Ship’s Log Week Twenty Two
Location: Makemo, French Polynesia - 16°37'29.30"S, 143°34'7.08"W
On 27th March 3.00-6.00am, I had the early morning watch. Riding through the exhaustion of the Pacific crossing, and buoyed by a sense of relief at our imminent arrival on land, I waited with eager anticipation for the first light of day. As dawn crept across the inky black night sky, the looming outline of Hiva Oa’s rocky landscape appeared on Walrus starboard side and Skipper Dicky joined me on deck.
Silently Walrus sailed on, for what seemed an age. Imi Ola’s tricolour light, atop her mast, to Walrus port side and just behind, a reassuring sign that a fellow WARC boat was adopting a similar approach, in the same timeframe.
After 22 days at sea we had high hopes of our destination.
Gerald joined Dicky and I as we scanned the murkiness for lit red and green buoys and other visual cues that matched the chart plotter’s carefully planned course through treacherous rocky outcrops to a safe anchorage.
Distances are difficult to judge in the dark at sea. We sailed parallel to the rocky coastline for what seemed an age, watching the lights of Atuona, scattered across the hillsides, gradually come into focus
After about an hour, we agreed the gap in the rocks to Walrus starboard was the entrance to the harbour and our destination. As always once approaching land, time seemed to speed up as we scanned the now visible landscape, navigated past a small rocky island mid-channel, whilst trying to identify an anchorage for Walrus.
We dropped anchor outside the harbour wall alongside Montana and other WARC boats. Walrus was rocking and rolling in the swell but safe and at rest after the 3000 mile crossing, albeit in need of some TLC and repairs.
Time for a cup of tea… a moment’s rest and relaxation before familiar worries intruded: Would Walrus’ anchor hold? Was Walrus anchored sufficiently far from other yachts? The rocky shore? And close enough for access to the shore and water to top up our now virtually empty supply of water?.
R & R rating… 2/10
Bureaucracy prioritised…
First impressions count… After sheltering in a sudden downpour of rain at the side of a muddy track leading to the harbour wall with its mix of cruising yacht dinghies and local fishing vessels, we eagerly piled into the taxi taking us to Rally Control head quarters in the island’s one and only hotel, high above the bay. The wonderfully warm WARC yellow shirt welcome, with big hugs from Lesley, advice from Paul, a garland of sweet smelling jasmine for me and brightly coloured seeds for the guys made real the sense of arrival that had eluded us when anchoring in the bay.
There was a small pool, with a beautifully manicured garden and cockerel strutting along the path towards us. An abundance of grapefruit or, more accurately, pommelo, dangled from a tree which overhung the verandah. Vibrant magenta flowers in abundance on shrubs surrounding paths and under and around the palm trees, dripping with coconuts and providing a modicum of much needed shade. We’ve arrived… Nearly.
Slowly by degrees, Walrus’ crew was beginning to un-crumple and come alive to the verdant, deep valleyed surroundings of Hiva Oa. Getting there by degrees, R and R rating was definitely rising at this point.
After a welcome hour off on the beautiful wooden hotel verandah, overlooking the bay of Attouna, we set off by minibus to first, visit the gendarmerie to complete official entry regulations.
It’s surprising how quickly we had adjusted our expectations of ‘how things work’. We had, by now, become familiar with the engagement of an agent to navigate entry requirements and access services in accordance with local customs and relationships. The importance of a visit by the WARC fleet to the local economy combined with the sure-footed experience of the WARC organisation meant prioritisation of our entry into the country.
No sooner were we out of the taxi and looking around at our first sight of Atouna town, when Laurent, the WARC agent for the region, appeared and beckoned us into a basic building set behind a thick hedge. As we entered we were reminded of close connections with France by the sign on the wall which signalled imminent office closure for the duration of a two and a half hour lunch break, due to start within the next 20 minutes, and posters setting out different arrangements for entry for those outside the EU. The impact of Brexit had spread to the South Pacific.
Ours is not to reason why. Reasoning ‘why?’ just gets in the way when faced with a maze of labyrinthine legalities and seemingly nonsensical bureaucracy disguising the route to that all important moment when entry to a country has been permitted. We had learned that a wrong turn and access can be denied, as had been the fate of one or two boats, in countries visited to date.
Crew members from the UK and USA entering French Polynesia by boat, must show they have a one-way flight ticket out of French Polynesia, within the time allowed for a visit (90 days for those from the UK and 30 days for Americans) in order to have their stay authorised and passports stamped, The logic of this defied us… was the expectation that we fly out leaving Walrus anchored in the Marquesas?
There was a complication, the print out of our flight tickets (bought by visiting crew member, Jay, on air miles) wasn’t sufficiently clear. There was no Wi-Fi in the gendarmerie, as ever evidence of the purchase of the all-important flight tickets was available on the airline’s website… but not without the internet.
The clock ticked, the temperature rose, there was much to-ing and fro-ing between back office administrators and Laurent. Dicky snoozed loudly, the combined effect of exhaustion, age and beer (he’d quaffed a couple in the hotel), taking effect. The buzz of an insect determinedly circuiting the gendarmerie added to the tension.
A seeming age later, we exited, finally having satisfied the officials we had fulfilled the complex entry requirements and would be leaving on a plane shortly. Within moments, the flights were cancelled, the hurdle having been jumped.
Taxes have to be paid, always. The next and final piece of the French Polynesian entry requirement jigsaw puzzle was a visit to the town hall to pay our dues. We were given a figure in the thousands, our calculations indicated a reasonable sum - somewhere between £20-£30 equivalent. A swift negotiation took place to enable payment in US dollars, with an exchange rate very much in favour of the Town Hall, anything to get us through this final hurdle of entry.
For Skipper Dicky and Gerald high on the list of activities that count as rest and relaxation is a cold beer on arrival and a sit down in a shady spot. After cooking at sea in Walrus’ tiny galley, whilst being rocked and ricocheted around in accordance with the swell of the ocean, for me, eating out on the day of arrival trumps everything else. For those of you who have been watching the vlogs, you’ll know that I’m not averse to the addition of a margarita cocktail.
The delay and our early stage of orientation to new surroundings had left Walrus’ crew a little fractious and in need of R & R or at the very least lunch.
A chance encounter with the ‘yellow shirt’ team, Lesley and Paul, and we had the offer of a lift and directions to a hidden dining spot for lunch in town. We bagged the last table, ably moved by madam patron into a small patch of shade in the garden. We were at the beginning of our journey of learning about the Marquesan way of life, one which has at its heart a sense of community, a generosity of spirit and a dedication to all things culinary that pertain to the abundant local food sources. Lunch was delicious, simple and just what was needed. All too soon it came to an end, with another rainstorm.
After a tour of the hardware store and a mile long walk back to Atouna harbour dinghy dock we navigated our way to the outer anchorage and Walrus. No mean feat in a small dinghy designed for a maximum of three people, now carrying four and being buffeted by the strong swell. Once aboard, after a cup of tea, the crew set about the tasks in hand. Water-maker fixing, tidying, cleaning and generally getting things back into some sort of working order.
What happened over the course of the next 24 hrs took every last ounce of Walrus’ crew’s resilience, persistence and strength of character to overcome, maintain a modicum of morale and restore a sense of team.
Depths of Despair
In the course of events, I forget when, Gerald lost his prescription glasses overboard. The water was murky, about 11 metres deep and there was a strong swell. This didn’t bode well. The few personal items that crew members have are all vital - Gerald’s loss was felt by all.
Ever resourceful, Gerald marked the spot where the glasses had pitched into the sea with a fender tied to spare anchor chain, so that, at the first possible opportunity he could free dive to the seabed in the small chance that the glasses had sunk straight down and lodged in a rocky crevice.
On our return to Walrus after the completion of visitor bureaucracy and lunch re-evaluation of our anchoring spot led to a decision to move Walrus 200 metres further from the rocky shoreline. Skipper Dicky took up position at the helm. Gerald and I at the bow ready to winch up the anchor. Walrus engine started and Dicky engaged the helm to move forward, before the anchor was fully lifted from the seabed.
Unbeknown to any of us the anchor had become lodged in a thick rope fishing net. As Dicky edged Walrus forward the anchor became more entangled.
The exchanges that followed, back and forward… ‘stop’ from the bow… ‘I can’t hear you…’… ‘what’s the issue?’, from the helm, led to several minutes of confusion, in which time Gerald had leapt into the dinghy and was endeavouring to wrench rope from anchor. The anchor is of necessity a heavy piece of metal and by this time it was swinging just above the water line. Gerald’s swift action freed the anchor, whilst just avoiding its swing backwards and forwards causing damage to Gerald or Walrus.
The anchor was freed from the rope and firmly lodged in place at the bow, but nerve-wracking moments were not at an end. By now Walrus had drifted into a position that was too close to other boats to anchor, and reversing was the only option to avoid the main channel where boats travelled in and out of the harbour.
The swell remained a constant, rocking Walrus to and fro and us with it. Reversing Walrus is never easy at the best of times and in these somewhat treacherous conditions more challenging than ever. The trapping of the anchor had left all a little shaken and now we were facing the re-positioning of Walrus, which was not going well. Walrus had moved back so far she had dislodged the fender that Gerald had anchored to mark the spot where his glasses had fallen in. All hope of finding the glasses was now sunk.
There was a call for fenders to wedge between Walrus and a small yacht to her port side which she was moving directly towards. I held a fender firmly between one boat and another to avoid boat on boat contact. Meanwhile we were struggling to get Walrus into a reasonably safe position - it seemed that something was amiss.
We were once again blown away by the kind and generous-spirited nature of our fellow WARC sailors. Joe from Altair and a crew member from nearby Genestho, seeing we were in difficulty, moved close to Walrus with their dinghies acting as a tug might, guiding and pulling her to a place of safety. No mean feat, in the circumstances.
Between Skipper Dicky and Gerald a decision was made to anchor when we were in the least risky position that could be achieved under the circumstances.
The anchor was lowered and crew members took a moment to breathe a sigh of relief, thank their fellow sailors and assess the damage… emotionally and physically. Everyone was safe.
But what of Walrus? Why had moving her into position been so challenging? What could have happened? As ever, Gerald was swift to get into problem-solving mode and stripped off, with snorkel gear at the ready to look underneath Walrus’ hull. His assessment came moments later, her propeller was caught in the same thick rope fishing net that had trapped the anchor - in nautical terms, Walrus had a ‘fouled prop’.
Having looked forward for so many days to some down time and an end to the trials and tribulations faced while crossing the Pacific, this news came as a blow. In our state of near exhaustion following the Pacific ocean passage, the fallout caused by a seemingly easy task of moving Walrus’ anchor, perhaps undertaken a little quickly, had left an air of disharmony onboard that even a ‘nice-cup-of-tea-and-a-sit-down’ couldn’t undo.
After a time at sea, I’ve learnt, that plans for re-engaging with life ashore take on a greater significance, having been anticipated for days and during the hours spent on night watch, in particular.
In the course of re-anchoring time had passed quicker than any of us had realised. It was Skipper Dicky that clocked the impossibility of Walrus’ crew getting from the boat in time for the taxi ride from the harbour to the much looked forward to Marquesan buffet with haka dance and local songs. There was not a bats’ chance that we would make it from Walrus in her small dinghy to the quay. In any regard, shouldn’t we sort out the fouled prop? Or was it getting too dark?
Gerald had started to plan how to rid the prop of the fishing net, I resigned myself to cooking from the few tins and packets of pasta that had survived the 22 days at sea and headed for the galley.
Skipper Dicky made the decision that we needed an evening out and took action, for which, I for one, was grateful. We headed for the Marquesan dance a little later than planned and a little chastened, but we made it. A silence had descended between crew members as we reflected on our circumstances, each with our own take on the woes of the previous 24 hrs.
Others may have noticed Walrus’ crew was somewhat quieter and less enthusiastic than usual, as we licked our wounds and tried to regain a sense of equilibrium after the day’s events. The crew of Montana, provided cheery company and talk of normal things, I don’t think we had realised how much this distraction was needed. I was grateful for Kristoff’s talk of Montana’s galley and his farmstead back home in Germany, it was just what I needed to take my mind off things.
The delicious food, our first taste of South Pacific cuisine, the earthy beating of drums and the warm enthusiasm with which Marquesan men, women and one young boy performed the haka dance couldn’t fail to bring back some of the joie de vie that had been missing for the past few hours. We returned, with others, to the harbour and dinghies in a lighter mood but with the challenge of getting back to Walrus in the dark through swell that had, if anything increased.
I took up the kind offer made by Pauline and Lee from Samsara, of a ride in a more substantial dinghy than Walrus’ own. Even so, when faced with getting from the dinghy, which was bouncing up and down, and onto Walrus stern platform, which was rolling, rocking, rising and falling, I confess I lost my nerve. It took some minutes to brave getting across the seeming chasm between one small vessel and the other, Walrus. I arrived on deck shaken and in need of a hug.
The depths of despair were yet to be reached - there was more to come. In our fragile state we were a crew that needed reparation, sleep and some good news.
Rock Bottom
The morning brought with it, Skipper Dicky’s determination to address at least one of the problems of the day - our lack of water. He set out early, in Walrus little dinghy with all the empty water containers he could find, heading for a tap on the harbour wall, where we knew there to be non-potable water suitable for washing.
On Skipper Dicky’s return journey the dinghy engine, at the best of times cranky and in need of tender coaxing to get going, conked out completely. There followed a period of engine cord pulling - think old school lawn-mower on the first day of summer after being left in the garden shed for months during a long cold winter. On this occasion, no amount of gentle persuasion or foul language could get the engine back into life. As Dicky fixed the oars in place and began to row in the strong swell, Joe from Altair, took pity and came to our rescue once again with a dinghy tow back to Walrus.
I suspect you may have guessed that this was not the end of the dinghy saga, given the turn of luck we’d experienced since arrival. As Skipper Dicky approached Walrus in preparation for boarding with the filled water containers, her stern rose up and down with the waves, and with it the hydro-generator bracket rose up and came down with force on the front section of the dinghy tearing a hole several inches long.
We had just 24 litres of drinking water on board and limited provisions. The dinghy and our only means of getting ashore was now well and truly incapacitated. Walrus had a fouled prop and could not be moved. Sleep and any activity on board was a challenge in the constant and not insignificant swell that was buffeting Walrus and adding to her crew’s discomfort.
Morale sank to rock bottom at that moment. I was as close as I’d been at any time on the voyage to tears. A brief moment of hopelessness, fiercely defended against until now, descended.
Can Walrus’ crew get things back on track?
And then… we put on our big-girl-pants, I did anyway, pulled up our socks (that’s what boys do, I think) and did the best that each of us could to improve our situation.
I messaged Rally Control to inform them of our circumstances and contacted newly found friends and super kind folk, Diane and Colin on Fruition to request a loan of their second dinghy. Their response was immediate and hugely reassuring… ‘anything you need, darling’. We were touched by the heart-warming comradeship and generosity of spirit. Now we just had to get through the next few days and sail to Nuka Hiva 23 miles away to meet up with Fruition to take up the kind offer.
Meanwhile, Gerald secured the loan of air and a mask from Joe (Altair) so that further investigation of the fouled prop could be carried out..
A plan was beginning to hatch, if the prop could be freed from the fishing net then we could motor into the inner harbour where the swell was much reduced and life on board at anchor would be more comfortable.
A bread knife was sharpened in readiness for the job in hand, the intention to hack and saw at the ancient thick rope wound around Walrus’ propeller. Gerald prepared himself to swim beneath Walrus’ hull with flippers, mask and air at the ready. Everything hung on the outcome of his dive.
Gerald disappeared beneath the surface of the waves. Time stood still. Jay and I waited on deck, in silence, with baited breath. Skipper Dicky was down below, containing his nerves by planning a route to the inner harbour.
After what seemed an age Gerald re-appeared on Walrus stern ladder steps, we gathered round for news… In his understated and matter-of-fact manner that we’d come to know and love he recounted lifting most of the rope fishing net off the prop and hacking the remainder. With a half smile, Gerald told us the prop was free.
A round of applause for Walrus’ hero of the hour, Gerald. Things were looking up.
After a brief re-group… an even better plan was hatched. If we moored up against the harbour wall alongside fishing boats we could fill the now completely empty water tanks from a hose pipe and get ashore, take a taxi into town and re-provision. This would seriously improve our predicament and get Walrus and her crew back on track.
The barrier (there had to be one), we had been advised this course of action by visiting yachts was strictly forbidden. No visiting yachts were allowed to moor in Atouna harbour. A Skipper Dicky saying; ’Rules are for fools and the guidance of the wise…’ With no water, food or dinghy we considered there were few options open to us and, there was a sufficiently genuine risk, to request an exception.
I contacted Rally Control, who were sympathetic, but understandably re-stated the rules. Next course of action, I contacted yacht services to request (inform) the authorities of our circumstances and intentions and beg forgiveness. Another of Skipper Dicky’s sayings (he has many) was to be our rule of thumb for the day; ‘it’s better to seek forgiveness than permission’.
We proceeded with the plan, mooring stern-to on the harbour wall, taking care to ensure multiple fenders prevented potential damage to other vessels. Initially, Walrus’ presence incurred nothing more than raised eye-brows and I’m guessing low level disapproval, with the Marquesan equivalent of English ‘tutting’ over such misdemeanours as a teenager cycling along the pavement or tourists from overseas failing to understand queueing etiquette (‘standing in line’, for those from the other side of the Atlantic).
So far so good. We filled the water tanks with 450 litres of water. Huge sighs of relief.
Maybe we lingered too long before heading into town for provisions, maybe Dicky and Jay stripping off to their underpants and showering under the hose pipe on the harbour wall was a step too far? It seems the mood changed.
Whilst in the supermarket, about a 10 minute drive from the harbour, Dicky received a call from Gerald, who had remained onboard. With somewhat urgent tone, Gerald explained that an angry fisherman was on the quay with a large knife and was threatening to cut our mooring lines unless we moved immediately.
Unbeknown to us (we had no internet access) a message had been put out to all over the Rally Control messaging system; ‘Walrus, return to your boat, you are offending the locals’.
Phew…. Supermarket scramble ensued to get the much needed provisions through the checkout, into the taxi and back on board, while Gerald initially, then of all of us tried to pacify the by now angry gathering on the quayside, including yellow shirts from WARC. The clear message: enough’s enough.
We moved Walrus and took up anchor in the inner harbour. We were genuinely sorry to have caused upset to people whose culture had seemed so warm and welcoming on initial landing. It seemed that between one communication and another there had been misunderstandings.
Time to move on but not until we’d explored the island for a day and found out a little bit about the culture and customs of the Marquesan people.
Marquesas islands work their magic.
I had little in the way of preconception of the Marquesas Islands and wondered what we might find.
The Marquesas are the newest of the French Polynesian islands, they feel isolated, positioned as they are 3000+ miles across the Pacific from landfall to the East and at the far reaches of Polynesia, at a distance of about six hundred miles from the more developed destination of Tahiti, to the west. The archipelago is made up of twelve islands formed through volcanic activity, with rugged coastlines of steep sheer rock descending into the sea. Six islands are inhabited and have interiors lush with greenery and fruit trees growing on rich red, fertile soil.
I’d read that the culture of the Marquesas first became known to the wider world through Herman Melville’s (author of Moby Dick), book, Typee (1846). Melville described the life of the Marquesans with reference to cannibalism and wahines in ways that, were initially dismissed as fictitious and later when his stories were corroborated, gave rise to views about the islands as a savage, South Sea paradise. Typee is on my Kindle and reading list for this voyage, I look forward to finding out more.
Paul Gauguin (1848-1903) lived out his days on the island of Hiva Oa and added to the outside world’s perception of French Polynesian and Marquesan life, in particular, as sensual, colourful, and at one with a vibrant natural world.
What would we find now, in the 21st century, when much of the world seems to be in a state of flux and significant change on the one hand, and on the other, travel has a certain sameness with the inevitability of finding the Golden Arches of McDonalds not far away, no matter what the destination? I was curious to find out how everyday life had evolved.
On a trip around Hiva Oa, ably guided by local Marquesan, Mark, we drove up to the central heights on a slalom of narrow roads, winding back and forth in switchback fashion through lush rainforest dripping with fruit in places and bare, sheer red rock in others. I recognised bananas, papaya, mangoes and limes growing wild, there were other fruit that were not familiar. Cows and ponies were tethered in places along the road side, an indication of Marquesan’s small-scale farming.
We started to learn a little of the history when we asked about the concrete road, which appeared relatively newly constructed. The road was built in the 1990s with funding from the French Government, some of which came from the taxes that Marquesan people themselves had paid. A substantial sum, however, had been provided through compensatory payments made to French Polynesia, when nuclear testing (1960s - 1990s) in the Tuamotus ended.
On the way down to Puamaloo to the North of the island, we stopped at a view point where Mark pointed out a large flat rock about 100 metres away, perched high above a drop down to the beautiful sea below. Gerald’s ‘human iguana’ instincts kicked in. He was off to climb the stone and stand in the place where as recently as 1980, a virgin had been sacrificed.
Mark explained that until the road was built the Marquesan people living in the small village we were about to visit had had little contact with the outside world and continued living according to ancestral traditions, including those of human sacrifice and cannibalism.
We learned of the narrative history that had been passed down through the generations and with it the belief that if the chief and lead warrior ate parts of members of the community that reflected a particular skill or expertise, for example, ‘good running feet’, the skills would be passed down to the next generation. We were reassured to learn that the advent of the road, visiting missionaries and, I’m guessing tourism, although not much in evidence, had led to this practice coming to an end in the latter half of last century.
We were introduced to the early art and symbolic craftsmanship of the Marquesans, at an open archaeological site, set back a little from the ocean and maintained for any to view. There we found examples of tiki sculptures, naive representations carved in stone in the shape of people or with human features. The sculptures were symbolic of fertility, health, strength and peace. Tiki sculptures are a feature of the Marquesan Islands and are found in numerous sites. Most are ancient and pre-date carbon dating, some are recent. I loved the simple naivety, and almost cartoon-like shapes and features of these unique works of art. I wondered how many of our current well-recognised sculptors had gained inspiration. I could certainly see a resemblance to one or two of Henry Moore’s large works.
Mark explained, the traditional ways are being championed by the younger generation and there has been a resurgence in the use of the Marquesan language and the art of tattooing, frowned upon by missionaries bringing messages of Christianity to the islands. We found the commitment to the Marquesan tradition was very much alive today and grew to know and use the Marquesan greeting; ‘Cou-hoa’ (pronounced ‘cow ho aa’) that rang out from everyone we met or passed by.
Lunch, a feast of raw fish in coconut milk, deep fried breadfruit, curried goat, rice, beef and banana served three ways, was set out on a simple table, in what appeared to be a restaurant in the dog pen adjoining a farmhouse. ‘Wow.. delicious’, was the unanimous verdict. Dicky keeps a ‘dinners’ spreadsheet’ of all the restaurants we’ve visited, with just a few words, no more than twelve, to describe the experience. I’m not sure what words he used to describe the ambience on this occasion - I must find out.
On the way back to the harbour and the pre-arranged water taxi ride back to Walrus, Mark stopped to hack off a huge bunch of bananas from a tree at the side of the road with the lethal looking knife he kept in the back of his truck and again, in his father’s garden, to cut down ripe pommelos, lemons, papaya, chillis and pomegranites as a gift for us to take back to Walrus. I reflected that such generosity and thoughtfulness from a complete stranger is an uncommon experience in today’s busy world. It felt a rare and precious moment.
I was thankful that the tour of the island with Mark had transformed our early checkered experience of the Marquesas and of Hiva Oa, in particular.
We sailed Walrus to Nuku Hiva, a thankfully uneventful overnight sail, our destination an easy anchorage in the wide open bay of Taiohae.
The end of Leg 4 celebrations and prize-giving took place in a municipal hall overlooking the strip of garden, with tikis and beautiful gardens (the Marquesans have a flair for horticulture) that fringed the bay. There was a buzz in the air as crew members reconnected with other boats and tales of the ocean crossing were swapped and shared.
The event got off to a good start with a rum punch. When everyone had taken their seats, we sang Happy Birthday to Tracey from Mageia and one of the WARC children, and then there was the all important prize giving.
Awards were given for anything from ‘the boat most demonstrating the spirit of WARC’ unsurprisingly, previously won by Altair, who had been so helpful to us in the past few days, to the all important Multi-hull, and monohull Class A and B (Walrus’ class) awards for getting to the destination within the shortest time taking account of a number of handicaps, including size and engine hours used for propulsion.
Suffice to say, Walrus’ crew were taken by complete surprise when it was announced that Walrus was the winner of her class. We were touched by the cheers from the audience… it was time for a moment of pride in Walrus’ achievements. Tears of joy this time. Our prize - a plastic Marquesan doll with solar-powered swaying hips - to be mounted on teak with a silver plaque on our return home.
The evening ended with a pig roast, fearsome, bare chested haka dancing and a tattooed fire eater, the audience was carried by the warmth (literallly and metaphorically), and authenticity of the performance. We went to bed that night much cheered, buzzing with the emotion of the evening’s events and ready to enjoy our stay on the island.
During the days that followed there were many memorable, magic moments.
Marquesans have an affinity with horses (or rather ponies - none are above 14 hands 2 inches). I’d watched young guys riding feisty, good-looking ponies along the side of the road and at the weekend a dozen or more boys on ponies raced each other along the beach. There was a synchronicity between ponies and riders that spoke of a natural horsemanship.
On the day that Claire (from Aqua Luna) and I were booked to go horse riding, I was as excited as a child on the first day of the school holidays. I arrived on the quayside ready to set off an hour too early and stood watching the tiger sharks circling around the moored fishing boats in the hope of fish scraps, before realising my misreading of the ship’s clock and heading back, with Gerald’s help, to Walrus, to curb my excitement.
Claire and I experienced first hand Marquesan’s love of horses and were privileged to have a rare window into rural life. The farmstead where the ponies were kept consisted of a rough shack with animal skulls adorning the walls, a cowhide on the floor and homemade chairs. It spoke of a simple, hard life devoted to the land and animals. Claire fell in love with the puppies in the stable yard. I marvelled at the vibrant garden alongside the windy path between the farmstead and stables.
We rode for five hours along narrow winding paths through the ferns and lush green pine forests high up in the interior of the island. We stopped deep in the forest by a lone cow for lunch of baguettes, fresh mango and grapefruit, ably prepared by the lead horseman with one or other of the sharp knives he had attached to his saddle. The ponies took the opportunity to snatch at grass and other vegetation, as they were left to wander freely with the reins of their simple rope bridles hanging loose. On our return each pony was given food, hosed down carefully and then turned out or tethered, before the guests were attended to. The end of a magic day.
Meanwhile Gerald had his own adventure. After some hesitation he decided to visit the famous tattooist on Nuku Hiva island to talk about the possibility of getting a tattoo. We’d arranged to meet in the central, open cafe and Dicky and I waited and wondered whether Gerald had taken the plunge. He arrived and bared his upper arm, where there was a simple, geometric representation of his life journey in the easily recognisable style of the islands. Gerald has a beautiful memento of our time in the Marquesas which he’ll take with him forever.
I re-provisioned from the market garden stalls near the harbour where local women sold the produce from their gardens. I’d learned that the supply ship came to Nuka Hiva island once a fortnight, in between items such as eggs, tomatoes, onions and meat were in short supply. I gathered as much as I could from the meagre shelves of Taiohae’s supermarkets - feeling a sense of achievement when I discovered eggs behind the counter in the ‘shop up the hill’, and bought the maximum of a dozen. I reflected on the easy walk to the Co-op in Sandwich, back home, and the assumption of finding shelves laden with a wide choice of goods. It’s easy to take the privileges of living in the West for granted.
Meanwhile, Gerald and Dicky refuelled Walrus, filled empty water containers and addressed boat maintenance tasks.
We said goodbye to crew member, Jay, over dessert and a glass of wine in the only hotel in town and wished him well as he set off for home (Maryland) and then Clipper race training in England.
It was time to move on. After just a short sail around the coast we arrived in a hidden cove reached through a narrow entrance between towering high sheer rock, green with bushes and a lone tree, which looked to have slipped from on high and wedged halfway down in a crevice, on one side and on the other, bare rocks spilling into the water.
As we turned the corner into the cove and looked for a spot to anchor we experienced the magic of Daniel’s cove. Beautiful calm, still waters, the slight lapping of water on Walrus hull, cockerels crowing and goats bleating from high up above. Was that a coconut floating by or a large green turtle? Both it turned out, side by side.
Next day we went ashore by dinghy to explore, first a beach with crabs scuttling to and fro as they went back and forwards from the shore to the numerous holes dug into the sand. Then a second beach around a rocky outcrop, this time with black volcanic shingle and a small lagoon. A few hundred metres up a track, we found a family at home in their typically basic wooden house surrounded by beautiful gardens and orchards of fruit trees.
No sign outside, we were however invited to have homemade lemonade and asked if we wanted lunch, if so we were to sit down at one o’clock… it was made clear that if we arrived late, say at 3 o’clock, no food would be on offer. We duly complied with instructions and were served a delicious lunch of fragrant barbecued tuna, deep fried bread fruit and other unknown vegetables.
Walrus final destination in the Marquesas Islands was Ua Pou, where the only way was definitely up… if you wanted to meet and try or buy the wares of eccentric German chocolate maker, Mannfred.
Dicky and I had had a failed attempt at visiting the much talked about waterfall on our first day on the island, we had however discovered the entrance to Mannfred’s residence, a rusting arch with frying pan and metal rod hanging at the side, and not recognised it as the renowned chocolate maker’s house.
Instead we made the long walk up the hill, almost to the point at which the pinnacles at the centre of Uo Poa start and on our return journey had the delightful experience of being invited to tour fruit trees being tended by a Marquesan guy, we had passed earlier that morning. We were humbled as he grabbed branches and cut down fruit after fruit to fill our bags, all given freely with the generosity of spirit that we had heard was the way of these islands.
We retraced our steps the next day and met the extraordinary Mannfred and his Tahitian partner in their paradise, with scattering of wooden buildings, where the secret chocolate method was applied and bars of dark, near raw chocolate were produced. We duly purchased a few bars which enhanced the desserts served on Walrus for the next week.
Laden with pommelos and limes, the prize find of a dozen eggs, aubergines and the onions, a welcome thank you gift from Bruce, who we’d invited for supper in Daniel’s bay, and we raised anchor and set off.
The Tuamotus - low-lying islets
A four day sail, with wind on Walrus’ beam and things are back to normal.
Gerald had his sextant out at regular intervals and on his off-watch time he was stuck into pages of related maths calculations, or listening to an ‘In our time’ podcast. Dicky was reading Max Hasting’ book about the First World War, ‘Catastrophe’ with light relief a book about the evolution of cricket - both book exchange finds, the former in Gibraltar, the latter in Nuka Hiva. I have been reading about Dialectical Behaviour Therapy for Adolescents at risk of suicide, in between filming and writing.
The Tuamotos are a series of 79 atolls covering 75,000 square miles of the French Polynesian South Pacific. Forty of the atolls are populated. The atolls are formed of the barrier reef that remains after the volcanic islands have sunk into the ocean, leaving a central lagoon. The word Tuamotus is said to mean ‘many motus’ or ‘many low-lying sandy islets’.
We’re taking things slowly on the approach, timing our arrival at Makemo to coincide with a slack tide at the passage in and out of the atoll.
To come, Gerald’s scuba dive on the wall of sharks in Fukarava (and the loss of the DJI camera - expect a delay before the next vlog is released)… our sail to Tahiti… and the first taste of city life in some time and Ted’s eagerly awaited arrival. Ted is Dicky’s oldest friend, they’ve known each other since they were six years old, they learned to sail together. Ted is joining Walrus for the rest of the circumnavigation and is coming out laden with spares and other needed items (a new DJI camera).
Until then I hope you had a wonderful Easter break and are enjoying the first real signs of spring.
P.S Also to come… as I write, is the birth of Roland (the Walrus Around the World website architect) and Caroline’s daughter… I can’t wait to be a grandma.