Author: malene

I was sitting in the cockpit in that queasy half sick overtired state that characterises my night watches, all rugged up in my jeans and my skiing jacket, bracing myself against a cold southerly breeze. It was a couple of hours before dawn on the last night before we reached Beveridge Reef and it suddenly dawned on me what a terrible idea it was to go looking, on purpose, for a shallow subsurface reef in the middle of a deep ocean.

Our ‘safe waypoint’, somewhat to the south west of the green splodge that indicated Beveridge on the chart plotter, was about 15 miles to the southwest of our current position. Next to the green blob was a footnote, stating that the reef could be somewhere else, that in fact it had also been reported to be 3 miles to the north east of the position marked on the chart. The ‘safe waypoint’ that we had was from a mud map displayed in an unpublished cruising guide compiled by yachties that had travelled this part of the world in the past; the mud map had been scribbled by a brave cruiser who ventured into the lagoon in 2010, where he drew a rough chart marked with a couple of safe waypoints for the approach to the reef.

And, although grateful for the chart which we’d definitely need to negotiate this reef safely, I was beginning to wonder just how much we could trust it. Beveridge Reef is a sunken atoll, a barrier coral reef which just breaks the surface of the water at low tide, surrounding a calm, sandy lagoon. It is in the middle of nowhere, 130 miles from Niue, 400 miles from Tonga, an oblong circle of shallow calm rising abruptly from a deep and often rough ocean. We really wanted to go there, to see a lagoon in the middle of the deep ocean, to go where not many others go and cast down our anchor in the middle of the Pacific for a restful night or two on the way to Tonga.

As incredible as it doubtless is to experience the reef amidst the sea, it dawned on me sitting there, well before dawn, that we’d have to get bloody close to actually see this thing. With no land breaking the water surface, no vegetation, sand dunes or hills raising the land above the waves, Beveridge can only be detected by the thin line of savagely breaking waves that marks the edges of the reef. Being so far from other land, surrounded as it is by seas of more than a kilometre deep, it crops up unexpectedly, and the reef has wrecked scores of boats before modern charts and navigation techniques. In fact, it still does wreck boats, as evidenced by the mark denoting the wreck of the tuna boat “Liberty” on the 2010 mud map. The fishing vessel stranded in 2006 where it must have strayed too close to the breaking waves of the reef in a rough storm, only to get tossed over to the inside of the jagged edges of the sharp coral platform that lines the lagoon.

And here I was, alone in the cockpit at 4 am, staring into the impenetrable pre-dawn darkness, eyes squinting against a stiff breeze, chilled to the core by the icy southerly winds that had plagued us for the last couple of days. According to the note on the chart plotter, the reef could basically be anywhere near here, and so I sat motionless, peering into the vast darkness trying to detect lines of white water, straining my ears listening for the sound of crashing waves or a crashing hull, hoping that the former would come first.

The kids got up and I briefly left my station to fix them some breakfast, and around 7 am a dead tired David poked his head out the cockpit. “Any sign of it yet?” he asked in a weary voice, hoarse from having been up for nights on end negotiating rough weather. I answered that, no, I haven’t seen it yet, but that that was no real surprise given there hadn’t really been enough light for me to see it even if I was right on top of it. Although at this stage a thin yellow line was starting to hold its own in the rough location of the reef amidst the scatter of wave noise on the radar screen, a comforting sign that the modern instruments were helping us somewhat.

And sure enough, before long we could see a thin line of white water, and as we edged closer the incredible sight of a calm, turquoise lagoon appeared behind the waves in the middle of the rough sea. We motored on, carefully staying beyond the back of the peeling waves, eyeing up the pass to the lagoon, when suddenly we heard a loud breath and saw a sperm whale logging on the surface, just 100 m off the boat.

“Whale!” the kids shouted excitedly, jumping up and down on the trampoline, pointing towards the square, dark shape and we all watched as the gigantic creature took another breath and disappeared below the surface.

After hanging around for a while to see if it would reappear (it didn’t), we motored through the relatively mild pass and made our way to the lee side of the lagoon to anchor. Beveridge Reef is a strange place. The water is 10-15 m deep all throughout the lagoon, and along the edges the sand abruptly rises to form a wide, shallow (~3 m) sill, providing a light blue border all the way out to the browny coral reef where the huge waves crash down. Rarotongan myth has it that there used to be an island there, which got swept away by a hefty cyclone that washed away soil, sand, people and vegetation. Which is entirely possible, given the fierce tropical cyclones they get here – imagine that!

We anchored on the edge of the sill, Bob hanging suspended into the darker blue water of the deeper part. The water was like a swimming pool – crystal clear, with visibility of over 50 m, providing sweeping views over the lovely sandy bottom and the slope down to the deeper part of the lagoon which was dotted with small coral outcrops. Stingrays and grey reef sharks quickly came up to investigate, making us a bit nervous about jumping in – greys can sometimes be dangerous and they did seem quite curious, coming up to the swim ladder to check us out.

The following day we took the boat over to the wreck of the tuna boat that is lying on the edge of the reef on the eastern end of the lagoon. Clearly visible from miles away, the intact wreck lies on a slight angle, bow deeply embedded in the reef, stern poking out, a big square eyesore. It was a strange place, a deserted rusty reminder of mankind on an otherwise undisturbed reef. We climbed on board the boat, hanging onto the rusty frames to keep ourselves upright on the steeply inclined and very slippery deck, taking in the longline still on its coil, the toilet deep in water and the cockpit full of crabs emerging from cavities that used to hold instruments. It must have been a big storm to throw a boat that size right over the shallow reef, or perhaps she was already inside the lagoon, seeking shelter from heavy weather but failing to find it? How horrible for the crew, perched on the battered structure in the middle of nowhere, in calmer seas once the storm was over but with no land in sight. We wondered about their fate, whether help came, and if it did, from where – Niue? How long would that have taken?

Cruising around the coral surrounding the wreck were a group of white tipped sharks, and we wondered whether the grey sharks came up to have a look at the wreckage, and how the stranded crew would have felt about having them circling the boat.

Beveridge Reef was first reported by Europeans in 1847 when the British Captain Lower-Tinger of the brigg Beveridge sighted the reef and promptly named it after his ship. Subsequent European visitors to the reef reported numerous wrecks, the testimony of the unhappy outcomes of less fortunate guests. There are meant to be more wrecks on the reef than the ‘Liberty’, but we couldn’t them – the strong waves and hungry sharks must quickly remove evidence of shipwreck.

Back on the anchorage David snorkelled for conch but exited the water quickly once the grey sharks started showing interest, and just after lunch we pulled anchor to head out to Tonga. The visibility in the pass looked amazing, and Ed and I tried hanging off the swim ladder as we were drifting slowly through, but we both jumped out quickly when a group of grey sharks came up to check us out. Just outside the pass two humpback whales were frolicking, and we wondered if perhaps the lagoon was a breeding site for humpbacks, and if that was why the greys were so interested in medium sized shapes swimming close to the surface – perhaps they routinely attack humpback calves? The whales were amazing, lying breathing slowly on the surface, sending big spouts of water everywhere, gently rolling around before at last they dipped under, flicking their tails in the air. We watched them for ages, and as they were swimming close to the reef Ed noticed how nice the wave was looking, and he decided to jump in for a surf.

“Mummy, I don’t feel too good”. A pale-faced Matias staggered out of the saloon, clutching his belly, and collapsed onto the cockpit seat. “I think I’m going to vomit”, he gasped, lying back and closing his eyes. I quickly opened the locker and rummaged around for a bucket.

“Take this”, I said. “If you need to be sick, just do it in the bucket”.

Moments later he retched. Ed, sitting listlessly next to him, turned his head away, a pained look on his face. I gulped, feeling the cold sweat gathering on my forehead as I staggered to the side of the boat to empty the sloppy bucket into the heaving sea.

It was day one on our 800 odd mile trip from Mopelia to Beveridge Reef, the last stop before Tonga. The seas had risen to a good 3.5 m and the boat was slamming into the waves on a solid beam reach, jerking and heaving which made any movement hazardous. I had made a few forays inside in attempts to start dinner, but had had to come outside for air when nausea overwhelmed me. It didn’t help that Lukie had been playing in the far forward cabin, leaving the hatch ever so slightly unlatched, exposing a tiny gap in the otherwise water tight barrier of the large O-ring lining it. The waves were slamming over the bow, and in a matter of the 20 minutes it took for us to notice that the hatch wasn’t fully shut, the fenders, mattresses and cushions in the cabin were soaked and water had starting running down the door into Lukie’s cabin, onto his bed. We badly needed to get the mattresses and cushions out on deck to dry, but after just one trip into the airless cabins below to retrieve some soaked smelly cushions I collapsed in the cockpit, too sick to dare going back. Even David looked a bit peaky as he struggled up with a mattress.

Ed staggered up with effort, holding onto the table with both hands as he bent over to steady himself. “I think I’ll take a seasickness tablet”, he said.

I went downstairs and got some for myself and Matias as well. It was rough – it was only the second time in my life I’ve needed to take seasickness medication. The first time was on the Cook Strait ferry on a day so stormy that the ferry had been cancelled for the whole morning, which made me so scared that I popped a pill before we drove on. I fell asleep before we could get out of the car, and spent the rest of a crossing in a daze, trying to look somewhere else as the passengers all around me sat bent over, clutching their sick bags, staff running up and down the aisles between the seats with big black binliners to pick up the spoils in between sweeping vomit off the floor with big mops. I was hoping that the pills would have a similar effect now, put me to sleep so that I could wake refreshed and decidedly non-nauseous for my night watch.

We struggled through dinner and immediately after clearing the table Ed, the kids and I collapsed into queasy sleeps, leaving David alone in the dark cockpit to steer Bob safely through the swell.

It was our first longer passage for a while, but it seemed that it hadn’t taken long to sink back into the old familiar state of nauseous exhaustion that goes with the territory. Some people love passages – being out there, in the middle of the sea, at the mercy of Mother Nature and her whims, following the slow, gentle rhythm of the sun, stars and the moon, rising and setting, the boat bopping up and down on an endless sea. I certainly feel wonder and gratitude that life is big enough to allow for all this and that we are here witnessing whales swimming over fathomless depths, dolphins jumping at our bow, winds propelling us across a dark and deep ocean. But, on passage, all these feelings of wonder are always tarred with a slight queasy feeling, a heavy fatigue, a hungover, start-of-a-cold kind of feeling that lingers no matter how much I sleep or how many sunrises I witness.

The swell lessened a tad over the next two days but the motion remained unfriendly, and by the third night we were all really tired. A series of squalls were beginning to roll over the horizon, and we put a third reef in the mainsail in preparation for a rough night. I woke up around 10:30, worried by the whistle of howling winds and the banging and crashing of the boat slamming into the waves. I could hear David reefing the genoa, and moments later he got Ed up to help him get rid of the mainsail altogether. I turned over in bed, hoping to fall back asleep before it was my turn to stand out there for four hours braving rain shower after rain shower. When I got on watch at 4 am the wind was all over the place, gusting to 30 knots periodically, and we were bouncing along on big seas under a stamp sized genoa. The sun rose in the midst of a squall, sending its beautiful yellow rays out from gaps in a black thundery cloud, the sun itself periodically blotted out by the large seas.

 

It turned into a nice day, and we managed to dry the boat out and catch a bit of sunshine before starting the preparation for the large forecasted front that hit us late the next day. As the clouds thickened moisture condensed everywhere, and inside the boat floors and walls were dripping, the children skating along on bare feet, shouting “Yipee!”. We reefed the mainsail right down again just in time for the stiff breeze and icy rain that hit after dinner. After the front the wind swung around to the southwest and we continued the roughly 250 miles to Beveridge beating into a merciless swell. Every time the boat gained a couple of metres it slammed into the next large wave, causing big bangs and crashes to reverberate through the hulls, leaving us all heavily seasick and thoroughly unrested. The weather had changed too.

“Mummy, where is my jumper, and my rain coat?” said Lukie, poking his head up into the cockpit early in the morning, in his usual bare-chested attire. “I’m really cold, and I want a jumper”. His hands were icy cold and for the first time on this trip I had to go rummage in dusty cupboards for our jeans and woollies. Both boys had grown so much since we were last in the cold that their jumpers were now stumpy on them, but they were still excited – any jacket is still a good cape and we haven’t had capes for ages.

It is 1300 miles between Bora Bora and Tonga, and we were fortunate to have Ed, a friend of a friend from Australia, to help us on this stretch. To break up the trip we first did a 24 hour sail to Mopelia, one of the westernmost islands in French Polynesia where we were going to sit out a forecasted front. A small atoll 130 miles to the west of Bora Bora, Mopelia is more similar to the Tuamotus than the rest of the Society Islands, with no central island but only small motu dotting the reef edge, surrounding a light blue lagoon. The sail there was tiresome, with rain and less than optimal wind directions, and with one jibe and another we covered almost 200 miles before reaching the narrow pass leading into the lagoon.

When we got there we hovered for a while on the outside of the pass, hesitating. Mopelia’s pass is famously impassable, and our view from the boat lived fully up to our worst expectations: white water frothing over the sill, whirlpools along the sides and standing water on the outside where the ocean swell met the currents gushing out. At just 15 m wide, the length of our boat, the pass was too narrow for us to turn the boat around, so once we entered we would have to be committed to keep going until we were through to the lagoon. We had already delayed our departure from Bora Bora by a day because we were worried that the large swell would fill up the lagoon with water from waves crashing over the reefs, causing a strong outgoing current giving little respite even on an incoming tide. But it still looked like it was running strong.

“Are we going in? Isn’t it too strong?” I asked nervously, not certain I really wanted to be there, the pull of the alluring flatness of the lagoon not quite trumping my fear of crashing onto the jagged reef edges poking up through shallow water on either side of the pass.

“I’m just lining us up”, David said, squinting at the reef through his polaroid sunglasses. “Only checking that we can motor against the current”.

I rushed inside attempting to have a look at our aerial imagery from the lagoon, but before I could switch on the computer, I felt the boat lurch and saw that he was starting the entry. Ed and I jumped to the bow to spot for the reef edge and anything else rising to the surface, calling out helpful advice like “getting awfully close on port, veer to starboard, quick!” and suchlike, even though it was doubtful David could hear a word we were shouting over the roar of the breaking waves and the rush of the maelstroms that were trying their best to suck us down.

Just before the end of the pass we spotted two submerged buoys that somebody had sneakily popped in the channel just to snare the lucky vessels that manage to make their way through the whirlpools, but by amazing feats of communication (a roar of “Neutral!! Buoys in the water!!!” from myself and Ed in unison) we cheated the evil locals or whatever crazy persons had placed them there, wiped our sweaty hands off on our t-shirts and congratulated ourselves on getting through to the lagoon.

Which was lovely and calm, a welcome change from the pass, and we leisurely motored across to the other side and threw in our anchor. As soon as we were anchored about 10 black tip reef sharks showed up, circling the boat hungrily, and I hesitatingly jumped in to check the anchor – they are not meant to be dangerous and we have never felt them to be interested in anything our size, but we’d never had them show that much interest in us at anchor before? Reassuringly, once I jumped in they scattered, leaving the kids confident enough to start their ‘we’re-on-a-new-anchorage’ jumping session.

Another boat was at anchor there; despite our outstanding heroism we were obviously not the only ones brave enough to dare the pass, and on the shore we spotted people walking around. When we dinghied in we met a young man living there, who explained that he and his family had moved there three years ago from Ra’iatea.

“Welcome to Paradise”, he said, in surprisingly excellent English, with a broad sweep of the hand indicating the light blue lagoon, the white sand, the swaying coconut palms, and the loudly squawking seabirds filling the sky.

We thanked him and chatted for a while. Apparently the sharks hang around boats not because they are trying to finish off anyone that managed to survive the pass, but because his family normally clean their fish catch on the boats in the lagoon, feeding the scraps to the sharks, thus training them to circle any boat entering the lagoon aggressively. He said they get about 70 yachts visiting a year, and then excused himself – he had to leave to go fix a broken truck. Slightly surreal – truck? Road? This was a tiny place, but I guess they must use them for copra farming.

The kids collected some hermit crabs from the beach which we allowed them to keep on the boat overnight. They quickly turned all paternal, naming the smallest one Baby Butter and making elaborate Hermit Habitats for them to spend the night in. They were cute – all pale and delicate, with long slim quite hairy legs, cautious eyes on slender stalks and engaging sideways wobbles. The biggest one was initially called Micro, but after some enquiries it got changed to the more appropriate Mega, and I happily ticked off that box in the home-schooling curriculum. Once presented with an outstanding choice of empty shells in the Hermit Habitat, several of the crabs changed their shells for the bigger, better and shinier options provided, possibly because they were dead scared and hoping to slip away unnoticed in a new disguise.

The big rainstorm hit the next day, leaving Ed, the kids and I thoroughly seasick as Bob pulled her best moves on the 1 m swell that suddenly appeared on the anchorage.

“A bit wobbly, innit?” offered David brightly about midday, surveying us, his green-looking crew, picking over our lunches. “Let’s move to somewhere more sheltered”.

So after lunch, in the horizontal rain and stiff breeze, we pulled the anchor and moved to the other side of the bay, Ed and I shivering in our buoy-and-reef spotting positions on the bow, awash with the waves that we’re determinedly motoring into. The other side was lovely and calm and by the time we got there the rain had stopped and so we managed to have a couple of kitesurfs before pulling anchor to leave for our next stop en route to Tonga the following afternoon.

Which left only the dreaded departure, through the now furiously fast-flowing pass.  At this stage, the increased swell had added the new and interesting dimension that large waves were now breaking on top of the outgoing current on the outside, and as we approached the heavy chop filling the impossibly narrow channel, David and I exchanged nervous glances before I averted my eyes and crossed my fingers as he put down the throttle, expertly navigating Bob through as she was being pushed this way and that, precariously close to the ragged reef edge and over submerged buoys at worrying speeds.

Once through, we steadied our shaky hands and started thinking of our next stop, Beveridge Reef – a sunken atoll in the middle of nowhere, 160 miles from Niue and 400 miles from Tonga.

“Apropos, Apropos, this the Bob the Cat”.

“Apropos, Apropos, this is Bob the Cat”. No reply. Matias shakes his head, handing me the VHF.

“It’s not working, mummy”, he exclaims.

It is a bright blue afternoon, hot and windy, the white sand of the idyllic atolls around us gleaming in the sun. We’re anchored in a shallow part of the lagoon on the western side of Bora Bora, and Matias and Lukie really want to play with Jacintha, the 8-year old from the neighbouring boat Apropos. We’ve met Jacintha and her parents Karen and Jim from time to time since the Marquesas, and the boys are excited to play again.

I hold down the transmit button on the VHF. “Try now”, I say, miming “Apropos, Apropos, this is Bob the Cat”.

“Apropos, Apropos, this the Bob the Cat”, he repeats.

A crackle, and then we hear Jacintha’s voice: “Bob the Cat, this is Apropos”.

“Apropos, this is Bob the Cat”.

“Bob the Cat, this is Apropos”.

And so it goes for a while – I gently suggest they change to channel 14 for this enlightening conversation and leave them to organise their play date. It’s great for the boys to see familiar kids; when we left Jacintha last in Rangiroa, Tuamotus, they had several good games on the go and we were hoping to bump into them again.

 

And here we are, in Bora Bora, the quintessential tropical island. Bora Bora looks just like a postcard – steep green hills surrounded by a blue lagoon, the edges of which are dotted with tiny palm-fringed motu.  It is without a doubt the most touristy island in French Polynesia and caters mainly to the excessively wealthy. In our few days here we’ve gotten the gist of the version of a tropical Pacific holiday paradise sold by the major hotel chains – rows of cute little thatched huts on stilts, tastefully furnace, extending out over coral reefs into the turquoise lagoon. Reclining sun chairs on the small wooden decks out front, fish gathering in the shade around the concrete pilings holding up the long jetty. Newspaper of your language of choice discretely tucked under the door in the morning, dinner in the evening at the restaurant at the end of the pier, overlooking the lagoon. It is lovely, calm and laid back here, with a lingering expensive aftertaste.

 

On our first day in Bora Bora we picked up Ed, who will sail with us to Tonga, and then left for the eastern part of the lagoon to spend his first and Pete’s last day looking for large marine animals, the only part of the standard Bob the Cat experience package that we hadn’t been able to deliver on yet. Luckily, Manta Reef on the east side of the island did what it said on the packet, sporting a large manta ray patient enough to let us snorkel with it for a good half hour before it disappeared.

 

 

 

 

Thus satisfied, we dropped Pete off at the airport the following morning and went to anchor on the west coast of the island, joining Jacintha and her parents. It was a lovely spot, not far from the shallow area where the tour boats gather to feed the stingrays, a surreal experience that we promptly gate crashed the morning after. In a sandy bay with water shallow enough to stand up in, seven tour boats were anchored, guests hanging over the edges, cheering as buff young men and one small woman wearing traditional tattoos, sumo top knots and tiny loin cloths stood waving their hands around like magicians, distributing small fragments of fish to clusters of hungry rays flocking around them. As the guides waved their arms, the rays rushed over to suck at the fish, almost jumping out of the water.

 

 

Some of the tourists joined in the water fun, snorkelling around taking photos of the rays. As I jumped in and followed a pair of rays I suddenly found myself confronted with a solid pair of male buttocks only scantily covered by a purple loincloth. The owner, a tattooed Bora Bora sumo-wrestler complete with topknot, had rays swarming all around him. Straight in front of my eyes was one confused specimen enthusiastically sucking onto the thin strip of cloth wedged between his butt cheeks. Attempting retreat, I furiously flailed my arms, slapping (surprisingly slimy) rays to the side and hoping desperately to avoid physical contact between my face and his private parts, slowly making way through the thick soup of hungry rays despite their best attempts to push me forwards. I decided that it was probably best to keep a distance to the tour operators, and sat back to watch a tiny female guide not far away, entirely overwhelmed by huge rays, ten of which were vigorously attacking her, shimmying out of the water and up her body in an attempt to get more food. Elegantly bending backwards until her face was almost under water to the accompaniment of sweet ukulele tunes from her fellow tour guide, she provided great photo opportunities for the applauding well-nourished tourists on her boat.

 

Several round black tip reef sharks were cruising around too, each with two or more remoras shadowing them, ever alert although rather full-looking – imagine their lives: free food on offer for a couple of hours twice a day, 365 days a year. Given this abundance of food, it is a mystery to me why the rays seemed to be starving, but the sharks kept their impulses under control and stuck to quietly patrolling the grounds, ensuring that everything was in good order, much like police at a music festival keep their keen eyes on intoxicated teenagers.

 

 

The kids were excited to see the rays, although a little apprehensive.

“Wasn’t there a man that died from being stung by a sting ray?” asked Lukie, brow knotted, just before jumping in.

“Yes”, I replied, “but don’t worry, I’ll hold your hand”. And off we swam, rays brushing up against us on their way to the near naked guides, Lukie extending his hand to touch one as it tries to manoeuvre in on a group of fish-dispersing tourists.

The rest of our time on Bora Bora was spent on more mundane tasks: doing laundry and provisioning for the trip to Tonga; spending hours in vain trying to use the wifi of various establishments for weather and blog updates. When a rain storm delayed our departure for Tonga by a day, we went back to the bay where Jacintha’s boat was anchored.

And now, to the boys’ delight, she is coming over, armed with her swim suit and ideas for a new play for them to perform to interested adults, this one a fusion of Star Wars and Oliver Twist.  Jacintha has become an avid Star Wars fan since we saw her last and her and the boys spend hours debating the finer points of Anakin’s turn to the dark side, interspersed with enthusiastic light sabre fights on the trampoline and a fair bit of water play. It is great to have an old playmate around, and before we leave we make firm plans to catch up with Apropos in Tonga.

 

The mid-morning air is still and hot, with a faint smell of smoke. The sun is blazing down on the black basalt rocks in the large paved area where we stand just behind the water’s edge. The shallow water next to the ancient rock wall is calm and flat, but looking out we can see the thick foamy layer of white waves on top of the reef behind the blue-green lagoon. The sound of the pounding surf hums in the background, mixing with bird song and the clucking of numerous chickens that run wild in amongst the stones, pecking at crabs hiding in the sand between the rocks in the shade of large trees.

 

The flat coastal strip, a narrow border between the shallow lagoon and the steeply vegetated hills, is dense with rock foundations, carefully positioned by ancient hands to please the gods that ruled their world.

This courtyard was built in the 14^th century, from basalt and coral rocks supplied by local families on the orders of the priests of the cult of Oro, the god of war. Using huge fossilised coral slabs standing erect and forming a jagged edge, they fenced off one end of the paved areas to demarcate an especially sacred area for the gods and ancestors. Where we are standing, thousands of people have stood in the past, focusing their hopes and aspirations into prayers to stern and demanding gods.

It’s a spine-shivering experience to be here, the religious centre of the Polynesian Pacific. We are at the Taputapuatea marae, the most important temple in all of Polynesia, on the island of Ra’iatea in the leeward Society Islands of French Polynesia. Ra’iatea used to be known as Havai’iki Nui, and legend has it that it is here that at least some of the waka (canoes) that arrived in New Zealand came from. The Taputapuatea marae was so important that each waka that took off from Ra’iatea to colonise new lands brought with them a stone from here to imbue special powers into the marae that they would erect in their new home. Ari’i (chiefs) from the Australs, the Cook Islands and New Zealand would come back for centuries to this location for important ceremonies.

As we stand here we imagine them taking off, full of hope and fear, blessed by Oro or maybe ousted by his adherents – who will ever know? We imagine their two-masted double hulled waka packed to the max with people, water, tools, weapons, provisions and animals for a new life on distant islands yet to be discovered. We imagine the months at sea ahead of them, with storms and doldrums, their only shelter a small thatched hut joining the two hulls of the vessel; the only shade from the hot sun the triangular sails woven from palm or pandanus leaves.

It seems incredible that New Zealand was colonised by people from here, so far away. Incredible that the relatively small waka that we see drawings off could handle the journey south, and that they would face the hardship of a return journey to come back for ceremonies thousands of miles away. Incredible that we’ve been to the Tuamotus, where they have a legend about the Tainui waka, which, when it arrived in New Zealand, landed close to Raglan where we live. The Tuamotu legend features identical names of the waka and the chief on board as the Maori legend, suggesting that Tainui did indeed leave from those barren atolls. And incredible that we’re now here in Ra’iatea where at least some of the other waka left from, that we’re at the marae at the centre of the Polynesian world, at a site where thousands of direct ancestors of New Zealand Maori have stood before us.

For these people the marae was the meeting ground between humans and the divine. Archaeologists have dated the remains of the Taputapuatea marae to the 14^th century, but it is likely that what we see now replaced older, more transient structures, and that the site was a place of worship for centuries before anything permanent was built.  Drawings from the early European visitors to Polynesia indicate that the houses on the marae had no walls but instead had poles onto which thatched roofs were perched, with one or more rows of upright coral slabs separating the ahu (sacred part) from the rest. The fare ia manaha, the most sacred house on the marae, housed the most sacred icons, the to’o (images of gods) and ti’i (tiki in Maori and Marquesan: images of deified ancestors). This fare was so important that a human sacrifice was required for its construction, the remains of the victim buried under the central part of the house. Towering above the marae were unu, tall wooden fork-like totems, carved with images of ancestors, gods or animals, which were erected along the edges of the ahu. Special human sacrifice marae had special forked unu, without carvings or designs, erected alongside the stacked skulls of the victims. Other houses on the marae were for the dead (fare tupapa’u), where the bodies of deceased people of importance were held, sometimes for many days, before being taken away and buried. The marae also included numerous round-roofed buildings for canoes, with special structures for each of the many types of waka.

We’re interrupted in our contemplations by the kids – they’ve found a huge hermit crab in one of the ancient ahu, and after we finish looking at that it is time for lunch. It is hot and they’re thirsty and hungry, so we sit down in the shade of a large tree and have a picnic, in this peaceful location that harbours such a chilling and gruesome past.

We’ve been in Ra’iatea, in the leeward group of the Society Islands, for a couple of days, having sailed here overnight from Mo’orea, a calm, moonlit passage for Pete’s first night watch. Ra’iatea is, right next to the island of Taha’a, two ancient volcanoes forming separate islands encircled by one common lagoon. After Tahiti, Ra’iatea is the second largest of the Society Islands, but it is very quiet – there are no beaches here, so not many tourists, although there are a few sailboats.  Legend has it Ra’iatea was one of the first islands to be settled in the Societies, probably by people from Samoa. In ancient times Ra’iatea used to be the religious and political centre of the Societies, and it is thought that Tahiti was settled by people from here. Only when the Europeans arrived with their ships, finding Pape’ete a better harbour, did the capital of the Societies shift to Tahiti.

Our first night here we tied up to the wharf at the main town of Uturoa, a useful place next to supermarkets and sailmakers where cruisers often come to stock up. Unfortunately the conveniences come with a downside, and we were told to tie ourselves on tightly as the local youths have in the past untied yachts in the middle of the night, no doubt laughing their head off as they watched them drift towards the reef in the darkness. As it happens, the Australian boat next door ends up being broken into and having a laptop stolen during the night, but fortunately we’re spared – it’s possible that the lights we leave on all night for the kids may have deterred intruders.

Despite all this, Uturoa is heaven to us – we get minor repairs done on both our sails and even get – Hallelujah – a bottle of gas for cooking! So now we are truly free of worry – we were uncertain that we had enough gas to get us to Tonga, but because of the Tahitian gas strikes we couldn’t find any gas anywhere. Now, with gas, we can bake and do all sorts of frivolous things. I’m sure Ed doesn’t realise how close he got to eating cold tins (corn beef with sweetcorn? Artichoke hearts with beetroot and SPAM? – I’m sure we could have made it delicious), but at least now he is assured fresh bread on the passage to Tonga.

And there are other attractions to Ra’iatea too. On our way back from the marae, the boys and I kayaked up the Faaroa River, gliding swiftly over the still, green waters, our turbulence disrupting the perfect reflections of the dense jungle surrounding the river banks. The river is lined with miro trees, and whilst we were sitting amidst buzzing dragonflies admiring the scenery, their perfect yellow flowers dropped all around us like snowflakes, sending out ripples as they landed softly on the water.

 

It has been hot, and we have been spending as much time as possible in the water. In the pass near Uturoa the kids and I explored a motu full of friendly cats and chickens gorging themselves on coconuts and crabs. When we snorkelled the pass, David and Pete collected spider conch and another seasnail, leading to culinary delights such as fried conch for lunch and rubbery slug curry for dinner. On our way out of Ra’iatea, Pete had a few more surfs in the lagoon off Taha’a island while David and I drift snorkelled with the kids, admiring the luminous green corals that shine with a phosphorescent hue.

And then, as usual, it is time to leave, to get to Bora Bora to pick up Ed. And so we leave to head east, like many double-hulled waka have before us, only stocked with butane gas and tins rather than firewood and live chickens.

‘Mummy, when are we going to be there? I can’t walk anymore”. Matias is dragging onto my hand, trying to bring us to a standstill in the middle of the winding road leading steeply uphill. I sweep at the swarm of mosquitoes covering my forehead and squint up at the imposing mountains rising above us. It is cool in the shade but we’re being attacked by mosquitoes; whenever I look down I can count about 20 of the buggers on each of my legs, sucking contently.
We’re about half way to the famous marae (stone temples) of Opunohu Bay, the fertile valley on the north side of the island of Mo’orea. It is a 9 km walk round trip, leading first to the marae, and then to the fabled Belvedere, the panoramic view of the two bays that adorn the north coastline of the island and Mount Rotui, the tall, rugged mountain that separates them.

Part of the group of islands known as the Society Islands, Mo’orea is a young (1-2 million years old) volcanic island with steep hills surrounded by a barrier reef. Mo’orea (meaning yellow lizard – apparently the name of the chief family at the time the Europeans came, prior to that it was known as Eimeo) is clearly visible from Tahiti and the sail there took us only a couple of hours.

Settled by the Polynesians in the same wave as Tahiti around 200 BC, Mo’orea was first sighted by Europeans in 1767. When they arrived the island was heavily populated, but within a hundred years the Polynesian population was decimated by the usual mix of weapons, disease and alcohol that the Europeans brought with them. Dozens of marae are still scattered in the valleys of the island, the remains of the dense populations that used to live here. It is these temples that we have stopped in Opunohu Bay to see, but as it is nearing lunch time Matias’s enthusiasm for the ancient ruins is diminishing proportionally to his rising hunger.

We finally reach the marae, square stone platforms built into the hillsides on which temples used to stand, ancient altars still visible in amongst the trees overgrowing the site. I get out the snacks and the complaining stops for a minute or two while we view the information panel that details the ancient archery competitions that used to take place here, the kids transfixed by the illustrations of the warriors that once dominated the island.

For the last couple of days we’ve been exploring the aquatic side of Mo’orea. It is a stunning island – steep and lushly vegetated, surrounded by a turquoise lagoon sporting clear waters and healthy coral. When we first arrived, we anchored on the eastern side, at Teavaro Bay which is a lovely stretch of lagoon with the view of Mo’orea’s steep bushclad hillsides on one side and sweeping views of Tahiti enveloped in clouds on the other side. Strong currents were flowing near the reef, and the boys had to hang onto ropes tied off to the end of the boat in order not to get swept away. The visibility on the eastern side of the lagoon was amazing – gin viz as my old diving buddies would say – and rays were everywhere. Light and dark eagle rays with their delicate ringed spots and peculiar beaked head, as well as black stingrays, gliding through the water just above the bottom, coming up only to check us out briefly.

The southern end of the eastern bay is famous for its snorkel trail which takes visitors from a small motu to the edge of the reef. On our visit we soon found out why there is a trail – the waves crashing over the reef created a sweeping current which we have to cling onto the ropes joining up the buoys of the trail to pull ourselves forward against. The area is a reserve and home to several black tip reef sharks and stingrays which turned up in great numbers as we were nearing the shore at the end of the trail, circling us hungrily. And sure enough, when we climbed out of the water we discovered that a tourist operation is conducting a snorkel tour complete with shark and ray feeding next door.

I’m not sure about the wisdom of staged shark feeding – it disrupts natural behaviours and teaches sharks to associate humans with food. Apparently there have been some recent accidents at a shark feeding operation near Opunohu Bay on the north side of the island where a child was killed and an adult injured by over-excited lemon sharks during a feeding session.

In the afternoon of our second day we picked up Pete from the ferry dock. It is great to see him, and here, surrounded by rugged mountains and turquoise sea, he and David are soon back in the old groove, deep in work discussions with a bit of philosophy thrown in. There is time for leisure too, and Pete goes for a quick surf on a local break on the way to Opunohu Bay while the kids and I chase a ray out the back of the boat.

The archaeological site in the valley behind the bay is the last stop before we head off to the island of Ra’iatea where we’ll spend a couple of days before sailing on to Bora Bora to meet Ed.

And the site is worth a visit, despite the mozzies and the whinging children. After a pack of crackers and some carrot sticks even Matias is ready to head on, and after the marae we make it all the way to the lookout where we rest for a while, refreshed by the glorious view of mountains and inlets, steep hillsides and bare rock backed by flat deep blue water. It is easy to understand why this valley was densely settled in ancient times, stone temples scattered amongst more temporary dwellings. It is a magical place and worth a long walk, even for two tired little boys.

 

 

Our arrival in Tahiti heralds a much needed return to civilisation after months in the wilderness – time for boat repairs, showers, laundry, baguettes, yoghurt and cheese.
When we arrive in Tahiti it is windy and wet, and every day while we’re there the skies seem to discharge a huge downpour or two. Which makes quite a nice change from the dry Tuamotu islands that we come from, but is not conducive to drying all the laundry that we have saved up for this fabled place of washing machines. That’s what cruising in remote locations is like – we are over the moon to arrive in Tahiti, not because of its impressive volcanoes or lovely sandy beaches, nor for its nice snorkelling or cultural importance as the heart of French Polynesia. But because it has washing machines. Which sounds silly, but is rather incredible when you’ve been living on a hot boat in the tropics without access to much water or any laundry facilities for two and a half months.
It is not only laundry we have to do here, although we do have endless sheets, undersheets, pillows and towels that need a good hot wash to sterilise them after months of sweaty sleep and infected coral cuts. We have to install the new batteries that are waiting for us in Taina Marina just out of town. We also need to get a cooking gas refill, and to provision for the next four months of cruising in less-than-wonderful retail locations such as Tonga and Fiji. And then there are all the small jobs – reinstalling the water filter which fell out halfway across from Galapagos to the Marquesas. Fixing a broken handle on a hatch to prevent further leakage. Repairing the port engine clutch which has just started slipping. Downloading kindle books for Matias who is reading faster than our limited internet access can provide (doesn’t say much – currently we have access to download a book about twice a month). Answering emails after a month without internet. Buying new clothes for the rapidly growing children. Showering.

We start by going to a half-finished marina right in the centre of town, a lovely location just in front of the huge cruise ships with names like ‘King of the Sea’ that park up to disgorge passengers into Pape’ete where their shopping experience awaits. It is a great place for a marina, right in front of the main drag, within walking distance from the market, the shops and the mobile food stalls – the roulottes – that serve delicious French and Chinese food to hundreds of people every night. We go out eating two nights in a row and revel in the fresh, crunchy vegetables of the chow mein, the roquefort sauce and pommes frites, the bread that we didn’t have to bake ourselves.

Because the marina is not fully operational we only pay half price, which is fair given we only receive half the services of a normal marina. The toilets are a good kilometre from our berth, which is not great for the childrens’ perpetually urgent toilet calls, and the washing machines are not operational. But they have internet, showers and shore power, all of which are amazing. I finally upload the blogs from the Tuamotus and manage to answer some of my emails, David looks up clutch repair options and second-hand kayaks online, and Seb and Val do their best to avoid looking at their work emails. We spend half hours just standing under hot water flowing down, soaping ourselves down, washing and combing hair, marvelling at how nice it is to feel clean. Not that it lasts long – it is incredibly hot and humid here and as soon as we step out of the shower we’re covered in sweat, but still. It is also fantastic to have a fully operational fridge after months of battery problems, and it came at just the right time – we caught a big skipjack tuna the day before coming into Pape’ete and continued refrigeration means we can actually eat it rather than throw half of it away.

Downtown Pape’ete seems a nice place with its brightly lit waterfront featuring parks and paths planted with beautiful trees and flowery bushes. Flowers are indeed everywhere here – fragrant bouquets for sale in the market, individual flowers decorating the hair of most women, necklaces of tightly bound flowers and leaves adorning tourists and locals alike, big colourful flowers woven into artful arrangements tied to lamp posts and fences.

After two days spent exploring the centre of Pape’ete we say a sad goodbye to Seb and Val who are flying back to New Zealand. The children are sobbing on our way back from the market where we said our goodbyes and as soon as we get to the boat Matias starts writing them letters, including a message in a bottle which we will post with firm directions to head south west when we get to open water. Hopefully it’ll reach them in New Zealand.

After their departure it is time to get back to business, and we move the boat to Taina Marina where access to supermarkets is easier and where we have boat batteries arriving. Taina is a bit further from town but sports a massive Carrefour nearby where I spend most of my time over the next two days rapidly spending any money we might have saved whilst in the isles of no shops further east. Several times a day I risk my life and sanity pushing a dangerously loaded and spectacularly uncooperative shopping trolley up the steep hills to the narrow bridge over the bumpy footpaths from the Carrefour to the marina. The trolley tries its best to kill me, slaloming rapidly down the hills attempting to shake me off, refusing to go over curbs leaving me stranded in the middle of traffic, and veering dangerously close to the water’s edge on the rough boardwalk of the marina. Despite this, the kids and I triumphantly continue to bring back supplies until we are fully stocked and ready for the imagined food horrors of non-French Polynesia.
The rest of the time in Taina is spent doing unbelievable amounts of laundry, paying astronomical prices for the privilege. The lady in the office is incredulous when I come to get change for the laundry again and again but I don’t care how much money we spend – I just want clean sheets and towels. And a clean boat – after months of visitors it is time for a thorough clean-up and cockroach eradication effort, both utterly futile but nevertheless necessary. Kind of like all housework I guess – a fleeting sense of achievement and then back to square one to do it all again…

David is busy with the batteries, the hatch handle, the clutch and the water filter but finally after two days of solid work we emerge victorious, boat fixed, clean and fully loaded with French delicacies, crew scrubbed clean in endless showers, sheets and towels dry and fragrantly sterile. The only thing we haven’t been able to do is to get more cooking gas. There is a strike on at Tahiti Gas, and no cooking gas is available here or in the Society Islands. So far, the strike has been going for three weeks with no sign of an agreement emerging, and thousands of Tahitians are out of gas and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future. Not getting a gas refill is a bit of a problem for us, as we are doubtful we have enough to get us and Ed comfortably to Tonga, our next likely refill option. But there is little we can do – there is no gas – and so we resign ourselves to rationing the gas strictly from now on whilst looking out for refill opportunities wherever we go.
And then, after five hectic days is Tahiti, and without having seen much of the island at all, we are ready to go. Tahiti hasn’t got a very good reputation as a cruising destination and we are keen to head to Mo’orea where the waters are clear and the pace relaxed. We’ll meet Pete in Mo’orea, and then make our way towards Bora Bora where we are meeting Ed who will sail with us to Tonga.

The Tuamotu atolls offer the most amazing snorkelling and diving we’ve ever had, and we are so happy to be here to see it all. 20+ years ago when I was diving in the Caribbean they used to have amazing fishlife and corals but this time around we didn’t see the same diversity and abundance of life there. The lesser populated Tuamotu islands is by far the most pristine place we’ve ever been, and we hope that their relative inaccessibility will act to preserve the untouched character of the atolls, and the incredible abundance of fish life.

By far the most exciting novelty of the Tuamotus to us is the number of sharks here. Blacktip reef sharks, whitetip sharks, grey reef sharks, tawny nurse sharks – they are all here, everywhere.

 

The grey reef sharks tend to hover down deep, the white tips a bit higher, and the black tip reef sharks and tawny nurse sharks come to the shallows and very close to snorkellers.

When swimming past they ignore us, acting completely unafraid. In Fakarava South they feed the black tips to make them come in, and some of them have damaged dorsal fins, probably from too close contact with a boat propeller.

It is incredible to be able to just jump in the water and swim with sharks – this is the first place where we’ve ever been able to do so. Initially we were nervous, but the sheer numbers of divers and snorkellers enjoying close contact with sharks in Rangiroa convinced us that it was safe.

Taking their cue from the adults, the kids don’t seem scared at all; rather they are fascinated by the sharks initially and then quickly lose interest – they have no idea how special it is to be able to swim in the middle of a swarm of sharks.

 

 

Us grown ups don’t lose interest – the sharks are always exciting. Although we soon stop pointing them out to each other when snorkelling: there are just too many, and at the end of our time in the Tuamotus we have become completely casual about them – oh, it’s just another blacktip.

The amazing visibility helps too. In the Fakarava South pass we can see the large groups of grey reef sharks gathering at 20 m from the surface. When skindiving, we can get as close as 5 m. On scuba you can get a bit closer and spend a while longer looking at them, but those of us that stick to snorkelling don’t feel like we’re missing out.

 

 

 

They are feeding them at the south pass in Fakarava, so they gather in huge numbers in the shallow water pool they call the swimming pool where the kids swim, as well as around the small restaurant on stilts.

Of the sharks we saw, only the grey reef sharks have any reputation for danger. In Fakarava south pass there were walls of grey reef sharks down deep, at least three groups of 25-30 sharks just sitting there, nose into the current, waiting for something to happen.

At one point they come up shallow and act a bit aggressively towards David and myself in the shallows, and we rush back to dry land. The behaviour of the sharks around the boat on anchorage change around the same time, and we figure that the film crew that are here filming a documentary about the pass are probably baiting them to get some exciting footage.

In Tahanea we use their methods when Seb spears a fish to use for bait for our cray pot. When we fail to attract crays, we decide to reuse the fish as shark bait, and Val gamely sets up her GoPro on the swim ladder and hangs the carcass over the back step.

The blacktips approach immediately, and after circling the bait for a good five minutes they start striking it.

We leave the Tuamotus a bit too soon – there are so many atolls, and it would have been amazing to spend longer here, see more, meet more sharks. It is truly remote and a destination that only cruisers and a few wealthy tourists ever get to see. We feel privileged that we got to see it, and to show our children what pristine coral reefs look like. We hope with all our hearts that the atolls survive the next century with all the changes that global warming and associated sea level rise and ocean acidification will bring.

 

Our last stop in the Tuamotus is Tahanea, an uninhabited atoll south of Fakarava which is a designated protected area because of the rare sandpipers that nest here.

Like all Tuamotuan atolls, Tahanea is a harsh environment, with small motu consisting mainly of coral rubble, coconut palms and hardy bushes clinging onto the thin layer of sand covering the central parts of the thin islets. Apart from the plants, the only obvious sign of life are the numerous large hermit crabs which scurry away as we approach with the odd coconut crab juvenile hidden amongst them.

In sharp contrast to the barren and harsh environment above the water is the lush reef below, teeming with life, thick with throngs of fish of every colour and shape. The pass offer the best visibility we’ve ever had, vertigo-inducing drop-offs over which we fly, towing the dinghy like a giant surface marker buoy as we zoom over the corals, scattering the fish.

Just below the surface hover schools of silvery needlefish, slimlining against the background of the streaks of sunlight that blur the edges between air and water. Their sharp beaks are poised into the current as they sit, ready to pounce at passing plankton. Larger white fish hang just below the surface too, disguising themselves by blending in with the light streaming down from above.

A bit further down in the water column are loose groups of the crazy unicorn fish which often hover below the dinghy. Here in Tahanea the bignose unicornfish flock to our side as soon as we stop the boat, hovering in our shadow like a group of teenagers in a mall after closing hours, waiting for something to happen. They are amazing fish which can change colour rapidly, from a dark browny black to a light blue complete with lemony white edges, their tail spines streaming beautifully behind them. The beautiful humpback snapper also gather densely below any structure they can find.

Just above the beautifully varied coral clusters are the delightfully shy damsels, dazzling in their display of colour, perched as they are above coral patches which they disappear into when they detect our presence. For shy fish they are incredibly conspicuous with their bright colours and heavy patterns: iridescent green, neon blue, black and white stripes, fiery orange, pale lemon yellow or dark with a sharply defined perfectly white tail.

 

Amongst the damsels are more surgeonfish energetically darting back and forth, showing off their brilliant colours and odd shapes. Especially stylish is the Achilles tang with its bright orange tail markings – it look like a fashionable cushion print. Another beauty is the orangespine unicornfish with delicate orange spikes across its tail base. Spines like these are the reason for the common name ‘surgeonfish’ for this family – they are razor sharp and are put to use in territorial defence in the wars of coral fish.

Hanging out with the surgeons are the delicate Moorish Idols, a plane shaped fish with a long dorsal fin filament trailing through the water behind them as their brightly striped yellow and black triangular shapes disappear after their short, pointy noses. They are similar in shape to the quick butterfly fishes that dart in and out of coral crevices, showing off their shimmering yellowy stripes and finely spiked dorsal fins. They are incredibly flat, only displaying a thin stripe with two bulging eyes when viewed front on, magically changing into rounded yellow-white discs as they turn side on.

On the sand are huge numbers of pale yellowstripe goatfish, sitting completely still trying to blend in against the white sand, only darting away when we literally swim into them. Big roaming schools of large parrotfish swim by, systematically chewing away at the coral rubble, discharging huge amounts of sandy poop. Apparently much of the sand in the tropics is the result of the digestive processes of parrotfish, a fact easy to believe when you see the clouds of poop discharged by these large fish. The parrotfish have amazing beaks, sharp and pointy and incredibly efficient at cutting coral, and we are happy they are herbivorous. With their bright colours (ranging from brownish red and orange to the common blue green, fading over bright pink to a dusty grey white) and fast beating pectoral (side) fins they do look very much like parrots of a grazing, cow like in their herd attack on the coral meadow.

Dark fat-lipped groupers poke their heads out of coral caves, the large camouflage groupers swimming aggressively up as we approach, trying to chase us off their patch. Dark peacock groupers gamely change colour as they swim from dark coral to light sand, alternating between brown with blue fin tips on reef to lightly dotted beige over sand. Huge eyes stare out at us from other caves, where dark guineafowl pufferfish are hiding.

The oddest shaped fish are perhaps the long thin cornetfish which hang motionless just above the bottom. When they detect us they change colour, aggressively alternating between a dull white and a conspicuous stripy pattern, perhaps trying to deter us by looking like a poisonous seasnake. Similar to them are the large trumpet fish, strange long creatures with stripes near the tail and long vacuum like mouths. Their huge eyes peer at us nervously as they try to figure out whether we’ve noticed them, ready to escape by rapid beats of their delicate translucent fins on the side of their long slender bodies. Some varieties are bright yellow and tend to hover near other yellow stuff as if hoping that they will blend in despite their striking shape.

On the incoming tide large bluefin trevallies come sweeping over the reef in a large group, scattering as soon as they see our dark shapes, or those of a black tip reef shark cruising menacingly by. Another large fish flying solo is the fat lipped Titan triggerfish with its bright yellow markings and sharp rectangular teeth, visible through its gaping mouth. They look very strange, almost as outlandish as the much smaller Picasso triggerfish with its surrealistic markings and furiously beating little fins.

 

 

 

 

After four days of furious snorkelling we reluctantly leave Tahanea to go to Papeete, Tahiti, where we are dropping off Seb and Val. It has been awesome to have them on board and we’ll miss them, but at least we’ll all have fond memories of our most excellent snorkelling adventures.

 

After Rangiroa we head to Fakarava, the next largest atoll in the Tuamotus. Fakarava is famous for marine life, particularly the numerous sharks dwelling in the depths of the two passes linking the huge lagoon with the outside ocean. Because of its diverse marine life the atoll is a Unesco protected area.

And sure enough, our week in Fakarava is another week of large marine animals.

First up, on the way from Rangiroa to Fakarava we meet a group of rough-toothed dolphins – large shark-like grey shapes sloping from a triangular fin to a prehistoric reptilian head complete with a narrow crocodile-like jaw. They swim alongside the boat for a while, zooming ahead, cutting across the bow as if playing chicken only to abruptly slow down and do a few jumps, displaying their beautiful pinkish underbellies. We jump in and swim with them in the blue, blue water until they lose interest in our slow progress and veer away to find something more interesting to play with. We proceed to our next mammal encounter, a pod of pilot whales greeting us just before the pass leading into Fakarava atoll.

Once inside the lagoon the water is thick with large underwater shapes moving swiftly, possibly rays but probably sharks. When taking the dinghy to shore we nearly run over a large nurse shark in the shallows – larger than our dinghy and unperturbed by our presence it flicks its long tail and glides on from under us to a few feet away where it remains, lurking by a rock undoubtedly hoping to make a bloody end to a tasty passing mollusc.

We stay a day by the main village and then head off to explore the many motu near the northern pass. Inspired by the locals, Val and David get into weaving using palm leaves and soon the boys are kitted out with skirts, belts, hats and armbands. Complete with a couple of stick on tattoos that Val brought they pose proudly for photos, pale Polynesian warriors wearing spiky sunhats, ready for anything.

The boys have quickly taken to Val and Seb who play, paint, swim and chat with endless patience. Last week we opened up a new packet of coloured pens whose fine tips have allowed ever more intricate drawings and the boat is filled with Val and Matias’s sketches of underwater scenes complete with colourful fish and skin divers kicking themselves down to peer under ledges, as well as artistic renderings of the Droideka army slowly marching through showers of bullets towards staunch Jedi knights waiting, light sabres at the ready.

With Seb on board the seafood hunting has begun and during our week in Fakarava we manage to taste pretty much every type of crab there is on the atoll (the Unesco protection does not extend to crabs). Marine hermit crabs (yucky), land hermit crabs (better, but still not great) and large big-clawed Tupa crabs (pronounced the best yet). We find some rubbish on the beach which we use to construct a cray pot which we hope will lure in some better tasting dinner.

We figure we need some seafood, because there is not much food to buy on the island. The three Magasins are stocked with a few expensive French tins as well as Danish pork liver pate, but fresh fruit and vegetables are limited to what comes in on the supply boats once a week, only to be snapped away immediately by vitamin C deprived locals. “Jeudi”, the locals say when we ask for anything fresh, Thursday. When the boat comes in. If we show up at 6 am. It is hard to eke out a living on an atoll – water is scarce and the roots of the ever present coconut trees interfere with other plant roots making little soil available for the growing of fruits or vegetables. On Rangiroa they imported soil from Tahiti to grow papaya trees, and we think of how hard it must have been for the original settlers to adjust to these arid, sunbaked atolls, used as they were to the rolling hills and fertile waterfalls of the Marquesas or Society islands from which it is thought they were excommunicated by warring neighbours.

After a couple of days in the northern part of the atoll we head to the famous southern pass, where the waters are clear, the sharks plentiful and the Family Circus eagerly awaiting a delivery of fresh baguettes.

At the southern end of the atoll there is only a small settlement, centered around a dive shop with adjacent accommodation for the many adventurers who come to dive the world class dive site that is the pass.

In the south everything is blue. Endless azure sky dotted with grey-blue fluff clouds grading to barely there egg shell blue at the horizon where a thin strip of white breakers or a small motu with yellow sand and green coconut palms briefly interrupts before the blue resumes in the water, turquoise over the shallow sand flats slowly morphing into the dark cobalt blue of the depth of the central lagoon.

The pass lives up to its reputation, and we gorge ourselves on the best snorkelling and diving we have ever done in an amazing wonderland of infinite visibility. In the pass, the tide is either rushing in or out, providing fresh water for the corals that adorn the walls and bottom. To avoid ending up swept out to sea, we snorkel and dive on the incoming tide where the swift currents provide clear water;  the ideal home for large pelagic fish and schools of 30+ grey sharks lurking in the depths. Up shallow, on the reef sides hang another 50 or so black tip reef sharks as well as numerous white tips. The sharks seem uninterested in us to the point of being almost friendly, and the children play in a shallow area near the dinghy dock called the ‘swimming pool’ where thousands of smaller fish hang out with about 20 black tip sharks. Also in the swimming pool is a group of five huge Shrek-like humphead wrasse who regard us nervously, their rotating chameleon eyes following our every movement. They are enormous, their lumpy round bodies powered by impossibly small trembly fins which they wave excitedly when they flee the advances of excited children.

It is great to meet up with the Chris, Heather and the kids of the Family Circus again and Matias and Lukas are stoked to play with their youngest girls. They spend hours throwing sand on the beach, wading in the sea-cucumber studded waters, snorkelling the reef and jumping into the water from the rooftop of the Circus. Chris tows them around in the Circus kayak and after a quick sailing lesson Matias, Lukie and Alina inadvertently take off in a sailing dinghy on their own which they manage to sail back to the boat from the shore just fine.

One night we make a bonfire on a small motu, cooking freshly caught Tupa crab, potatoes and damper on the fire, the kids toasting marshmallows and running around excitedly finding ever larger hermit crabs, the grown ups lying back on the warm sand watching the reflection of the rising moon over the water.

Halfway through our stay a French film crew arrive – the guy who did ‘March of the Penguins’ is shooting a documentary about the Fakarava Pass – and we reckon they are feeding the sharks to improve the footage. Previously passive sharks suddenly take an interest, circling the boat aggressively on the anchorage, darting towards us when we snorkel. We get a bit spooked and exit the water swiftly after having to kick off a few lusty grey sharks. The dive shop says that the increasing swell on the outside of the lagoon is causing the currents to change, making the sharks leave the depths of the pass and scatter all over. Whatever the reason we’re out of the water and spend our last day at Fakarava playing on the beach, sailing the Family Circus dinghy and kitesurfing.