 miles off-shore. Looks like its time to heave-to."

We were running free before fresh winds, Suka's jib poled-out to one side and her double reefed mainsail extended to the other. The island was not dead ahead, but abreast, to one side. We had intentionally missed it by 15 miles, so that the wind and currents would carry us away from danger rather than toward it.

I adjusted the steering vane to place the wind broad on Suka's starboard quarter, then while Jenny eased the starboard jib sheet I winched taut the lazy sheet on the port side. This hauled the headsail bodily across the foredeck and into the lee of the mainsail, and would greatly simplify dousing the wind-stiffened jib. Once handed, we lashed the headsail to the lifelines at deck level, but left it hanked to the headstay and ready to hoist again quickly. Then we doused the reaching strut.

At this point, all that was required to heave-to was to disengage the self-steering vane. Without a headsail, a mizzen, and a helmsman, Suka would naturally align herself beam-on to the wind, and there she would lie unattended. The double reefed mainsail dampened the rolling motion, and for some reason, although the sail was bulbous, Suka would not sail off. Rather, she more or less remained in situ, making from one-half to two knots ahead, depending on my trimming of the main sheet; and about that speed alee, depending on the wind's strength.

For several hours we drifted away from the island, awaiting the next few scheduled satellite passes. Then once we had established our set and drift (the effects of wind and currents) I computed a course designed to convey us slowly back toward the island, still invisible. Effecting a jibe was a simple matter of turning the helm hard away from the wind. At that, Suka bore off, and sailed down wind briefly while I sheeted the mainsail to control the boom as it swung across the deck. The ketch continued turning until she lay beam-on, whereupon she lost headway. Voilà - we had effected a 180 degree jibe, and now lay-to facing in the opposite direction, toward the island this time. Then by trimming the main sheet I adjusted our rate of drift.

I went belowdecks where Jenny lay on the settee, secured with the lee cloth; for tossed in the boisterous seas, Suka's motion was severe. I assumed my station on the port settee, and wedged myself athwartships and facing the sat-nav. Its glowing display cast a diffused green light that pervaded the otherwise dark salon. Awaiting the next satellite acquisition, I watched the box attentively as though it were a video screen, even though its display remained unchanged. The wooden sole creaked and groaned torturously with each passing wave. Occasionally a comber would wallop the hull, sending an explosion of brine cascading innocuously over the topsides. At ten or fifteen minute intervals I would rise and open the companionway hatch for a good look around for any shipping. Mestizo's light shone brightly, half a mile away, and Crypton's stood about a mile away. Beyond these, the world was lost to the night.

interrupting my dozing, Jake's quiet voice came on the radio: "Looks like the clouds are lifting. I can see a light in the direction of the island."

Daylight was imminent. "Time to get moving," I announced to Jenny. "Let's go out and set the jib."

Rodriguez Island

Dawn revealed the indistinct landmass of Rodriguez Island, the eastern-most of the Mascarenes. Actually, we could see only its base, for the land above 100 feet was obscured by clouds. We bent the jib and let draw, and Suka kicked her heels and scampered happily away in the company of the other pair of yachts. Our offing appeared to be about four miles, and after closing the coast, between bursts of rain we navigated coastwise by plotting bearings to identifiable landforms.

A familiar voice came from the radio's speaker: "Hi gang! Michael Stuart here. We're right behind you guys." Sailing full speed throughout the night, Jim and Liz had caught up with us. Their timing could not have been better.

Some of our group had arrived at the island previously, and while speaking with them on the ham radios, we had given them our ETA. So we were hoping that at least one of them would switch on their VHF as requested, and provide us a few directions for entering the harbor. And indeed, Dean answered our call.

"Hi Dean," I said. "We're getting close, but it's really cloudy, and the visibility isn't so good. I see a large building with a silver roof. Where are you in relation to that?"

"We're right in front of it, Ray," he replied. "Come on into the Western Pass on a bearing to this building of one-eight-three magnetic. You'll see the steel piles marking the entrance to the inner channel, but be careful: when M'Lady came in, Ned and Mary Lynn got completely fouled up. They were heading for a couple of pole markers that turned out to be people walking around on the reef."

"OK Dean, thanks. How's the harbor? There's four of us coming together; is there enough room in there?"

"No problem Ray," he replied. "You guys come on in and we'll sort it out."

Once safely into the expansive Mathurin Bay we dropped sail and motored for the dynamited inner channel leading to the tiny port. It seemed incredible that after a two week passage, four yachts would arrive together. We actually had to queue-up to enter.

Entering the inner channel, Suka found herself gripped in a strong current that began sweeping her toward a submerged coral reef - her skipper unawares. Clearly, this was an enactment of the old story of letting up one's guard too soon. Conning from the bowsprit Jenny pointed obliquely into the water, broad on the starboard bow. "Foul ground!" she screamed, "Foul ground!" I swung the helm hard to port and gunned the engine, and the fiberglass hull narrowly averted the reef.

Once in the tiny port, all sailboats shuffled position in order to allow the larger ones to lay against the cement quay, such that the progressively smaller vessels could then be rafted abreast them. Suka was one of the larger, so we went in first. Reaching our allocated place required careful maneuvering, and while backing into position alongside the quay I felt as though I was parallel parking an 18-wheel semi. All the while a crowd of indigenous people stood nearby, gaping at us new arrivals.

Surprisingly, the passage times of the members of our Rum Line fleet, which comprised many differing types and lengths of yachts, showed little difference. There were, however, two notable exceptions. Michael Stuart, a Golden Hind 31, carried a mast shortened several feet - a re-design prompted when the original spar had carried away while tousling with stormy Coral Seas. And at the other extreme was the Italian yacht Spirit of Victory, Lola and Julio Gargallo's 75-foot, high-tech racing machine, which was built to vault across the high seas with zeal.

Hefting a massive tuna, Jim grinned, "Look what we caught last night! There's enough here for everyone; I'll divvy it up and pass it around."

After the long vigil we deemed it lunch time. Jim apportioned big chunks of tuna, and one of the previous arrivals distributed fresh baguettes (loaves of locally baked bread). Jenny lightly pan fried our chunk of the finny prey in a dab of safflower oil laced with seasoned pepper. Then she boned and crumbled the fish, and added finely chopped onions and pickles, celery seed, and a few dollops of mayonnaise. And after placing a few slices of the bread onto her homemade coffee-can toaster, she produced fresh tuna sandwiches fit for a royal family, or at least a couple of weary sailors.

A uniformed sentry arrived, and in broken English informed us that because the day was a Sunday we would not be able to clear with customs until the following day; moreover, until properly cleared, our vessels were not allowed to remain at the quay. We looked at one another incredulously. If he were to fetch the militia, I thought, they could move us bodily; otherwise we were staying put. "We have a few things to do down below," I turned and mumbled to our friends. "Talk to you later."

Left to himself, eventually the officer went away. But not long afterward three locals stepped from the ever present gawking crowd, and one of them requested permission to come aboard. "Who are you?" I asked, bewildered by his unabashed approach.

"I'm the Port Captain," he replied. Then gesturing toward his companions, "and these are the officers of customs and immigration. I was getting ready to go fishing this morning when I saw your boats approaching, so I telephoned my friends here and asked them to meet me at the wharf."

"Thank you very much," I replied. "and please step aboard!"

Rodriguez Island lies somewhat off the beaten track, mainly because it offers little to the jet-borne tourist. The island is festooned with small, modest houses, such that a topographical map of it resembles a heavily peppered fried egg. The population of 29,000 imposes a considerable ecological strain on its scant natural resources, but the way the inhabitants co-existed was unique. "We're like one big family here," the Port Captain told us, and after our week's stay we could certainly attest to the concord.

In a letter to her family, Jenny wrote:

"We're rafted alongside the other boats at the Port Mathurin wharf. There is usually a crowd of islanders, day and night, standing on the wharf and staring at the sailboats, and at us, as though we were creatures from outer space. They don't see many outsiders, and wherever we go about the island they treat us special. The Rodriguez islanders are a blend of Creole, Chinese, Indian, Madagascarene, and probably other extracts. Most can speak a bit of either French or English, so we can converse well enough, especially as a simple exchange of smiles is so universally understood. The island is green and lush, yet it has a different feeling than those of the tropical South Pacific. Each ocean seems to give its islands a special character; we are finding that the differences between the Indian and the Pacific Oceans are quite pronounced.

"Port Mathurin is a fun place. The best buy in town is a scoop of homemade ice cream for 2-1/2 rupees, or about 25 cents. A freshly baked loaf of bread is 3-1/2 rupees. At six this morning we went to the market. The butchers had recently slaughtered a cow, and the fillet I bought was still warm.

"We've been doing some serious hiking, training our bodies physically for the overnight hikes we would like to do on Reunion Island. Now my legs are really aching!"

Lelio

We had gone for few long walks into the steeply mountainous interior, and one morning, after passing the last of the little tin-roofed domiciles we were following a trail into a steepening gulch when we met a Creole fellow who spoke English with reasonable proficiency. Lelio Meunier, as he later introduced himself, was tending his small herd of goats in the rugged canyon when he saw us go by. He told us that his was the hovel farthest up the draw, the one we had passed last, and he asked where we were going. We explained that we were simply out for exercise, and wished to see some of the island. He said that the way ahead was blocked by a cliff, and he offered to accompany us there, as guide.

As the three of us walked along the stream, Lelio expounded upon the medicinal uses of the various plants encountered. He was practicing his English. Most of his examples we found plausible natural remedies, but one I felt was mainly psychological. "These big leaves," he explained, "are for headache." Demonstrating, he plucked a leaf measuring some 12 inches in diameter, and removing his hat, he placed the leaf onto his head, before replacing the hat. How we Westerners take for granted our aspirin.

Eventually we reached an impressive amphitheater featuring walls 300 feet high, and a thin waterfall. "Beautiful for photographs," Lelio beamed.

Backtracking a ways, we carried on up the steep and bushy hillside. And once above the waterfall we continued farther into the draw. Lelio seemed familiar with each rock and tree, and we asked him how he knew the area so well. "I come here every day tending my goats," he explained. Crossing the stream, we climbed out of the ravine, and eventually came to a spring where a few women were laundering clothing. Some had come for water, and were returning home, each carrying a large tin pot balanced atop her head.

We passed through an agricultural sector sporting small hand-worked plots of maize and potatoes, then we followed a path leading down the mountain. Lelio accompanied us through town and back to the wharf, and we invited him aboard for a sandwich.

"OK," Lelio announced. "Where you want to go tomorrow?" He seemed anxious to accompany us on another hike, and we were pleased with his company.

At the appointed hour of 8 a.m. Lelio arrived at the wharf carrying a plastic lunch bag. The three of us walked north along the shoreline for six hours, and reached Pointe Cotton (ku-tone') where we stopped for a picnic. From his sack Lelio produced three glasses and a bottle of La Cloche: a wine that sells locally for about 40 cents. Also, he shared with us a loaf of bread; a dish of dried, spicy fish; and a salad of tomatoes, scallions, cucumbers, garlic, and chili peppers.

Our feet had become sore, and before setting off again Jenny and I switched our beach sandals: left one to the right foot, and visa versa. "It's our custom when returning from a journey to switch shoes like this," we jested with Lelio. Pondering a few moments, he shrugged his shoulders and switched his sandals also.

From the coast we walked along the road leading into the mountains, admiring the interesting scenery. Along the way we met a number of islanders who proved most cordial. Whether an affectation, a local custom, or perhaps genuinely, Lelio acted like he knew most of them.

At a high vantage we sat resting, and gazing at the sea both eastward and westward. Lelio asked, "In the middle of America, can you see the ocean on both sides?" I assured him that one could not, then asked whether he traveled much. He related having been off Rodriguez Island only twice, both times for brief visits to nearby Mauritius Island, which he considered deplorable. "Many bad man in Mauritius," he explained. "You can tell an evil man by looking in eyes."

As we traveled, the three of us discussed a variety of subjects, and I found this fellow surprisingly sagacious considering his modest way of life. We spoke also of religion and customs. A devout Christian, Lelio followed the Bible's teachings. Also, he held to a number of beliefs handed down through generations. I had asked him about the cyclones, which are well known to frequent the area. "Now we have radio that gives warnings," he related, "but when I was young my father taught me to predict when cyclone was coming by boiling [a type of tree] leaves and watching them."

We reached a place high in the mountains aptly named Grande Montagne, and here our fatigue suggested we board a bus, that then whisked us back to Port Mathurin.

The following day we invited Lelio and his family aboard for dinner. He and his wife Jocelyn, and their children Pascale and Ketty arrived dressed in their Sunday best. They pressed us with gifts: a small basket with 3 eggs from their chickens, and a bottle of homemade salsa. After a pleasant evening they reciprocated, inviting us to their home the following afternoon.

Lelio enjoyed acting as chef on special occasions such as this, and he admitted to having spent much of the day preparing the feast. Jocelyn had obviously cleaned the little house stem to stern, for it bristled. In the back yard stood a small shelter where cast iron pots hung over a wood fire. The house featured a kitchen area with thick wooden shelves and a wash basin. Behind the basin, an open window allowed one to reach a spigot, fed by a length of pipe leading to the nearby stream.

The entrée was a chicken, previously a member of the family's brood. Removing the cooked bird from a pot, and placing it onto a plank, with a heavy machete Lelio chopped the fowl to shreds, bones and all. This he served as is. He complemented the chicken with boiled pork - smothered in rice and drenched in a spicy gravy. The salads were, firstly, a mix of beets and potatoes drenched in vinegar, salt, and pepper - a dish known locally as Russian Salad; and secondly, watercress with seasonings. A bottle of La Cloche wine capped the sumptuous bill of fare.

I remarked that chickens were not in evidence about the place, and I asked Lelio how many he had. Like the goats, Lelio explained, the chickens are mostly wild and roam freely about the canyon. "I had about 50," he related, "but now only about 20."

"What happened to the others?" I inquired.

"Stolen."

"That's terrible," Jenny and I said, offering our condolences.

"No, I know those men. They were only stealing to feed families. And God will give me more chickens."

Lelio and Jocelyn withdrew their photo albums, which contained a surprising number of pictures, mostly of weddings. Then they produced a bucket of sea shells, pouring its contents onto the floor and imploring us to take what we liked. We admired the collection and chose a few specimens, but only when they insisted the more adamantly.

Well past dark, we assured our hosts that we could find our own way back to the wharf, but before leaving we presented them with a few small gifts: a fancy pocket knife and an Arkansas sharpening stone for Lelio, a bottle of fragrant hand lotion for Jocelyn, and a pair of school jackets for the children. Lelio worked the night shift at the Ministry of Health, so he would be following us into town shortly.

Reluctantly, after a six day sojourn we departed Rodriguez Island. We could have lingered several months, but the onset of the northern Indian Ocean cyclone season was fast approaching. While there was time we were eager to explore some of Reunion Island, renowned for its mountain hiking trails.

Mauritius Island

Map: Mauritius Island. Rodriguez is the small dot on the right. View Larger Map

The boats M'Lady and Joggins accompanied Suka out the channel. We sailed in their company for a time, but eventually diverged away to the south. As we angled ever southward, out of the trades and into the variables, the wind fell light. Laggardly progress notwithstanding, though, we celebrated our crossing the circumnavigation's antipode. San Diego lay some 8,000 miles directly below Suka's keel, so we had sailed half-way round the world.

During our third evening at sea, we approached a tremendous wall of black cloud extending from the north-east to the south-west horizons. This was the typical manifestation of cold-frontal activity in the southern hemisphere. Quickening to this portent of impending gale force winds, we battened Suka tightly, reefed the sails, and prepared for the worst. Oddly, though, the frontal system was not approaching quickly, and we sailed into it perhaps an hour later. The wind died - the next indication of an imminent lambasting gale. Yet even after we had motored into a virtual wall of rainfall, the wind remained inanimate. Nevertheless, Heaven's floodgates had been thrown open; the downpour was astonishing.

Half an hour later we emerged from the backside of the deluge, and met once again with clear skies. Looking aft at the unbroken wall of black cloud, we saw that it resulted not from a cold front, but a compression wave streaming off the island of Mauritius like a volcanic plume.

Throughout the night we motor-sailed onward into an ever-heading breeze, while the lights of Mauritius beckoned temptingly, 30 miles to the north. Reunion stood another 120 miles farther on, and here we decided that rather than slopping about and motoring into head winds, we would detour from our course and visit Mauritius for a few days before resuming the jaunt under hopefully more favorable winds.

The air was so remarkably clear that Mauritius appeared to stand fairly close; but incredibly we spent the next 15 hours closing the coast and motor-sailing along the island's seaboard to Port Louis. At the south-west corner of the island stands a commanding, 1,800-foot high Bastille of rock called The Morne, and farther along the west coastline rise the gantries of several spectacular peaks. These provided a striking backdrop, while in the foreground a few local fishing prams sprinted homeward with surprising agility.

Mauritius

At dusk we sailed into the small port, and found a dozen yachts rafted clamorously together in the back of the harbor, dancing out of step with the rhythm of the incoming surge. The packet seemed ridiculously over-crowded, and unaccommodating to yet another yacht, so groping in darkness we motored about the harbor searching for suitable mooring.

We decided to tie alongside the wharf between two large ships berthed against the port's sou-southeast wall. The evening's off-shore wind was now blowing with some vigor, necessitating that I keep Suka moving briskly in order to maintain steerageway. About 100 feet from the jetty Suka's keel struck the bottom with a bone crunching jolt, and she shuddered to a standstill. We had heard many warnings about Mauritius, but none included the danger of grounding within the principal harbor. How ironic, I thought, to have safely crossed most of the infamous Indian Ocean without mishap, only to converge with a submerged pile of rocks within a major harbor.

We inflated the dinghy, and Jenny pulled a line aft and made it fast to a gargantuan buoy. Then I nearly wrenched one of Suka's primary winches from the cockpit coaming while attempting to grind the brig free. After unshipping the Danforth from its chocks on the foredeck, we flaked its line from its naval pipe, then Jenny rowed and deployed the kedge athwartships. I rove the kedge rode through a block, which I made fast to the halyard and hoisted aloft. From there the kedge rode led to an aligning block at the toe rail and thence to the other primary winch. Essentially pulling from the masthead, we heeled Suka far over, but even with both of us grinding full strength, and with Perkins straining mightily in reverse, the ketch remained grounded.

Speaking into the microphone, I summoned assistance. "Suka calling M'Lady and Joggins. Hey you guys, we've run aground!"

A French yachtsman named Michel Martin radioed the French speaking Port Control on our behalf, and asked for suggestions. Michel then related to us that a tug could be dispatched, but at great expense. Otherwise, we could simply await the rising tide. Well, I reasoned, at least we had obeyed one of the fundamentals of running aground: doing so on a flooding tide.

John and Ned came to our aid, and helped pull the heeling anchor rode. This rolled Suka a little farther. Finally the rising tide, with the added help of my winch grinding, lifted Suka's keel free of the rocks, whereupon she sprung backward, relieving the stretch of the bar-taut stern warp. Not wishing to have another go at the wharf, we made fast between two mammoth buoys, using long lines as though Suka were a freighter.

"You two come over to Joggins," John admonished. "We caught a beaut' today, and everyone's invited over for dinner." Oddly, John fell asleep at the table during his own party. But then, the day had been a long one for us all.

The following morning after we had checked in with the officials, the immigration officer asked if we had any booze to sell, as though we were bootlegging. "But don't tell the customs officers," he implored in a transparent tone that suggested a collusion.

Grand Baie

After visiting the post office we set sail on the 13 mile jaunt north to Grand Baie, where one could anchor anywhere within the expansive cove, and reputedly, from where one could ride the bus back to Port Louis to check out. M'Lady sailed with Suka in close formation, and for such an occasion the respective crews had exchanged cameras, taking advantage of the rare opportunity to obtain photographs of our respective yachts under sail. The entrance to Grand Baie proved remarkably shallow, but Suka negotiated it without grounding. And indeed, the anchorage was pleasant, save for two inconveniences. Potable water was scarce, and the surrounds, in fact the entire island, seemed to be infested with thieves. For example, rumor had it that five yachts had lost their dinghies here during the previous month.

The brine was transparent, so wearing mask and fins I dove overboard and surveyed the keel for the damage undoubtedly incurred during the grounding. All I found, though, were a few insignificant scratches.

Port Louis

The bus ride to the generally sordid city of Port Louis proved interesting on a one-time-only basis. The countryside comprised small fields of sugar cane surrounded and interspersed with large piles, up to 15 feet high, of big rocks. These rocks had of course originally festooned the fields, and the farmers had laboriously cleared them by hand. Statistically, this island supports the third most densely populated country in the world, with over 500 persons per square kilometer. As such, the second half of the bus ride was through unending urban sprawl.

In the city we visited the offices of customs and harbor revenue. Then after a long walk in search of the immigration office, stopping a few times to ask directions, we located the sought-after office. There, a supercilious functionary refused to grant us clearance, until such time as we had brought the yacht back to Port Louis.

Jenny:

There was no arguing his decision, so from his office we ambled to the thronging market, and mingled with the locals while conversing with a few of them. Fresh fruit and vegetables were bountiful, and the vendors worked over their displays industriously. The market place was redolent of herbs, spices, incense, and flowers, baked bread and sweets. Live chickens were caged in wire crates, stacked half a dozen high. Recently slaughtered beef seemed to abound. I found the kaleidoscopic sights and smells intriguing. Central markets are unique, for here the visitor can interact with the locals as they buy and sell their produce and wares, and one has the opportunity to be a part of the everyday scene. This was the same feeling I had experienced at similar markets at Papeete, Vava'u, and Suva, and even at Rodriguez.

With our day-packs loaded with fresh food, we wandered among the outdoor stalls where craftsmen and vendors peddled their wares. These people were oftentimes more aggressive; men, women, and children clamored for our attention, insisting we come inspect whatever they were selling.

Not far from the waterfront we located the Merchant Mariners Club, where yachtees were welcome. Inside the high fence, the grounds were clean, well groomed, and delightfully shaded and cool. Indoors we escaped the bustling, dusty sidewalks, and while relaxing each with a cold drink in hand, quietly we visited with a few other yachtsmen.

The afternoon passed quickly. Soon we caught a bus that jostled us for two hours back to Grande Baie. We were weary from our day of dealing with officials, and of shopping in the boisterous city, so we were glad to paddle back to our quiet home.

A few days later we sailed back to Port Louis, and after gaining our clearance papers we filled away, happily taking leave of the moiling din.

Reunion Island

Now borne on stiff south-easterlies, Suka negotiated the 180-mile passage to Reunion swiftly. This island is tall for its diameter, its highest peak jutting over 10,000 feet above the sea. Theoretically, from the deck of a yacht the peak is visible at a distance of 118 nautical miles. We sighted it at 75 miles.

On the evening following our first day out, the auxiliary self-steering rudder ceased functioning. I crawled aft to investigate, and found that the vane's rudder assembly had wrenched itself from the transom. Towed by its safety lines, the contraption was water skiing. Struggling against the motion of rough seas, we managed to haul the apparatus aboard and to lash it onto the afterdeck without inflicting further damage to the massive assembly, to the ship's stern, and to ourselves. From there we took turns at the helm, thankful that the ship had not lost her self-steering while midway on a long passage.

The bright lights of Reunion's waterfront cities simplified navigating, and at 2 a.m. we rounded the island's north-west corner. Here we encountered a strong venturi, as the wind funneled around the island and increased to perhaps 40 knots. Then as we sailed under the island's lee, the wind died, leaving our little brig lying quietly under the weather shore, half a mile from land.

At dawn we entered the tiny, man-made harbor of Le Port. Several yachts lay alongside the concrete walls, and we rafted to the French sailboat Cipango. Her crew Jean Marc and Dominique quickly proved themselves most amicable.

We were eager to explore the high country, but not wearing beach sandals; clearly, I would need a pair of shoes suitable for hiking. Our searching the shops of Le Port proved fruitless, so we rode a bus to the capitol city St. Denis, and bought a pair of running shoes.

Cirque de Mafate

The day following, we rode a bus along the steep winding road from Le Port to a village perched high on the hillside. Dos-d'Ane is situated slightly over 3,000 feet, and this is where we set off afoot. I toted a large backpack containing our camping gear, while Jenny wore a small day-pack, and hand-carried a double sleeping bag under one arm.

The villagers offered directions when we became confused, and in this way we soon found the trail leading away from the houses and into the thicket. Well trod and maintained, the pathway traversed down the impossibly steep hillside in an endless series of switchbacks. Occasionally a gap in the lush foliage afforded a stunning view of the deeply cut canyon far below and of spectacular mountains towering above. Rumbling far beneath our feet, the river coursed through the canyon. Veiled in a distant and hazy cloak of mystery, Piton des Neiges thrust skyward into a ceiling of cloud.

By the time we had neared the canyon bottom, some 3,000 feet lower than our starting point, a throbbing of the feet dictated I revert to my well-worn beach floppies. Prior to this hike I had not owned a pair of shoes, let alone worn them for a few years. Jenny was enduring much the same difficulties, but she persisted in her shoes. Following the gorge, we crossed the River des Galets many times, wading to the knees. The trail led onward, following the ever steepening gorge, flanked on both sides by stupendous cliffs.

The legendary Cirque de Mafate was so ruggedly impenetrable that it had precluded man's otherwise ubiquitous roads. The trails here were the only means of reaching the Mafate, short of using aircraft. As such, they were not built for the tourist; rather, they were used by the islanders as their only means of travel.

Our afternoon's destination was the hut at Grand Place; however, somewhere along the way we missed the trail junction. The route we followed instead, "the route less traveled," began scaling the escarpment to our right. After we had climbed this several hundred feet, we could see our intended trail winding its way across the acclivity on the opposite side of the impressive ravine. The trail we followed was not depicted on the map we carried; nevertheless, we decided to continue. Looking upward, one could not imagine how the trail would circumvent each impossibly steep bank of cliffs, but somehow it did.

Late in the evening we hauled ourselves over an inconsequential rise, and found a cluster of hovels: a tiny village by the name of Lataniers. In French, Jenny asked a few villagers if the trail continued. Their surprise at our appearance suggested that few outsiders reach these parts, and we regretted our inability to speak their Creole language, as we were full of questions. Why were they living in such an improbable location, as though in self imposed exile?

With daylight fading we bid the people good-bye and hurried on, anxious to find a place to camp. Soon we came to a stupendous cliff, most improbably traversed by our trail. In most places the rock had been hacked away, forming a narrow shelf; otherwise, wooden stakes had been driven into cracks in the rock, and these were covered with foliage and then with dirt. "Don't slip," I cautioned Jenny as we started across, trying to ignore the fact that two thousand feet steeply below, the River des Galets rumbled in a succession of sweeping cataracts. Part way across the expansive cliff we came to a small, level stance, some 15 feet square. This, I declared, would afford an ideal bivouac.

I had figured that firewood would be scarce in the Mafate, because the locals would have long-ago collected it, so while hiking through the gorge, throughout the afternoon we had gathered small sticks and branches. This kindling I had carried beneath the top flap of my backpack. The foresight paid off, as the cliff itself was of course devoid of firewood. After striking a small cookfire, Jenny prepared supper while I sipped a mug of coffee and penned the daily journal entries. The evening was wonderfully serene, and we enjoyed it from one of the more spectacular vantages imaginable. Directly across the gorge squatted the minuscule village of Grand Place, and as dusk fell away and darkness blanketed the Mafate, one tiny light - a candle, or perhaps a kerosene lamp - was all that indicated the improbable presence of Grand Place.

The next morning we lingered awhile, awaiting sufficient daylight to snap a few photographs. Because of yesterday's dehydrating exertions, we had grown intensely thirsty. Curiously, suspended overhead was an ordinary plastic garden hose leading from a tiny and inaccessible seep, across the cliff and a few feet above the trail. No doubt this hose provided someones' water supply. At one point, though, the hose had chafed against the rock and was dribbling. Taking advantage of the mishap, Jenny placed our cooking pot in line with the drips, and in 20 minutes had collected a few quarts of pure water.

Balancing cautiously across the face of the cliff, we came upon two young men hacking at the mountainside with shovel and pick. The trail's final precipitous 50 feet had not yet been completed, so we clambered across a steep and crumbly section, made all the more awkward by our loads. Once around the corner and out of sight of the trail crew we found their lunch bags hanging in the shade of a scrawny tree. Into these we dropped small gifts of hard candies.

A short ways farther we found that the garden hose was irrigating a tiny plot of vegetables.

The trail led onward and ever upward, and eventually crossed a few small springs, where water seeped from the rocks. At each of these lay a small plot, burgeoning in a miniature jungle of bananas, taro, maize and other vegetables. Tiny patches of potatoes, irrigated by small wooden troughs or perhaps by hand-carried buckets, clung tenaciously to the terraced hillsides. These lent the impression of our having stumbled onto the grounds of the Swiss Family Robinson. The soil was excellent, and water was abundant, but level ground was severely lacking. Each flat spot, however tiny, had been meticulously cultivated to best advantage.

Mid day we came upon a trail junction. Unable to determine the proper branch, we enjoyed a lunch stop while hoping that someone might pass who could provide directions. And indeed, a young lady, also wearing beach floppies, happened along carrying a basket of store-bought food balanced on her head. She appeared to be returning from a shopping spree, although we could not imagine from where. Jenny spoke a few words of French, and mentioned the name Roche Plate, our current destination, and the woman pointed the way.

Following a small stream, the path began climbing again in earnest. The heat was scorching so we stopped to indulge in a refreshing swim in one of the pools. Gaining altitude, the pathway led through a pine forest, of all things, and its soft pine needles provided a perfect place to stop and rest our aching legs.

A short ways farther, near the head of the cirque, we reached Roche Plate, a spread-out village. In the center of the village stood a school house, constructed at what must have been a great cost to the French government by transporting the materials by helicopter. The building of the various houses, though, had been a different matter: on their backs the natives had carried each bag of cement, all building materials, and every modest accoutrement.

Our ship-bound, atrophied lower limbs were now protesting against carrying on much farther, so at the next trail junction we decided to return, reluctantly, and by a different route.

At yet the next junction we met a pair of women, and stopped to visit with them. One spoke French, and she explained to Jenny that she lived in the city and was now about to return home after visiting with her cousin, here, in Roche Plate. Equipped with a little rucksack and wearing sturdy hiking shoes, she seemed the epitome of an alpinisma grandmere. The trail she would follow climbed the steep cirque nearly 3,000 feet to the road-head and her parked car, and the thought occurred to me to accompany her, as a quick way out, but I was forced to concede that in our depleted condition we would prove incapable of matching the pace of this venerable and obviously robust woman.

The other lady was returning to her home, down in Orangiers, so we walked in her company. She spoke a little French, and as we ambled along lightheartedly, Jenny and I helped her collect what few scarce sticks of firewood were to be found. Nearing the village, the woman began venturing from the trail to collect her kindling the more adamantly, so we bid her amiable good-byes, and continued with our journey.

Orangiers was a village of some 20 houses, according to the woman, but these were so deftly tucked away in the thickets that we saw only a few of them. From there the trail plunged into a canyon, not the Galets, for we were thousands of feet in altitude above that. While following it we saw the occasional weather-beaten farmer plodding along, bearing over his shoulder a sack of potatoes. Once, we saw two men coming down the steep hillside with their potatoes, apparently returning home from their farmlets, located at impossible parcels about the steep faces of the mountains.

Late in the afternoon we came to a concrete aqueduct into which the stream disappeared. Imagining that this would probably be our last water supply, we stopped on the trail to cook supper. Here also was a profound dearth of any firewood, and after no little searching we scrounged hardly enough feeble twigs to fuel a hasty meal.

After eating we walked a ways farther in search of a flat place spacious enough to accommodate the bedroll. Nightfall was nearly upon us, yet the terrain was unfeasibly steep and irregular. The best we could find was a wide place in the trail, so there we threw down our poncho and sleeping bag, happy that the evening skies portended no rain.

At 3 am, three voices in the Cimmerian night tromped briskly past, the men obviously headed for town. Perhaps theirs was a routine journey, and what a long walk lay ahead of them, as it did us.

At dawn we set out, and followed the interminable trail winding down the prodigious mountains. The gravel trail had been built atop the aqueduct, so it seemed rather like a modern turnpike for the serious walker. It led under splattering waterfalls and over precarious, rickety bridges, and it treated the walker to stupendous views into the gorge Galets. Directly across the way stood the mountainside we had descended from Dos-d'Ane, three days previously.

Eventually the trail diverged from the aqueduct, and here the trail became much steeper. The day was sultry and we sweated profusely, and pondering the pain of leg muscles wearied from the constant downhill pounding, I complained to Jenny that "my brakes hurt."

In the wake of six hours of such pile driving we reached a gravel road, and in another few miles, a small store. Here we bought and devastated considerable quantities of cold drinks. After another hour's hobbling we reached the most outlying bus stop, and soon were whisking along the highway, seated in comfort.

Our objective for a second hiking excursion was to scale the highest peak on Reunion Island, Piton des Neiges - mountain of the snows. In winter the summit is frequently dusted in "real snow" boasts the tourist brochures.

Piton des Neiges

So after recuperating a few days we set out again, beginning this pilgrimage with a long series of bus rides around the island's northern perimeter, then steeply inland. The road climbed into a cirque, or amphitheater, known as de Salazie. Three large cirques flank Piton des Neiges: Mafate, Salazie, and Cilaos. Unlike the Cirque de Mafate, the Cirque de Salazie and the Cirque de Cilaos are both accessible by roads, and this Salazie encompassed a great deal of reasonably level and fertile terrain. With ample rain for irrigation, Cirque de Salazie was an agriculturist's dream come true.

Jostling along the ever climbing road, we passed through several climatic zones, each a succinct ecosystem displaying characteristic flora, and each governed by an ambient temperature that decreased markedly with altitude.

At road's end is a quiet little town with the curious name Hell-Bourg. The setting was forcibly reminiscent of an alpine vacation retreat, with lush foliage, quaint Swiss chalets bedecked in potted flowers, dramatic views in every direction, an unexcited populace, and a decidedly bracing atmosphere. All that lacked were the gaudy, moiling tourists. Late in the afternoon we took a room at the chalet Relais des Cimes, which was the kind of place where one could sit on the veranda for hours, quietly absorbing the invigorating setting.

Rising in the dawn of a positively frigid morning, we set out upon the trail climbing to the summit of Piton des Neiges. Once again I freighted the big backpack while Jenny toted the small day pack and carried the bedroll under one arm. And this time we carried an umbrella in the likely event of rain.

The secret to climbing a long steep trail is to adhere to a slow, methodical pace. The slow pace is even more necessary when the challenge is a peak 6,700 feet overhead, and when one has spent the better part of the year sitting idly aboard a sailboat. At any given moment my pace felt ludicrously slow; nevertheless, as the hours slid by, the earth dropped ever farther away.

As we reveled in the striking scenery, occasionally we encountered a trail junction, whereupon we heeded the directions related by residents of Hell-Bourg: "Follow the signs to Terre Plate." Indeed, this advise proved correct. What impressed us the most was the vegetation - it was unique, lush, and at regular intervals its life zones changed dramatically. Gaining altitude we passed through giant, tree-size and prehistoric-like ferns; we passed staghorns and bromeliads; then fields of colorful and gorgeous fuchsias; then a plethora of unfamiliar but impressive plants and flowers; and after passing through jungles, and then rain forests, we reached alpine meadows.

Mid day, while ascending into a staunch, cloudless blue sky, we attained the upper plateau bastioning the cirque's rim, this at 7,000 feet. The sight of the surrounding ocean jolted us with the reminder that we were upon but a relatively small island, a mere dot upon a nautical chart of the vast Indian Ocean. But what a fabulously interesting dot it is!

Another hour of trekking across dry, barren slopes of coarse volcanic rock brought us to the Dufour Hut. We had planned to sleep in a nearby cave and assault the peak early the following morning - before any clouds had developed, as these typically obscured the views. But drinking water was not to be found anywhere, and we had grown raggedly dehydrated. Driven by a raging thirst, we stashed our gear in the cave and dashed for the summit.

At the wharf, our friend Michel had jokingly advised us to carry our ID papers on the hike. "You never know," he jested, "you might run into the police up there on the Piton." And indeed we did, and no less than 20 of them. It seems that the gendarmes were out for a little exercise, climbing the peak. Passing us by while traipsing downhill at a determined pace, they were not, however, interested in our credentials.

Climatically, the trade winds extend vertically only to about 10,000 feet. We had climbed above them, and found the air dead calm. We gained the summit scarcely ahead of an encroaching batch of clouds, and after allowing a hyphenated rest while sharing the last few sips in the water bottle, we beat a hasty retreat, driven by nagging thirst.

Cirque de Cilaos

An hour's stumbling doggedly back down the mountain returned us to the cave, where to our dismay we discovered that a toothsome rodent of some stature had chewed a gaping hole in my backpack, and had managed several sizable bites of a loaf of French bread. Shouldering our loads, mine now somewhat ragged, we pressed down the mountain, following a trail leading the direction opposite from that which we had come. This trail led into the Cirque de Cilaos. Descending, we found the scenery most interesting, yet by now our sense of aesthetics had all but vaporized by an almost overwhelming urge to find water. Down and down we went, following a trail that had been "improved" by the fitting of log steps every 18 inches. These forced an unnatural and mercilessly unvarying stride, and one that jack-hammered our hip sockets until they were practically begging for mercy.

We found it incredulous how far down the mountain we had to press in order to locate water. Every stream bed, every rivulet, and every spring was dry. Two-thirds of the way down the mountain Jenny thought - again - that she heard the trickling of water. Detouring into a dry stream bed she peered into a small pocket and indeed found dripping water. Beneath this she set the cook pot, and before long we had our water, deliciously chilled and crystal clear. The long draughts were unspeakably refreshing.

After yet more pounding down this interminably wretched stairway we reached a gravel road. And when we had followed this only a short distance, a school bus pulled over and the driver offered us a ride. This was greatly appreciated, but it soon had us worrying when the driver proceeded to pump the brakes continuously and furiously while careening down the steep road and into the small town of Cilaos.

Cilaos

We found a room at the Hotel du Cirque, and suitably equipped with several bottles of cold, sparkling mineral water, together we fell into the bath and indulged in a sybaritically protracted, steaming hot, and a well deserved soak.

"You know, the problem with world cruising," I gamboled with my intrepid companion, "is that it's so banal."

The following morning we enjoyed a lengthy soak in the village's naturally heated mineral baths. Then in the absence of any bus we opted for an inexpensive and extended taxi ride down and out of the cirque. Although Cilaos is 5,000 feet above sea level, it is only 13 miles to the sea shore. The road connecting it with civilization is therefore steep; so much so, in fact, that it must be traveled to be comprehended. At one point, supported by scantlings it risked a spiraling 270 degree outside turn over the abyss. We were impressed.

Marina at St. Pierre

At last our driver reached the marina at St. Pierre, which, incidentally, is different from the marina where we had berthed Suka. Most of the island's foreign yachts were here, simply because this anchorage was free of charge, in contrast to Le Port where stiff fees were levied. But St. Pierre was no place to escape the strictures of ones vessel and venture on an extended hike. The tiny harbor was jammed with yachts, and our friends from Mestizo, Moongazer, Joggins, and M'Lady were quick to tell us of their various ordeals of bumper-boating and fending-off. We stood at the wharf talking with our fellow cruisers, who knew that Suka had plenty of extra space aboard, and related accordingly that the French girl, Annette, whom we had met at Cocos Keeling, was seeking passage to Africa. Jenny and I discussed accepting a crew member, and suggested that these folks might relay the message that Annette was welcome aboard Suka.

Now late in the afternoon Jenny and I boarded a bus bound for Le Port, a ride that proved one of unbridled squalor. Beleaguering the seated passengers were the standing ones, crammed practically to the brim and overflowing. The driver made frequent and lengthy stops and monotonous side trips, and kept the windows closed. The lack of fresh air had most of the tousled passengers gasping. And the poor, miserably car-sick kid next to me had little effect at improving the ambiance. So when the bus reached Le Port and opened its doors we stepped gleefully outside to freedom.

Comitan

While Suka was generally being readied for departure, she lay rafted alongside the American yacht Comitan, whose owner, the venerable Josh Taylor in his late seventies had begun his circumnavigation many years previously. The boat had garnered its name from Josh's little rancho in Baja, Mexico. Prior to embarking on this voyage, Josh had worked for 40 years as a radio communications officer in the Merchant Marines. "Got to where I didn't even look out the window going through the Panama Canal," he recounted. Josh was particularly adept at copying CW, or Morse Code, and each morning in Le Port he would don his old fashioned headphones and tune his battered but somehow functioning ham rig, and stand at the typewriter transcribing the day's weather forecast in triplicate. The copies he distributed to any interested yachtees, who held him in esteem wherever he went.

A personable fellow, Josh entertained us with interesting stories relating to his extensive travels. He had recently sailed solo from Mauritius, but here on Reunion he had found a German crew member. Young Heidi lacked sailing experience, undoubtedly a desirable attribute considering Comitan's bedraggled condition. A man is never too old for a woman's companionship and cooking, though, and Heidi soon proved to be Josh's Godsend. Leaving us with a favorable weather forecast fresh off the press of Comitan's radio room, Josh and Heidi wished us a safe voyage to Africa, and said that they would maintain scheduled radio contact, and would be looking for us in Durban, our next port.

Departure

A few days earlier Annette had happened along and paid us for her share of the groceries for the passage to South Africa. Then when our departure was imminent she stepped aboard carrying but a small satchel, and wearing shorts and a shirt vividly portraying a busty and muscular Tanzanian woman of the wild jungle.

After releasing our warps from Joggins, to whom we had been rafted, we experienced something of a mishap. As we were easing away, friends waving their heartening bon voyages, a powerful gust clouted Suka broad on her port bow, and drove her uncontrollably back toward the wharf. She had not cleared her neighbor, and hoping to avoid slamming hard against this vessel's stern I gunned the engine and hoped for the best. But the best proved not good enough, for Suka scraped stern quarters with Joggins, and with a loud bang our mizzen boom spun their outboard's power head like a child's top.

The cross-wind pinned Suka hard against the wharf, but luckily her fenders were still in place, and these prevented any hull damage. I was about to tie to shoreside bollards, in order to access whatever damage we had inflicted upon the hapless sloop, but Virginia waved us on, admonishing us to press ahead - perhaps fearing I might inflict further damage. So with Annette helping Jenny fend-off the implacable concrete wall, I powered ahead, and this time we succeeded in gaining steerageway.

Thus, bound for Durban, Suka departed Reunion Island on October 23rd. The mishap had genuinely embarrassed me, but I reasoned that such a clumsy beginning could only portend a favorable passage.