…is still
Twelve hundred years ago, voyaging Polynesians discovered
the tranquil lagoons and towering peaks of Tahiti by boat and called it
paradise. They got it right.
Text
and Photo by
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ears
ago, when I was part of the community of California cruisers – an arguably
nutty subculture who forsake the comforts of land to seek adventure at sea in
small boats – there was a saying about the skills needed to cruise the South
Pacific. It was uttered in the placid anchorages of Mexico’s Sea of Cortez,
usually in the first months of the year, when couples planned their 2,800-mile
trip across the Pacific to the romanticized islands of the South Seas: “Going
from Mexico to the South Pacific is like going straight from grade school ball
to the pros.” The point is that everything is tougher and more critical in the
coral reef-lined lagoons of the isolated Tahitian islands, and on the fourth
night of my Moorings chartered yacht vacation in the pristine waters of
Raiatea, I was reminded of the truth of that statement.
It
was a little after 10 p.m. and my wife Gayl and daughter Leila were asleep in
our forward cabin. I, my friend Phil and Captain Alain, the skipper of our
luxurious 47-foot catamaran, Atoti, sat in the spacious cockpit working on my
French, Alain’s English and the boat’s cognac. The wind whistled through the
rigging above, and the star-encrusted sky that christened our first drink had
been clouded over with night-time showers.
When
Alain frowned, put down his drink and peered into the darkness that surrounded
our boat, my first thought was that my high school French had landed me in
trouble again – perhaps I had not in fact complimented Alain’s mother a
sentence before.
Alain
stood. “I think that we are moving,” he said in a calm voice that belied the
situation.
Phil
and I looked around. Visibility was about five feet beyond the rails of the
boat, which was the only one in Tuatau Bay, a deep water sanctuary on Raiatea’s
sparsely inhabited south coast. “How can he tell?” I said.
“The
wind, she is over the beam, not the bow,” Alain answered as he started the
engines.
He
was right. Basically, we were in the middle of the scenario – short of
hurricanes and lightening bolts – that occupies every cruiser’s worst
nightmares: we were dragging anchor in the middle of the night, toward shore,
with no lights to provide reference, and a coral reef blocking any escape
route. I had been through this scenario before, once, in my own boat in Tahiti.
And while it later made for interesting cocktail party chat, it was the longest
night of my life.
“What
do you want us to do?” I asked the captain.
He
turned and smiled. “Finish your cognac, mes amis.”
Hearing
the engines start up, our cook/crew, a petite French woman named Sylvie,
appeared from below, sleepy-eyed and unalarmed. She shot Alain an
I’ll-deal-with-you-in-the-morning look and went forward to retrieve the anchor.
Twenty
minutes later, after using the depth sounder to feel his way across the bay as
wind and rain pelted the decks, Captain Alain re-anchored Atoti out of harm’s
way. But his work was not done; in the fray the dinghy painter had wrapped
around one of the catamaran’s propellers and needed to be cut away. So in dove
Alain, cursing through his snorkel and gripping a knife.
When
Alain climbed back aboard, I offered him a cognac, and though he was shivering
from the wind on his wet skin (he actually had the nerve to call this winter),
he refused the drink. I knew why. He had a long, sleepless night ahead: he
would be on anchor watch until light, making sure that the anchor held through
the blow.
I
felt bad for him; I had been in his deck shoes before. Of course, I still went
to bed – someone had to play the role of pampered guest – and dreamt not of
some far off land, but the very place I was.
I had
fallen in love with the Society Islands – commonly referred to as Tahiti, which
is in fact the main island – as a young man, fresh out of college. I bought a backpack
and a plane ticket, but instead of taking the typical European summer
adventure, I headed south, to New Zealand and Australia. Tahiti was a short
stop on the way, a token two-week layover, if you will.
But
it only took those 14 days for the pure magic of the place to overwhelm me. I
wondered at its towering verdant peaks and its calm, crystal clear lagoons and
the beauty of a people who still manifest the passionate power and playfulness
of the ocean. I understood how this place could capture the hearts of great
artists from London and Melville to Gauguin, or drive the men of the Bounty to
mutiny and a life of self-exile.
In a
way, Tahiti was as destructive – or redeeming – to me as it was to those cursed
men of the Bounty. It took me a decade, but, with visions of paradise in my
head, I sold everything I had – home, cars, TV remote – bought an old cruising
boat and pointed her bow south. I had somehow convinced my wife to go along
with the scheme and we spent a year sailing in paradise, until pregnancy and
the French’s reluctance to extend our visas forced us back home.
It
was enough time to learn that Tahiti is best discovered by boat, as it was over
a thousand years ago around 800 A.D. by voyaging Polynesians from Samoa.
Travelling by boat puts you in direct contact with what the Polynesian people
have held sacred for centuries: the beautiful, lifegiving, sometimes
tempestuous but always passionate ocean. Plus the elbow room is much better in
the lagoon than on land. And in many respects Tahiti, especially the Leeward
Islands of Raiatea and Taha’a, remains as primitive and unspoiled as it was for
the first settlers. The skyscraping peaks defy development and the islands’
desolate spot in the vast southern Pacific ensure a natural mystique. It’s a place
that will grab you in one moment and seduce you in the next.
So it
was that the morning after nature’s winds had grabbed our boat and reminded us
of her power, we rose to the same perfect sunrise and blue sky promise with
which she had seduced us every other morning of the trip. Sylvie had coffee
waiting and breakfast brewing, Captain Alain was below, catching up on a few
Zs, and as I watched the new day come on, I was reminded of another saying of
the cruising world: The lows are lower and the highs are higher. True, but now
I knew that with a crewed charter, the saying is slightly altered: The lows are
only slightly lower than the highs – and the highs are out of sight. And with a
crew, the highs are available to all. Phil, his pregnant wife Annette and their
toddler Ryder were proving that. With no sailing experience, they’d be
hard-pressed to describe the difference between a main sheet and a bed sheet,
yet they were enjoying the cruise as much as veteran yachties.
I
have to say, the veteran yachties – Gayl and I – were probably enjoying it even
more. That’s because we knew what really goes on aboard those dreamy cruising
boats idling at anchor in tropical paradise: work, a lot of it. Even with a
bareboat vacation charter, there’s provisioning, navigation, anchoring,
line-pulling, and worst of all, cooking and cleaning. With captain and crew, we
only pulled a line if we felt the urge: surveyed charts for good waves or
snorkeling, not good holding; and never, ever went near that torture chamber
known as the galley. All this and the benefit of the crew’s local knowledge,
which ensures maximizing time in the best, most remote spots and going where
bareboaters aren’t allowed. Basically, we were on a moveable over-the-water
bungalow with a chauffeur, butler, cook, and different view of the sunset every
night.
Captain
Alain appeared in the cockpit as we were finishing off the scrambled eggs,
cereal, and fruit buffet that had become our normal day’s start. He had his
characteristic easy smile, an expression that matched his affable attitude and
probably went a long way toward making his 47 years look more like 30.
He
was tired, I could tell, but he’d never admit to it; especially since today was
a big day on our adventure. We were sailing to a small pearl farm on the east
side of Raiatea, owned by one of Alain’s friends, George. One of the year’s
three harvests was underway and George had agreed to allow us to visit his
one-room production house, located half a mile off land atop a spec of reef in
the lagoon. After that, we would visit one of the South Pacific’s most sacred
maraes, where chiefs held court, making decisions of life and death. “Then
perhaps a snorkel, yes?” said Alain, wiping sleep from his eyes and letting out
his playfully boyish laugh. Nothing, I had learned, could keep Alain from
getting in his daily dive with the “little fishes.”
To
get to George’s pearl farm, we sailed up Raiatea’s southeast and eastern
shores, pushed along by a southeast trade wind. And though we were clipping
along nicely at six knots, the cockpit was steady enough that my two year old
could navigate it on foot. This was the result of what has lured sailors to the
Society Islands for centuries: the barrier reefs. They’re the reason Tahiti and
paradise often occupy the same sentence: the quiet sails in flat water, the
picturesque pearl farms, the relaxed but vibrant snorkeling, even the
over-the-water bungalows. They all owe their existence to the barrier reef.
Unlike
fringing reefs, which extend from shore (Hawaii is a good example), a barrier
reef grows from the portion of island that lies deep below the ocean surface.
Barrier reefs start their lives as fringe reefs, however, over time, as the
island sinks into the sea, a lagoon is formed between land and reef, anywhere
from a few hundred yards to a few miles wide. Along with the lagoon’s stunning
beauty, the barrier reef also provides protection from the open ocean swells.
Barrier
reef systems are not common, and the Society Islands’ Leeward Islands –
Huahine, Raiatea, Taha’a, and Bora Bora – boast some of the most spectacular in
the world. While Moorings has their base on Raiatea, which shares the same reef
system with Taha’a, the three islands are close enough to visit all in one
week-long charter. This was our original plan, but after a few days in the
relaxing, warm tropical trades, we decided to let the tourists keep Bora Bora
and let Huahine remain the secret island. We were glad we did, as we found that
the lagoon that rings both Raiatea and Taha’a offers everything we could want,
from the desolate southern portion of Raiatea to the luxurious Le Taha’a
Private Island and Spa on a motu off Taha’a’s western shore. We saw few other
boats, no jet skis and all the natural wonders we could handle.
An
hour into our sail, George’s pearl farm came into sight – a few tiny houses on
stilts in the center of the lagoon. George welcomed us into one, where the
harvest was taking place. Two Tahitian teens worked in one end of the
structure, pulling strings of giant blacklipped oysters from the lagoon and
wedging small pieces of plastic between the lips. Filling trays of a dozen,
they turned them over to two men armed with what looked like dental tools. They
dug in and scooped out the black pearls and tossed them into one of two bins:
high-grades were separated from low-grades. The high-grade box was noticeably
short. This, George told us with a grimace, was because a good pearl came along
perhaps once in a hundred openings.
“In
one harvest,” Alain said, acting as interpreter, “he opens 10,000 of his 40,000
oysters. So maybe 100 very good pearls.”
Only
a portion of the farm can be harvested, due to the 16 months to three years it
takes an oyster to form a pearl. But, like fields in a Midwestern farm, the
oysters can be replanted. By placing a synthetic ball as irritant to replace
the pearl harvested, a single oyster can produce three pearls before it is
“retired” and its silvery shell is used to make shirt buttons or ash trays for
tourists.
We
left the harvest house and played tourist in George’s lagoon-side yard, picking
out pearls from a tray on a dilapidated wooden table while chickens pecked the
dirt nearby. It was about as far from the glass-cased black pearl boutiques of
downtown Papeete as you could get, but best of all, like most family treasures,
our pearls came with a story. George gave us a good deal on the pearls, which
was nice, since at that point he could have charged full retail for all we
cared.
Leaving
George’s, we walked a kilometer down the empty single-lane road to Marae Taputapuatea,
which is even harder to say than read. I have visited many maraes in my day,
and frankly, my excitement for them has slid with every visit. Many seem no
more than a bunch of lava rocks strewn in haphazard patterns, worn and
forgotten with time. But I was assured Marae T. was different and well worth
the eight-minute walk I was investing.
The
marae did turn out to be the best I’ve seen, and with good reason. Its ahu, a
lava rock courtyard where chiefs ordered everything from human sacrifices to sacred
decrees, measures 150 feet by 25 feet. There are even lava rock backrests
against which high chiefs reclined while tribesmen pleaded their cases. Another
bonus is that it comes with zero tourists. We hung around for an hour and the
only visitors we saw were a group of local school children on a field trip.
Wonder if the teachers mentioned the cannibalism?
Having
gotten our fix of land for the week, we returned to the boat, where Alain was
busy filling up his two “aqua scooters” for the afternoon snorkel. These small,
gas-powered machines buzzed around the reef at up to five knots, towing a
white-knuckled vibrating snorkler behind them. Like all vessels on the sea,
they offered a trade-off: they made it possible to see more coral and fishes in
one hour than a flipper-powered snorkler could take in in a week, but their
constant noise killed that feeling of serenity that is the highlight of any
dive. Still, they were great for reconnaissance missions for dive spots.
Besides, Alain was absolutely giddy for them and we were his test pilots for a
business venture he was toying with.
“I am
developing an ocean safari, yes?” he told me. “I can take anyone outside the
reef, to see the big fishes, the shark, barracuda, the sea turtle, maybe even
the tuna.”
In
fact, this was less crazy than it sounded. For before the week was out, Alain
had showed us all of those fish and more. We saw three different kinds of
sharks, we buzzed along with a barracuda – until it decided to turn toward us –
glided with sea turtles and even got a flash of a dogtooth tuna. Number of
other snorklers or divers spotted: zero.
I
must admit I was a bit suspicious of Alain’s motives the first time he took us
outside the reef passes and into open ocean, however. It was the third day of
the trip, but this was a carefree sailor trapped aboard a boat with a pregnant
woman and two toddlers. My daughter Leila had already taken to the habit of
rising before dawn, going to the cockpit – right above Alain’s cabin – and
banging on his hatch while yelling, “Captain Alain, go snorkeling?” So I could
picture Captain Alain returning to the Moorings center with a Jack Nicholson
smile and an empty boat, saying, “What Americans? I just went out for petrol.”
Turns
out, I needn’t have worried. In his early years he had captained his own boat
in Europe and – for reasons that did not fully survive translation – became
involved in a French government-sponsored rehabilitation program for drug
addicts. Instead of jail, or hospital, the government would send them to sea to
learn self-restraint. So there was Alain battling not only the elements but a
half dozen jonesing, seasick detoxers. “It was dificile,” Alain told me, one
night as we sipped Kalua. “But not as dangereux as the mental patients.”
That’s
right. Captain Alain, who I’m guessing must have been absolutely desperate for
money, also signed up for a program for the emotionally disturbed and
schizophrenic. “They were very crazy,” he said matter-of-factly. “But they were
so great, I really liked them.” Alain liked to pull up to ritzy yacht clubs and
crash parties with his group, he said. He’d set them loose on brass-buttoned
commodores and see how many rum punches he could down before the inevitable
“incident” took place. “It was very fun,” Alain assured me. Right up until the
night at sea when a large and disturbed man pulled a galley knife on him. “I
tried everything to calm him,” said Alain, standing to recount the story, arms
waving. “Finally, I had to hit him over the head with a, how you say…” He
pointed at the galley.
“Frying
pan,” I helped.
“Oui,
merci. Very hard, he was very big man. After that, it was not the same.” No, I
guess it wouldn’t be.
The
next morning, I moved Leila away from Alain’s hatch and checked the galley.
Yes, all the frying pans were there.
That
day, we decided we needed a little extra pampering; we’d sail for a resort. We
had been up the east coast of Taha’a and circumnavigated Raiatea, spending most
of our time in the southern portion of the lagoon, where we had not seen another
boat and Alain’s “little fishes” outnumbered people about a million to one –
and that was inside the lagoon.
But
part of the fun of stepping into the wild – if you can call a million dollar
catamaran the wild – is returning to pampered civilization. Raiatea and Taha’a
are not known for their resorts or
tourist trade, not the way Bora Bora is (there are jet ski tours around
Bora Bora now – talk about paradise lost), but there is one, Le Taha’a Private
Island and Spa, built in the last few years, that stands out among the islands.
Located on a private motu – an islet on the reef – over a mile off Taha’a’s
western shore, it has only over-the-water bungalows, private beach and easy
access to some of the area’s best coral gardens. It also has a great patch of
sand for anchoring, and by mid-morning we had a better view of Bora Bora than
the resort’s best suite – which goes for over a grand a night.
We
piled in the dinghy and headed for the nearest beachhead, certain to meet
resistance. I had done the same thing at the ritzy Palmilla in Mexico years
before and been greeted by an armed security guard 10 feet off the beach. Here,
I was hoping that a giddy Frenchman, a pregnant woman and two toddlers would
soften up any resistance. I was almost disappointed when we landed on the beach
without incident and casually made our way to the pool.
The
pool was a tranquil spot, a few couples at the bar enjoying quiet drinks and a
few more studying cheap paperbacks. That is, until we arrived. Pools and kids
equal splashing, laughing, noise. So when a man approached us, I cursed myself
for not shaving and started looking for escape routes back to the boat.
“Sir,”
he said, leaning over the water.
“Who,
me?” I said, holding Leila close.
“Oui.
Would you like me to take a picture?” He motioned to our camera. Hmm, maybe the
French are all right after all.
After
a top-rate SCUBA dive the next morning through Blue Nui Dive, which has a
location at Le Taha’a, it was time to move closer to the Moorings base for an
early disembarking the next morning. A slight pall descended on us as we sailed
south along the reef, the lush island of Taha’a to our port, Bora Bora floating
on the horizon to our starboard. The week had been filled with everything I
left land to find – discovery, adventure and a little relaxation. But it had
gone by so fast; it felt as if civilization were a looming squall, one we were
forced to take head on.
I
looked toward Bora Bora and the open ocean, readily accessible via Taha’a’s
Paipai Pass, and a hint of desperate madness hit me, the same desperation that
must have hit Christian Fletcher centuries before. I looked at Captain Alain
and saw Captain Bligh, forcing me back to cold civilization...
But
it was Captain Alain himself who saved the day, again. A child’s smile curled
across his lips and he checked the time.
“One
more snorkel with the little fishes, yes?” he said.
I
didn’t say anything. I just went to unpack my dive gear as Alain turned the
wheel.
* * *
For detailed
information, visit www.moorings.com or call (888) 952-8420.