Chapter 2: Marquesas Magnifique

 

Fatu Hiva Island

Jenny slept soundly below, but my night was full of excitement. Sleep holding aloof, on a cockpit bench I lay beneath a dazzling moon as it plainly illuminated the nearby yet inscrutable island. My deprived senses discovered an alluring banquet of earthly, aromatic nuances emanating from land. They seemed like an olfactory smorgasbord. Most vivid was the rich, balmy smell of moist dirt and organic humus, and this came with the redolence of lush greenery and a delicious fragrance suggesting a profusion of blossoms. Occasionally I could discern a mildly acrid odor that spoke pungently of burning garbage, and for a while the incense of smoldering tobacco wafted forth.

A scant breeze toyed with the deep-reefed mainsail, nudging us gently along at a mere one knot. And while idling away the hours I discovered another facet of Suka's nimble repertoire. Admittedly, this one probably lacked far-reaching consequences, but I found it amusing. With the helm hard over, and with the main-sheet drawn right in, Suka would sail in full circles, round and round. With the wheel wound the other way, she would circle in the opposite direction.

Dawn lit the island, which stood before us in increasing splendor. I had never imagined such audacity of powerfully upthrust rock, nor such comeliness of tropical verdure. Steep, jagged, interconnecting ridges led to higher inland regions, and these were thickly covered with foliage in a thousand shades and hues of green. In his book "A World to the West," Maurice had chosen Fatu Hiva as his "world's most beautiful island." Our thirsty eyes, having seen no land - not even so much as a ship - for a month, found great poignancy in his words.

Starting the diesel, we motored to the cliffs, where neither electronic depth-sounder nor the cobalt blue water itself suggested so much as a hint of sea-bed. The sheer slabs of rock slanted almost vertically into the ocean abyss.

Hana Vave Bay

After a short investigation we moved away to safer offing, and proceeded along the coast, eventually to enter Hana Vave Bay. An outrigger canoe sped past, bearing a trio of dark-skinned natives all in smiles. They waved warm-heartedly and of course we did the same. Disappearing seaward, their nimble craft, with its narrow beam and sharply pointed bow, seemed an odd amalgamation of the traditional and the modern, for bolted incongruously at the canoe's transom was a hefty outboard engine.

We maneuvered close-in and dropped the anchor into twenty feet of water, churned murky by the surf. Wind funneled from a chasm in the mountains, and pushed Suka hard to seaward against her cable. As the chain stretched taut it transmitted the grumbling of the anchor as it trundled over rocks, unable to dig in. I motored ahead while Jenny hauled aboard the chain and anchor, and we tried resetting again, but were met with the same lack of results. The holding was poor, and try as we did, the rocky bottom thwarted our bid for security. Regretfully, for the setting was extremely enticing, we had no alternative but to depart.

Omoa Bay

Dejectedly, we motored out of Hana Vave Bay and proceeded a few miles south to Omoa Bay. This was little more than an open roadstead, a coastal indentation, but as we motored closer we could plainly see a sand bottom shoaling from the depths. We lowered the hook into five fathoms (a sailor stands about a fathom in height) of crystal clear water, and to our immense relief the plow set securely. We had arrived!

The anchorage was most satisfactory save for a swell working into the bay, which rolled Suka heavily, and save for the lack of cooling trade winds. The air was stiflingly hot, so the first order at hand was to rig the large cockpit awning between the masts, and then to fit the wind-scoop to the open forecastle hatch.

Two islander youths motored past, again in a motorized outrigger canoe. One of them asked, in French, where we were from. Jenny's French was limited, but it was to prove its worth in these Polynesian islands many times over. However, we mostly resorted to the time honored language of smiling and gesturing, which we did here. The encounter reminded us to dress Suka more befittingly in her ensign.

Trek Inland

After a long nap we broke out the inflatable dinghy, still in its box. And using a foot pump we inflated it for the first time. Soon the crew was paddling blithely through the swells, venturing ashore with the intent of sampling the sensorial delights of this famously enigmatic island.

One last surfing ride landed us knee-deep in fresh water, we had landed in the mouth of a small river. We waded upstream then carried the dinghy up the bank. And as a precaution we tied its painter (bow rope) to a tree, among a number of Native outriggers.

Here among the palms spread a village of perhaps two hundred Polynesians and at least triple that number of undersized, short-haired dogs, rather uncomely and obviously long interbred. "Overgrown rats," as Melville had described them. But if the mutts were uncomely they were also extremely well mannered, for not one of them so much as barked at us.

One of our first discoveries was that after 29 days at sea, our legs had almost forgotten how to walk. So now on wobbly legs we floundered along a narrow dirt road lined on both sides with small wooden houses. The afternoon had nearly spent itself, and some of the locals were out enjoying the cooler shade. Some sat quietly in small groups, some played a game of tossing steel balls, and some, like ourselves, strolled the boulevard. These natives see few visitors, so I expected they would gawk at us. Rather, they smiled and greeted us graciously, if perfunctorily.

We followed the gravel roadway, and this soon dwindled into a well-trod pathway leading out of the village and more steeply into the higher valley beyond. Eager for exercise and a taste of the island, we pressed on. Frangipani, hibiscus, and other exotic flowers bedecked the hillsides in profusion. The smells were ambrosial, to us they seemed almost intoxicating. Coconut trees, no doubt a local mainstay, grew in abundance. Breadfruit trees were common also, as were banana, grapefruit, mango, papaya, and a host of lesser fruit trees unfamiliar to us.

We passed by isolated shacks around which robust chickens scratched the dirt, and continuing farther we came upon a woman bathing her two children in the stream.

Legs were beginning to falter, but more disconcerting was our almost drunken, sea-legged lack of equilibrium. We had adapted so well to the topsy-turvy shipboard life that solid ground seemed to reel wildly. If there is a malady called landsickness, we both had it.

In any event, the day was waning so after a most refreshing swim in the fresh-water creek we headed back. On the last of our legs and the last of the daylight we arrived at the tender. Somehow we made it through the oncoming surf without capsizing, then paddled to our awaiting ship, only to fall into a heap in our bunks. Never was a night better slept.

Anchor Watch

In the morning the wind began slowly backing to the north and rising to Force 3 or 4. Constrained aboard by a troublesome chop working into the bay, we prepared for departure in case the wind strengthened. But by late afternoon the anchorage calmed considerably, leaving us free and eager to venture ashore once again. Unfortunately the surf now bashed the shore so powerfully that a shore landing was out of the question.

A Visit with the Natives

A local fishing skiff arrived and anchored nearby, and two Marquesan teenagers hollered over to us. They wanted to escort us ashore in return for a ride in our dinghy. Not that they minded the swim, as per their custom, we soon learned. Rather, they wanted to know whether we had any .22 cartridges, which we did not. It seems that in the interests of preserving the local wild goat population, the French government had outlawed public ownership of bullets.

The youths took our oars and paddled the four of us toward a set of concrete steps, inundated every few seconds in a heavy surge. After studying the wave sets carefully, at just the right moment they paddled furiously to the landing. Gleefully, we all jumped ashore, and the fellows quickly lifted the dinghy and ran for higher ground. Jenny and I followed, with the next wave crashing at our heels.

The fellows invited us into their house, and showed us their small hoard of .22 caliber shells. Since the ban, these had become treasured objects of personal affluence.

Another Trek

After the visit, Jenny and I set off on another trek. This time we followed a dirt road that climbed the hillside and led through capacious mango and coconut groves. Mangos were in season and the trees were drooping ponderously with the ripe fruit. Had the plantation owners been present, no doubt they would have allowed us to pick a few. But we were alone and did not wish to offend anyone by helping ourselves. The temptation was great, though, so we compromised by collecting a few fresher pieces of the hundreds lying about the ground in various states of decay. Considering that extended seafaring has a way of honing the voyager's senses, these juicy mangos tasted simply divine. But eating ground fruit is not recommended, we later learned, because of the risk of contracting parasites.

Returning to the dinghy well past sunset, we were glad to find a shore-side light bulb illuminating the surf-thrashed landing. Gingerly we placed the inflatable into the frothy, heaving surge; and held it at arm's length by its painter as it dropped into the next trough. After waiting for a lull in the oncoming surf, we leapt aboard and each paddled a single oar vigorously out to safer water.

Sitting the Night at Anchor Watch

Back aboard, we spent the night sitting at anchor watch. The wind had backed to the west, and now blew directly into the anchorage - bringing with it a hefty chop. Suka pitched and bucked the harder as the night progressed, until her chain began snubbing sharply at her bowsprit roller. In darkness I went forward and paid out more scope, and after much experimentation I fitted a half-inch nylon climbing rope, quadrupled and acting as a large shock absorber. This worked reasonably well. Sensibly, one would depart an exposed anchorage when the conditions become untenable, and in retrospect we should have. But being hesitant to depart in darkness, we hung on in the hope that first light would bring mitigated conditions.

Passage

By daybreak the anchorage had become a seething lee shore. There was no more debating the subject of staying. However, the heavy swell greatly hampered our hand-hauling the anchor chain. We had no windlass, as I had felt that hand-over-handing the ground tackle would be easier and faster, and this was one instance where a windlass might have incurred structural damage to the ship, because of the chain snubbing ever more viciously against it. Hauling by hand was a give and take proposition; as Jenny motored slowly toward the anchor, and as the bow lifted sharply to the next crest, I gave. Each time the prow fell into a trough, I hauled. When directly above the anchor I threw a couple of wraps around the foredeck bitts, and the next wave heaved the bow and broke the well-seated anchor free of the sand. Once I had hauled in the remaining chain and necked the anchor in its bow roller, Jenny powered Suka seaward.

I worked strenuously at the foredeck, lashing the anchor in place. With each oncoming wave, the bow launched into the air, forcing me to hold on with both hands or be hurled bodily off the ship. Then the bow would plunge, and I would find myself waist-deep in green water.

As the brig lurched and wallowed away from land, she soon left behind the zone of wildly rebounding waves, and met with seas far less boisterous. Setting sail and heading south, we soon rounded the island into its lee, and there we found altogether less hostile seas. In scattered bursts of rain we motored close to shore, then paralleled the eastern coast of Fatu Hiva, taking advantage of this unique and marvelous opportunity to explore what is ordinarily the windward side, but now flat calm. At one place we entered a deep bay, in all likelihood the site of Thor Heyerdahl's eastern camp during his year-long stay here. He described the location in his fascinating book Fatu Hiva. The scenery was spectacular, and tempted though we were to set the anchor, this was the genuine lee shore, and we knew that as soon as the wind reverted to its usual south-westerly direction, this placid bay would become a caldron of doom for any hapless vessel caught here.

So after an inspiriting tour we moved off-shore and set a course for one of Fatu Hiva's sister islands. Forty four miles north, Hiva Oa was barely visible, little more than a mere shadow - darker than those of the clouds lying solemnly on the northern horizon.

As the afternoon wore on, the wind decreased. Then into the night we moved ahead under full press of canvas at a scant two knots. At 2:00 a.m, I was sleeping in the aft cabin when Jenny called with a sense of urgency:

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, "I just can't keep us on course."

Steering only by the compass, she had become mesmerized by its red, glowing lamp. Looking overhead, I saw that the sails hung limp as drapery. I felt for the wind on my face. There was none.

"Of course you can't steer," I consoled her, "we're not moving."

I started the engine, sent Jenny below for a much needed nap, and sat in the cockpit steering toward Hiva Oa, now clearly visible in the darkness ahead.

Some three hours later I heard Jenny stirring in the galley. I sat up, and was pleased to see that we were chugging away nicely - but unfortunately in the wrong direction. Our previous sleepless night at anchor watch was catching up with us. I must have dozed. I swung the helm hard over and managed to point Suka back toward Hiva Oa before Jenny climbed out of the companionway.

Hiva Oa

Reaching the island at 7 a.m, we rounded a bold headland and entered the bay at Atuona. Three other sailboats lay placidly at anchor. Approaching them, we found that the water shallowed to a disturbingly inadequate 2 fathoms. However, a chap aboard one of the sailboats called over that the anchorage was OK, so we motored gingerly in, found a suitable place, lowered the CQR, and backed it securely into the mud. Then we pitched the big sun-awning, for although the day was young, the tropical sun was already blaring down with fiery intensity.

From the deck of his ketch Nibuk, our neighbor dove headlong into the water, swam over, climbed aboard Suka, and introduced himself. George, French Canadian, had departed San Diego the day before we had. With his girlfriend Louise and one other crewman, he had journeyed practically in our company. This was a surprise to us both. Yes, they had endured the same terrible storm as we, but they had run bare-poled before it for several days, making for the shelter of Hawaii. Until they heard on the radio that Hawaii was in the throws of a hurricane. "Hurricane?" I asked incredulously.

The other two sailboats here, he explained, belonged to Frenchmen who had arrived years ago and never left. Nibuk and Suka were the only visitors.

Jenny and I paddled the dinghy ashore and walked into town to clear-in with the local Gendarmerie. The two officials spoke no English - whether they knew how was anyone's guess. Still, they treated us with friendliness. This came as a relief in light of the fact that Jenny and I had illegally called-in at Fatu Hiva before checking-in here. I freely admitted having done so, on the theory that surely they knew - by way of the grapevine. Fortunately for us, the officer dismissed the issue.

Like all foreign yachts people, we were required to post a surety bond of nearly $1,500: the equivalent of two one-way airline tickets back to the US. This interest-free bond would be refunded prior to our leaving French Polynesia.

Formalities completed, we asked where we might purchase a few limes. The genial deputy invited us to pick what we liked from the trees in his back yard.

The village of Atuona boasted only a few roads bearing a surprising number of cars - dozens perhaps. So the insidious leaven of progress had already invaded even the more primitive Marquesan culture. The automobile, it seemed to us, having come from Fatu Hiva where there were none quite yet, was perhaps responsible for the less friendly attitudes among the local people. Hiva Oans, driving at full tilt the short distances to wherever they were going, would pass us by in a flurry of dust, neither waving nor nodding. By my definition, the automobile windshield is what the motorist looks through with evident disdain at the pedestrian.

This was our voyage's first access to a telephone, so we called our respective parents, who had heard nothing of us for more than a month. Alarming news of bad storms that had pasted Southern California had them deeply concerned for our safety. So of course they were relieved to learn we had arrived at French Polynesia.

Skin Diving Circus

The next morning our neighbor George invited us on a skin diving excursion. But when he arrived to collect us, we shuddered at the sight of his fragile dinghy. Originally, thin aluminum skin had been riveted to the internal stiffeners. But now this metal was largely disjointed and worn through in many places, repaired only with strips of adhesive tape. As a measure of expediency, bits of wadded paper replaced some of the missing rivets. Clearly, to step in the wrong place would have been to plunge into the sea. The tender was hardly anyone's definition of seaworthiness, but I reasoned that, after all, this was a skin diving excursion and we were prepared to get wet. And rightly so, for the dinghy did have one thing in its favor, in the form of a hefty outboard motor. So off we went at an alarming rate, bailing constantly.

White caps garnished the outer bay, and a heavy surf fell upon the shore. There would be no diving there. Hair streaming in the wind, George steered for the lee of a small off-lying islet. Once there, we flopped overboard and swam about for awhile. Not finding much of interest, George suggested we visit the site of his previous outing, which happened to be at a time when the seas had been much calmer. So we motored to within 30 feet of what was now a surf-trounced lee shore. Not to worry. George dove to the bottom and tied the dinghy's long painter to a jagged ear of coral. Jenny remained aboard, and with a splash I went by the board.

George was right: the underwater scene was far more interesting. After exploring the submerged reefs for perhaps half-an-hour, I climbed back aboard and George soon joined us. And this is when things started going amok. While removing snorkeling gear, I realized that we were adrift and slowly making way for the backside of the surf. George had untied the painter! I grabbed the oars and started to row us away from danger. George started bailing frantically. Unfortunately, we were in each other's way. Surf cascaded over the gunwales and swamped the dinghy, and down it all went - dinghy, motor, and every piece of our diving gear.

Feeling like simpletons, we swam around recovering the few items of flotsam. Then we confronted the dangerous shore: not a sand beach but a treacherously piercing coral reef bashed with surf and writhing in foam. I swam with Jenny to the most likely landing, and coached her in. After several attempts at judging the correct timing, she finally stroked vigorously on a swelling surge and drug herself out to safety. George and I heaved the few floating items to her, then swam back for an attempt at recovering some of the sunken wreckage. The lack of face masks rendered us practically blind under water, but we did find the boat. And with a great deal of effort we managed to wrestle it toward shore. An hour later we had extracted it from the sea. The dinghy had suffered no noticeable damage, but of course the engine was now a victim of drowning. George volunteered to row back to Nibuk for the item we needed most: a face mask, so we gingerly re-launched his boat.

Two hours later he returned with the mask. But by then the tide had ebbed and our little disaster area was heavily embroiled in surf. Nevertheless, donning the mask I went into the sea, and luckily the first thing I found was my prescription-lens face mask. Subsequent diving exhumed the remainder of our gear, save for Jenny's mask. George rowed back to the anchorage while Jenny and I walked. And once at the anchorage's beach we swam out to Suka.

Almost Like a Jungle

The next day, while George dismantled his outboard motor "for the fifth time," he quipped, Jenny and I walked back to our diving place. The tide was high, leaving our site free and clear, so when I went into the water, I found Jenny's face mask lying at the bottom of a narrow cleft.

The next morning, early by ship's time, mid morning by the clock, Jenny and I set out to explore the adjacent valley known as Taa Huku. We pulled ashore, carried the inflatable into the coconut grove and tied its painter to a coconut tree. By Jenny's reckoning, the interior jungle was "almost like a jungle." Nevertheless, into the jungle we went - following a large, fresh water stream. The thickets grew nearly impenetrable. Tree branches arched overhead and met in the middle so thickly that they filtered much of the daylight.

The trudging was not easy, and after 1-1/2 hours of bashing through the bushes and splashing across the shallows, I reasoned that there must be a road or trail nearby providing access to the ever-present coconut trees. They appeared to have been harvested on occasion. And sure enough, thrashing laterally away from the stream we eventually reached a rough road hacked through the jungle.

Curiosity led us onward. The farther we went, the less traveled the road, until eventually it dwindled to a footpath. Edible fruit was in abundance, including papaya, coconut, mango, banana, and even a few avocado. All were owned of course. Plump papayas hung heavily in all stages of ripeness, and the ground was littered with rotting fruit.

Rain began pelting the foliage high overhead, creating a sound that suggested we were inside a huge tent. Birds chattered and prattled constantly. Here was the perfect scene for a Tarzan movie, complete with twelve-inch centipedes creeping about the coconut trees. Gecko lizards scurried across the ground in our path. The air hung heavy with syrupy aromas of the exotic frangipani and the many other blossoms. Big weighty dollops of rain pelted us from the jungle's canopy overhead, mixed with our sweat, and rolled down our happy faces.

The trail eventually converged with the stream. After long and delicious swigs, Jenny followed me across the slippery stepping stones. Half way across she slipped in, and surrendering to her pratfall she waded the knee-deep water, grinning sheepishly.

The trail ended, presumably at the last workable coconut grove, and from there we could see that further progress into the dense vegetation was impractical. Here we discovered a vestige of some ancient civilization. What appeared to be a hand-laid stone foot-path disappearing intriguingly into the dense overgrowth. Regrettably, there was no way we could have followed it.

Back at the stream, we sat on a dry rock, and taking temporary leave of our morals we indulged in a juicy papaya, peeled and eaten South Pacific style - with the fingers. Then we retraced our steps along the trail until it became a road that eventually led back to the anchorage.

A few words about the coconut. Generalizing, it grows through four edible stages. On the shelves of American supermarkets one may find it in stage three. The outer husk removed, the shell lined inside with a tough flesh, and otherwise containing a measure of watery liquid. This is by far the least appetizing of the phases. The immature coconut, in stage one, is known as the drinking coconut. As yet it contains no white meat, but is instead full of delicious juice. Phase two, the juvenile coconut, contains a quantity of juice, but the flesh has jelled to a delicious pudding-like consistency. In order to be eaten in either of these first two stages, the coconut must be picked from high overhead. When the fruit reaches stage three it falls from the tree. Not to worry: according to Polynesian folklore, with their flippant sense of humor, should the coconut fall on the head of a person, it would do so only on a bad person. At any rate, the fallen coconut eventually sprouts and begins sending down roots from one eye and a leafy sprig upward from another. When the sprig has reached a foot in height, voilà: the coconut has reached phase four. No longer does it contain juice. Rather, it is filled with a fibrous, creamy pulp. Mixed with flour, eggs and sugar, this pulp makes excellent pancakes.

Later that afternoon, having returned aboard, I took advantage of the bay's relatively calm water and climbed aloft, to the top of the main mast, to inspect the "5-function" masthead light. After the terrible storm three weeks previously the light has stopped working. Imagine my surprise at finding this expensive, "waterproof" light contained murky water. The top of the mast stood sixty feet over the sea. Indeed, that storm had been a bad one.

Polaris Missile

Tahuata Island, Hana Tetou Bay

Listing to the lure of the outer islands, the following day we bid George and Louise good-bye, weighed anchor, and sailed to the nearby isle of Tahuata. There we anchored in one its several alluring bays, a place called Hana Tetou. This had all the qualities most itinerant sailors dream of, including ample holding, calm and clear water, and a palm-fringed, white-sand beach. Among the palms grew rosewood, used by the islanders for their famous wood carvings. The terrain directly to windward was low lying, and this encouraged a refreshing breeze to play across the anchorage. The island was uninhabited, save for a small herd of wild horses browsing the hillside. We alone enjoyed its splendor.

We stayed three days, occasionally rowing ashore for stints of hiking, or walking the plank for snorkeling the sparkling waters. Once I broke open a spiny urchin, and used the pieces to attract several interesting varieties of brilliant reef fish. Also while in the water we scrubbed at the green algae that had taken a firm hold on the splash-zone above the Suka's anti-fouling paint.

Hana Tetou reeked with bliss, or so it seemed at first. But after the second day we began sliding into an inferno of itch. This was when we discovered the nanu, a tiny, fly-like insect with a voracious thirst for blood. Its prey had two days of grace between the unnoticeable bite and the onset of the tormenting itch. Meanwhile, the seemingly harmless buggers were chewing our flesh by the droves. On the third day we departed as fast as we could.

In a brisk southerly we sailed for Hana Menu, a deep indentation in the north shore of Hiva Oa. This is a reputed anchorage, but we found a hefty chop working directly in. An hour after anchoring we saw that Suka was dragging toward shore. Unpleasant memories of our night's anchor-watch at Fatu Hiva encouraged us to go while the going was good.

Ua Pu Island, Vaieo Bay

Cruising leisurely through the night, we sailed toward the next island in the group, Ua Pu. This island is distinguished by its striking pinnacles of rock, the result of volcanoes having eroded away, leaving their more solid cores. All along the western seaboard we passed small bays indenting the precipitous rocky coastline. Each bay contained lush coconut groves, an occasional house or red-roofed church, and a few dug-out canoes lying on the white sand beach. Paralleling the coastline wherever possible, and apparently connecting the settlements, was a dirt road: a public service in the name of progress.

Finding a bight that was suitably protected from the wind and prevailing ocean swell, we entered Vaieo Bay. The water was stunningly transparent, and after lowering the anchor 50 feet to the bottom, we watched it settle onto the sand. Prior to touching bottom at that depth, the plow and chain weighed about 130 pounds (discounting their buoyancy, which is minimal). To our arms, the weight felt like that same number of tons, and my next homework assignment was to devise an easier method. To this end I whipped the starboard foredeck bitt tightly with half-inch line, as chafe protection. One or two wraps of chain belayed around the padded bitt would then easily carry the load of the descending anchor, and this is the system we used throughout the rest of the voyage.

We set the anchor firmly into the bottom by motoring the vessel slowly backward. As the chain came taut, Jenny increased the engine power to two-thirds while I watched objects ashore to detect any rearward motion.

With abandon we jumped in and swam ashore, then climbed the steep hills to enjoy exhilarating, panoramic views of the island and its striking pinnacles, of the nearby islands, and the vast cobalt sea stretching away to eternity. The gullies below us harbored trees, and in these squabbled a number of animated, red-throated frigate birds. And gazing into the sea far below, we watched five big manta rays seemingly dancing a splendid underwater ballet.

As we swam back to the ship, I thought I could see the occasional shell fish lying on the bottom. Without my diving mask I could not be sure. Reaching Suka, I hand-walked down her anchor chain to the seabed a few times, just for the fun of it. My reward: a close look at a lion fish swimming idly near the bottom. Back aboard, I grabbed my mask, snorkel and fins, then we inflated the dinghy. Jenny boarded the dinghy and came along for the pleasure cruise while I swam to shallower water towing the dinghy by its painter.

A Large Shark

Within moments a large shark appeared on the scene. This was a new experience for me, swimming in proximity of a fish larger than myself, and one with razor-sharp teeth. Reflexively I shot out of the water like a Polaris missile, landing at Jenny's side in the dinghy. And to think that we had been blithely swimming in these shark-infested waters!

Reason eventually suggested that the shark could not have been terribly dangerous, otherwise it would have eaten us. Therefore, I decided to summon my courage and re-enter the water, and to ignore the beast. Ten minutes later the shark reappeared - mouth agape and heading briskly in my direction. Then came my second launch of the day.

With my third Polaris I landed squarely on Jenny, and by then my nerves were frayed. Fortunately I had collected a few pearl oysters, and subsequently these complemented dinner very nicely.

Nuku Hiva

Although we had survived the sharks, we were being persistently bitten not only by the nanus but also by the wanderlust bug. So after lingering two days at Vaieo Bay we decided to move on. Weighing the anchor by hand in such deep water proved to be a challenge. We used a two-part tackle, reeving a line through a block that was snap-shackled (carabinered) to the chain. This we hauled in unison, hand-over-hand.

Ua Pu Island, Aneo Bay

Our next stop was a bay called Aneo, an indentation on the north coast of Ua Pu. Here the view was dominated by the nearby monolithic rock spires. As with our other short passages we had landed a nice bonito, and that evening we grilled it on the stanchion barbecue.

Venturing ashore, we found wild horses, wild goats, and wild nanus that paid scant notice to our copiously applied insect repellent. After a long walk over the hills we reached the beach, and began following it back toward the dinghy. The shore here was flanked by towering rocky buttes, and we eventually reached an impasse where a large sea cave blocked further progress. At that point our options were three: to swim around the impasse - suicidal, considering that the surf was thrashing the piercing coral; to find a ravine in the cliffs and climb out - irrefutably perilous and foolhardy; and lastly, to turn around and retrace our steps - all of them.

The ascent began propitiously. We clambered up a steepening, rock-strewn gully, and when it became nearly vertical we found ourselves rock climbing. The rock was dangerously loose, but for sport I picked a route that traversed diagonally onto a nearby buttress. With Jenny following close at my heels, at last we gained a final, vertical headwall: only eight feet in height but rotten to the core. One slip of hand or foot could have resulted in what climbers refer to as "the standard death fall." Looking down past our feet we could see the beach some 350 feet below. I gained the summit, turned and reached down, and with the last of my adrenaline pulled Jenny to safety.

Nuku Hiva Island, Taiohaie Bay

The following morning we weighed and set sail for Nuku Hiva, the principal island of the group. The wind was light and heading us, so we motored most of the way.

During our wanderings about these magnificent islands we had seen no other cruising sailboats, save for Nibuk at Atuona Bay. Now we were headed for Taiohaie (tah-ee-yo-high'-ee) Bay, reputedly the best anchorage in the group. There, we expected to find yachts by the droves. During one of Eric and Susan Hiscock's visits, at this time of year, they reported nearly fifty vessels lying at Taiohaie Bay. Cruising had become far more popular since their days, so we expected to find perhaps hundreds of yachts.

We found four. Not four hundred; only four. They were Kalakala from Seattle, Summer Seas from Hawaii, A'Strayin, obviously from Australia, and one that did not count because it had been there many years, Frank and Rose Courser's Courser. We passed among the foursome, waving to our curious neighbors, until someone yelled at us to stop. I pulled the power lever back, threw the transmission into reverse and put the coals hard to it. We narrowly avoided grounding against a submerged coral reef. We were learning that danger lurks not only far at sea.

After anchoring and pulling ashore we ambled into the little town and presented ourselves at the Gendarmerie for the routine paperwork. Then at Maurice's little shop we bought a flat of brown eggs, a frozen chicken, a few freshly baked baguettes (long, delectable crusty loaves of French bread), and a couple of cold bottles of soda water - emphasis to infer that the day was sweltering and that Suka lacked refrigeration.

Cascade Hakaui

Taioa (Daniel's Bay)

After lying quietly for a few days in the company of the amiable yachtees, we motored out the bay and traversed west five miles to an anchorage called Taioa (Tah-ee-oh'-ah), known more simply as Daniel's Bay. This is a small but landlocked bight, enclosed by strikingly steep-to and lofty bluffs covered in dense greenery, as was nearly everything here that did not move.

The Australians accompanied us on this jaunt, and that evening we invited Bruce and Leslie Atkinson aboard for dinner. During a six-month cruise of the South Pacific, they had recently come from some of the places we hoped to visit. So we spent an enjoyable evening listening to their stories and learning of their experiences.

A'Strayin was a marvelous, steel hulled 38-foot sloop. We were astonished to learn that Bruce had designed her, and with his wife's able help, had built her with his own hands, in only two years, and on a stringent budget.

The nights were sultry, and Jenny and I usually slept in the cockpit, first laying plywood boards athwartships, onto which we placed settee cushions. This provided pleasant bedding, until typically a sudden downpour would send us scrambling belowdecks. But this particular night was without much rain, and early the next morning we awoke to a loud splash. A large turtle, head above water, scrutinized us curiously.

A Trek to Cascade Hakaui

Mid morning we joined forces with Bruce and Leslie, and headed ashore with the intent of visiting a spectacular waterfall a few miles inland. On the beach our bare legs were swarmed by voracious nanus, but after we had left the beach they bothered us no more. We paid a quick visit to the venerable resident, Daniel, who greeted us with a toothless grin and bid us to stand around his coconut-husk smoldering smudge-pot. "Beaucoup mosquitos," he said. In answer to our request for directions, he pointed to a trail passing through his lavish garden of fruits and vegetables, and past a capacious drying-bin laden with sweet-scented copra, or coconut meat.

For several miles we followed an ancient pathway leading into the lush interior. The stone-laid foot path was about three feet wide, and several feet above ground level, presumably to remove one's feet from the ever present mud, and as a hedge against the occasionally flooding river. Wending through the jungle, we passed stone platforms built long ago to serve as house foundations. Most were heavily overgrown. Also we found stone tikis standing near some of the platforms, or lying toppled in the choking brush. Here was the vestige of the civilization so aptly described by Herman Melville in his account, "Typee." My mind was aglut with his lucid descriptions written some 125 years previously. The comparisons of what he wrote about and what we were seeing were staggering in their similarity. Lost to my imaginings, I had an eerie sensation that at any moment some head-hunting savage might leap from the bush.

Suddenly the scene was rent with nerve shattering pandemonium.

It was only a few large birds taking wing. But my how large they were! In curiosity we pursued, and soon found them perched in branches high overhead. "They're chickens," I mumbled, incredulously. "Super chickens." And at that they burst into another flurry of commotion, and with great heaving efforts they flew away. I had no idea that chickens could fly, but later learned that after the English departed in the 19th century, their abandoned domestic chickens had taken to the wilds. And for some reason the islanders had considered the fowl tabu ever since.

Drenched in bursts of rain we pressed on, our feet occasionally slipping off the smooth, wet stones and slapping into the mud. Admiring the mango and lime trees, and the banana plants - for technically a banana is a plant not a tree (someone had told us) - we climbed ever higher into the jungle, at one point gaping at a waterfall rumbling into the river. While crossing each cascading rivulet feeding this river, we observed a variety of strange and beautiful plants which thrived in the additional moisture provided by the streams.

Eventually the stone pathway terminated in a small clearing, in an area of many foundations, called paepaes (Pie'-pies). The way ahead was uncertain. Bruce and Leslie had gone ahead, leaving Jenny and me uncertain of the way. We were about to turn back when Jenny noticed a small sign nailed to a tree. Below the words "Cascade Hakaui" (hawk-ah-ooh'-wee) was an arrow pointing improbably down the hill.

Proceeding as directed, soon we came to a cairn: a small pile of rocks. From there a faint trail led into the thicket. The trail was so faint that we lost it several times, although each time we eventually found the next cairn. These led us through a dimly-lit and magnificent forest of strangely fluted mape (Mah'-pay) trees. (When roasted, the seed pods of this tree are known as Tahitian chestnuts. Raw they were not tasty.) As we wandered eyes agape among the odd trunks, which at ground level resembled generously apportioned ribbon stalagmites, I mused that perhaps we had indeed stumbled upon Tolkien's Middle Earth.

After wading calf-deep in ooze, and thrashing through tangles of limbs that had us climbing over and crawling under, I jested to Jenny: "What the Green Berets do for training, we do for fun!"

Once again we reached the river, and could see the next cairn on its opposite bank. We forded the swift and thigh-deep water, and twenty minutes later found ourselves wading up a smaller tributary - the outflow of our elusive waterfall. This was unmistakably the Hakaui, for we could see its upper cascade perhaps a thousand feet overhead. Between us and it, was a rock-walled gorge 40 feet wide and hundreds of feet high. This led to the base of the falls, which pounded into a large pool of water of a temperature just right for swimming.

Wading into the muddy, brown water, within moments we flung ourselves back out, alarmed at certain prickly sensations on our bare feet. Returning to investigate, we found fresh water shrimp in the pool. Big ones. Ignoring these spindly creatures, Jenny swam to the back of the pool, shrieking with delight in the waterfall's refreshing spray.

Darkening skies prompted our return; and indeed, during the long trek back the rainfall fell with a vengeance. We slipped, slid, and squished our way along, while wiping the rain-sweat from our brows. How eagerly we anticipated reaching dry shelter - ironically our floating home.

At the beach we found that Bruce and Leslie had returned aboard, without having found the falls, we later learned. But two days later we joined forces again for another equally rewarding hike to the splendid Cascade Hakaui.

Intent on telephoning our respective parents to wish them seasons' greetings, we motored back to Taiohaie on December 24. The bank was closed for the holidays, and because we were nearly out of francs we were unable to buy food for Christmas dinner at Maurice's small store. Not to be daunted, Jenny prepared a dinner from Suka's canned provisions no less fitting for the occasion.

Taipi Bay

Anxious to explore more, on Christmas Day we weighed anchor. In lieu of a windlass, our usual method in water not so deep was this: One person would stand at the helm and motor slowly toward the anchor, while the other person hauled in chain, hand-over-hand. When over the anchor, the chain was snubbed to the foredeck bitts, letting the ketch's inertia to break the anchor free of the seabed.

This time we traveled east to Taipi (Tie-Pee'), a large bay remarkably shallowed from the sediment effusing from the river of the same name. After passing by a small freighter anchored well out, we cautiously made our way into the bay with one eye on the depth sounder. A quarter-mile from the bight, we anchored in a mere two fathoms.

Pulling the long distance to shore, we crossed a shallow sand bar and entered the deeper river, to the sounds of large crabs scurrying into their holes along the mud banks. The townspeople were busy unloading supplies lightered to their small quay from the freighter. Landing and securing our "dink" to a tree, we followed a mud road leading through the settlement. The yards of most houses were adorned with pamplemousse trees drooping with the overgrown, succulent grapefruit. Mango trees were abundant, as were the many species of flowers and decorative plants.

The islander's houses were simple: constructed from sheets of tin and plywood, woven mats and palm fronds, they featured at least one large, open window on each wall. These structures were designed to shed the rain yet admit plenty of cross ventilation. Colorful curtains afforded privacy when desired. Outside, immaculate yards comprised, not grass lawns or pruned hedges, but more pragmatically, fruit trees and flourishing vegetable gardens. The gardens were well tended, and the bare grounds surrounding them meticulously raked and kept clear of any debris.

Leaving the village far behind, we climbed into the higher country on a road leading past thousands of coconut trees and many sizable groves of bananas. En route we met two young men headed back toward town carrying a small bundle of spindly, freshly skinned birds, and a 22-caliber rifle exceptionally crude of manufacture.

Retracing our steps, we eventually reached Taipi village again, just as the Christmas church service was letting out. At least 200 people were congregating in the church yard. Other than being shoeless, for the ground was extremely muddy, they were dressed in their Sunday best. And they looked grand. This surprised us considering their simple lifestyles, and we felt rather humiliated trudging past, mud bespattered head to feet and soaked in sweat. It seemed that we were the uncivilized ones.

Heavy Rains of Cyclone Lisa

Early the next day (Mid December, 1982) a deluge fell upon the Marquesas. Using buckets we eagerly caught precious fresh water streaming and dashing off Suka's awning. The buckets filled within minutes, and with alacrity we poured the water into Suka's fresh water tanks. In half an hour the bilge-tanks were full. We could hardly bear to see so much potable water gushing wastefully off the awning and into the sea, so we filled the laundry tubs, the hiking canteens, and even the coffee pot. Still the rain pummeled down in torrents and cascaded off the awning.

When we awoke the following morning, dawn seemed to persist several hours. Rising, we saw thick, moiling clouds obscuring the sunlight. And as the morning wore on, the incredibly copious rain began to ease. The sky brightened somewhat and we relaxed in the cockpit, beneath the awning, each sipping a cup of coffee. Suddenly, a mass of muddy, debris laden water spewed from the river's mouth and rushed out across our bay. A dam somewhere upriver must have burst. The surge reached us quickly and engulfed Suka in a confusion of sticks, coconuts, tree branches and logs. Even a few trees went past. Wielding a dinghy oar, Jenny stood at the bow fending off the worst of it. Moving at about one knot, the debris went out to sea and never returned - except for one breadfruit, which we appropriated as it drifted past.

Later we learned that the twenty-four hours of heavy rainfall was attributed to cyclone Lisa which had ravaged the nearby Tuamotu atolls with 100 mile per hour winds. This was the season's second cyclone, and was to prove but another precursor of dreadful storms to come.

The weather improved, and we enjoyed two more days exploring the hinterlands above Taipi Bay.

The human is capable of remarkable adaptation, but how the natives manage to coexist with the damnable nanu defies the imagination. Their blemished skin testifies to a lifetime of being bitten. The bugs were now beginning to drive Jenny and me to distraction. We experimented with every means of prevention and cure at our disposal, including hydrocortisone, but none relieved the tormenting itch. Eventually Jenny recalled a home remedy for sunburn: a vinegar soak, and by then we were at the point of trying anything. We sprayed vinegar onto our bodies with a plant mister, and to our immense relief this soothed the fiery itch. Vinegar, of all things, enabled us to begin enjoying life once again.

Return to Taiohaie Bay

Another meteorological anomaly seemed to be brewing, so we returned to Taiohaie Bay and joined the small fleet of yachts anchored there. A few more sailboats had arrived in our absence, one bringing news of disaster. On the night of December 8, a storm had beset Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, driving twenty seven yachts onto the shore. Most were demolished in the surf. Miraculously, no one was seriously injured, even though only five of the vessels beached were salvaged. Among these was one of the world's most famous sailboats, Bernard Moitessier's steel-hulled Joshua.

The north-eastern Pacific's annual hurricane season usually plays itself out by November 1st, and this is when the cruising yachts began departing San Diego bound for tropical climes. For the crews with French Polynesia in mind, there were generally three options. By far the more popular one was to cruise the coast of Mexico, calling in at the many anchorages along the way, then at some later point to strike out for the Marquesas. In light of the Cabo disaster, this proved a most unlucky choice this year. The second option was to sail to Hawaii, then after perhaps calling in at Fanning Island, to sail to Tahiti. This year, a hurricane struck Hawaii in late November, reducing this choice to the unfortunate. The third option, seldom chosen, was to sail directly for the Marquesas. We had chosen this one because at the outset we lacked the experience to navigate safely along the coast of Mexico. This time the fickle finger of fate had pointed in our favor. But our turn was coming.

Listing to the sirens' song of distant islands, we were eager to get under way. The next leg of our voyage would take us through the infamous Tuamotu Archipelago, a region notorious among mariners. Low lying in the extreme, such atolls are visible from the deck of a yacht at a distance of no more than eight miles. And the encompassing waters are fraught with strong and erratic currents, necessitating the mariner to exercise the utmost navigational precision and vigilance. Unequipped with sat-nav or radar, Jenny and I planned to synchronize our passage through the archipelago with the onset of the next full moon, three weeks hence. And we could only hope that the weather would cooperate.

Cyclone Nano

Mid January, we were anchored in Taiohaie when torrential rain began falling many times heavier than before. The downpour half filled our dinghy in the first six hours. I emptied the ponderously sagging dink with a siphon hose before turning the boat upside down. The rain continued for another twenty-two hours, causing the rivers to flood and disgorge their murky effusion into Taiohaie's already troubled bay. Bill and Janet aboard Kalakala reported watching a small house carrying out to sea. The few roads were washed out. The bridges were destroyed. The town's water-supply reservoir was wrecked. And much of the domestic livestock perished. The local egg ranch lost forty chickens.

We watched dozens of landslides, as the permeated soil with its profuse vegetation lost its grip and slashed long swaths down the precipitous mountainsides. We learned later that none of the locals, in living memory, had ever seen rain this hard. Ironically, the American weather station WWV was broadcasting "no warnings for the South Pacific." Frank Courser, an American who with his wife Rose had spent four years on Nuku Hiva laboring to establish a resort, said that he "smelled a hurricane." The sky was dismally overcast and the weather threatening, and Jenny and I missed our planned waxing-gibbous moon departure.

Tenth Day of Foul Weather

On the morning of the tenth day of foul weather, our neighbor Bill rowed vigorously our way and relayed a disturbing message. The French meteorologists in Tahiti had sent a warning of a hurricane heading for the Marquesas. Truly, the weather system seemed to have run amok this year. French Polynesia lies well to the east of the usual hurricanes that hammer other portions of the South Pacific. Even Tahiti was supposedly safe from these monster storms, and we were far east of Tahiti.

Jenny and I scurried about the brig, preparing for the worse. After moving her to a more favorable location in the expansive bay, we set three opposing anchors, each with 300 feet of rode, and each marked with a float.

Within a few hours the front-running wind began lashing across the bay, catching us stripping Suka's exterior of any removable items. The gusts subsided by afternoon, but the night-time conditions remained extremely unsettled.

The next morning came terrific gusts, mainly from the mountains. These thrashed the bay into angry columns of hard-driven spume, and heeled our little band of sailboats far over. Our neighbors aboard Kalakala were worried about dragging onto the reef licking fairly at their stern, so Bill sat at the helm motoring ahead in situ, easing the strain of his yacht's bower. The crew of one sailboat, equipped with a masthead wind meter, reported gusts of 80 knots. Fortunately for us all, the wind was blowing off-shore. Had it blown directly into the bay, the fetch-spawned waves would have brought real trouble.

By late afternoon the storm began subsiding, and it was then that reassuring word came over the air-waves that Hurricane Nano was turning away. No further problems were expected for Nuku Hiva. And with the coming of evening, the air fell to an eerie calm. We later learned that Hurricane Nano - a Tahitian word meaning "explosive force" - intensified after leaving the Marquesas and swept through the southern Tuamotus with 140 mph winds and 30-foot seas. We had tangled with only the infant Nano, it seemed.

The following morning Jenny and I worked for three and a half hours hours retrieving our anchors. They had deeply embedded, and the three lines attaching them had tangled together, along with the lines of their marking buoys. During the later phase of the storm, the wind had changed directions many times, spinning and wheeling Suka in every direction. The lesson was clear. Had we drug anchors, no doubt they would have come together, and probably tangled and rendered one-another useless. In future we determined to use only a single large anchor.

Prudence suggested we remain in the Marquesas another three weeks, waiting for the next full moon that we hoped would illuminate our passage through the dangerous Tuamotu archipelago.

A Visit to the Dispensary

Having been troubled with persistent earaches, and after using the antibiotic Keflex with minimal results, I switched to Septra DS, and this proved effective. Then several days later Jenny complained of a painful ear, and I took her straight to Taiohaie's dispensary. The cheerful French doctor's attire was a curious blend of modern professional and tropical casual, as befitted a doctor working in a remote, sultry jungle. He wore the usual white smock, and stethoscope draped about the neck. But from the waist down he wore shorts and walked barefoot. He spoke no English, so our conversation was mainly one of gestures. After looking into Jenny's ear with the otoscope he reached for a slip of scratch paper, held it toward us, and thrust his finger through it, piercing a hole. We gathered that Jenny had ruptured an eardrum. My ears received the same diagnosis on both counts. The damage had presumably occurred while skin diving, although we could not trace it to any particular occurrence. As an experienced skin diver I frequently dove to 50 feet and more, but Jenny never ventured deeper than a fathom.

The doctor gave us each a course of antibiotics, a sulfa nasal antihistamine spray, and a small bottle of large aspirin tablets. And he said we were to keep our heads out of the water for a month, in order to allow the eardrums to heal. The visit cost us nothing, and for that we were very thankful. Unfortunately, we were going to have to forego the snorkeling in the Tuamotus - something we had been looking forward to.

One day, a French Naval vessel anchored in the bay, and a half-dozen troopers drew alongside Suka, boarded and searched the boat stem to stern. The only item we had aboard illegally was a 38 special, which they failed to find. I had built it into the woodwork near a chainplate, and made it accessible only by a hidden quick-release. From our yacht they preceded to the others.

Another morning, Janet rowed across from nearby Kalakala with a plea to help take her husband to the hospital. Bill was suffering acute abdominal pains that he believed indicated appendicitis. After Janet, Jenny and I had loaded poor Bill into the dinghy, I rowed him along the shore to the far end of the bay, and from there we all walked to the infirmary.

This was not Bill's first round of gut trouble. For two years he had endured lesser attacks. The previous one had occurred during their passage from San Diego. They altered course and called in at Cabo San Lucas, and Bill related that after seeing the substandard facilities there he decided to grit his teeth, increase the dosage of antibiotics, and return to sea.

But this time the pain was far worse. The doctors removed his appendix, albeit under less than ideal conditions. And subsequently he was in and out of the little hospital fighting recurrent infection for the next two months.

Bill had built his ketch from a factory bare hull, intent on sailing her around the world. But Janet was more interested in her grandmothership, so after a subsequent four-month stay in the Marquesas they sailed Kalakala to Hawaii then back home to Seattle.

Waiting for the Trade Winds

The recent cyclone Nano had disturbed the usual weather patterns. The normally reliable trade winds had ceased; the air was dead calm. This climatic abnormality persisted for many weeks. Twice we missed departing with the full moon, and finally having abandoned that plan, we now waited only for the trade winds to reestablish themselves.

Departing the Marquesas

One morning the winds began blowing, lightly but with promise. So on February 2 we departed the Marquesas, bound for Tahiti.

We sailed for only two hours.