Swimming in the Sea

Both yesterday and today’s posts might be more correctly titled “Procrastinating over deadlines”… But then I came up with another name for being off the boat exploring when I should be earning money to pay for a new rudder, a replacement outboard and Marquesan-priced lettuce: Research. I’m not slacking off, I’m researching future stories.

Honest.

Yesterday—when we were on a cliff some 400’ above the ocean we saw a bay filled with big black manta rays. I’m not sure if you’ve ever looked down from the top of a 40-story building, but from up there even cars look small, which made us think that mantas that looked big from over 400’ must be awfully big.

the four dark shadows are mantas

 So this morning we got another early-ish start (well, it was meant to be an early start…) and headed out in the kayaks. Ev and I used to ocean kayak all the time—we’d go off on week-long expeditions and could paddle for hours on end. This was in nice fibreglass boats though. These days we have floppy inflatable boats that make you work for every stroke, and here, with the breeze, choppy seas and big swell, we worked really hard.

But eventually we were out of the bay and around the point and aimed at where we thought the cove was. The swell, which had been unnoticeable from 400’, lifted us and sent us surfing toward a volcanic-rock reef. The waves refracted off the cliffs and exploded on the rocky shore. The mantas, which were so obvious from above, were no where to be seen.

Ev and Maia paddled their double one way, while I aimed myself at a frothy area in the middle. Pausing and looking down I saw a fast-moving cloud’s shadow darken the water. Then I realized the shadow had a diamond shape to it. “It’s bigger than my kayak. I saw a Manta and it is way bigger than my kayak!!” Continuing forward I saw a turtle and then I saw more mantas—a dozen or more.

 In the Sea of Cortez we saw loads of mobula—most with a wing span of 3-4 feet and the occasional one would be 6’ across. Here though a 6’ wing span was just the start. And as the massive creatures glided under and around our boats, wings nearly brushing us, Maia asked if we were absolutely sure that they were gentle creatures.

We had planned to jump in and swim—but the cove, which looked so inviting and peaceful from above, turned out to be frothing and tumultuous. Maia slipped in though and held the kayak while she drifted on the surface. A parade of eight or nine mantas swam past her on one side, then the other, then dove beneath her to get a better look at our funny little fish.

Maia's attempt at getting a whole manta in the camera frame

 When she climbed back in the kayak we asked if she was ready to paddle home yet. “No, not quite yet,” she told us “I’m still working to memorize this.”

I think we'll need to go back though--our little waterproof camera fogged up and never did the trip justice.

Walking on Land

 The fantasies start round about day 12, best as I can tell. When you’re on a long passage, after a while all you can think about is walking on solid, unmoving, sweet-smelling earth (that and sitting in a solid, unmoving, sweet-smelling restaurant and drinking an ice-cold beer…). Barb and I would talk about it on the radio—how once we got into harbour we’d go for daily morning walks and how we’d find hikes, lots of hikes. The cold drinks were a given.

Happily the Marquesas Islands may have been created with hikers in mind. The snorkelling isn’t fab, but the hills are steep and are crisscrossed with intriguing footpaths which once linked various tribes to each other in trade and, occasionally, warfare.

This morning we got up early and headed into the market (which starts at 4:30am!). After loading up on lunch fixings we headed home and roused Maia and Sasha then headed back to shore to meet Dino (Sasha’s Dad) and the folks from Architeuthis. Then we set off on a hike to the headlands.

The trail is that little cut in the cliff face--look close and you will see little people

 The start of the trail was dry and grassy—and seemed almost savannah-like. But then we were in the jungle. The trees grew dense and wildly around us—and bird song echoed through the lush and humid green. As we hiked up the switchbacks we talked about Herman Melville’s book, Typee (which was set here) and wondered if the ridge he first climbed to escape the whale ship was the same we were now climbing.

 We crossed dry stream beds (it hasn’t rained in a week—so many of the little waterfalls are dry) and edged along cliff faces. I was near the back of our group so I could hear the gasps and cheers as the folks at the front broke out of the jungle and came out to the headland.

 It’s simplistic to say it’s gorgeous here. It’s more of a fairytale than that. The trade winds blow soft and warm over vistas we sailed across an ocean to see. And when we looked downward: at giant mantas swimming in clear water, and outrigger canoes slicing through the waves, and islands outlined in puffy clouds, and verdant cliffs fading into the curve of distance I think we all ran out of words, and simply cheered.

A Stitch in Time--is still a lot of freaking work...

suncover-all 150' of seams needed restitching

We noticed that the sun-cover on the Genoa was flapping in the breeze back around the equator. Our initial plan had been to lower in then and stitch up the panel while at sea. But wrestling down a huge heavy sail is not the easiest at the best of times and on a bucking, heaving boat covered in salt-spray the chance of causing more damage—to the sail, our Sailrite machine or us--seemed pretty high. So we looked at the sail more carefully, determined the damage was superficial, and decided it would be safer and easier to wait until shore.

So we waited. And waited. Wrestling down a huge heavy sail at anchor isn’t fun either.

We’re pretty diligent with sail care. We had all our sails out for inspection several times this past year and did some extensive work on the main (which is probably nearly as old as the boat). The Genoa though is new, it’s only two—but sailing in the tropics takes it’s toll and as we lowered it to resew the sun-rotted seams on the suncover we discovered a significant amount of sun rot and a small tear on the luff tape at the head of the sail.

This is the sort of early damage that you can’t see from deck level, so it’s easy to miss. But had it been left for another long passage, or two, it could easily have caused a significant problem.

Considering the number of boats that arrived in port with some degree of sail damage or another (nearly all of them…) having a good sail repair kit is essential.

The other essential is learning how to inspect sails. Several people were shocked that relatively new sails (like ours) could have so much damage. But sun rot happens pretty quickly in places where it never rains (i.e. Mexico…) and once a seam goes, the pressure on the next seam kicks in and pretty soon you’re flying an expensive rag…

Our habit is to inspect all the sails at deck level a few times a year: With the main we start at the battens--removing and examining them and the batten pockets for signs of wear and damage. Then we look carefully at the stitching along the seams, leech, and luff, and reinforcement patches; and examine the slides; and the hardware on the corners. The top of the bolt rope or luff tape tends to get the least protection from the sun and is most likely to experience damage (this is how WGD lost their main and how we could have lost our Genoa). You should have the skills and material to repair most of the problems you find yourself, but our luff tape (for example) goes through too many layers of fabric for our machine so we’ve taken that to the sailmaker.

So now we're rudderless, sailess and our outboard is irritable (although the local mechanic got it working...) Seems like progress...

Trouble in Paradise

 I think we’ve committed a tapu, or taunted a Tiki, because in a scene straight out of the Brady Bunch (season 4 episodes 1-3), things aren’t going so well for us or our friends on Whatcha Gonna Do.

Good news first—we have a shipyard in Papeete which started construction on our replacement rudder today. The first French Polynesian quote we got was for over $6000, so the new quote of less than 4k seems almost reasonable, especially because a more affordable 3k rudder from Canada would cost over 2k to get shipped here. Unless we don’t mind waiting 6-8 weeks—in which case the shipping drops to $1200. Being rudderless in paradise isn’t all it’s cracked up to be—especially because we would like to move on at some point.

Which brings us to our next issue—the outboard. It’s been acting a bit moody since we arrived and the day after apparently offending Tiki in the jungle Evan pulled it apart and discovered the little fuel pump was shot. So he tried to fix it and now it doesn’t work at all. Do you know how hard it is to get a fuel pump for an outboard in Nuku Hiva?

See above.

Currently we’re sort of regretting just how far we are anchored from the dingy dock.

But we’re not regretting our choice of anchor spots nearly as much as WGD. Because it seems our run of bad luck jumped ship and landed first in their engine compartment (their engine and generator failed to start yesterday—the second day they planned to set out on a bit of an explore around the other islands…) And today its moved on to their ground tackle.

Michael (with a little help from Ev) managed to get his engine and generator running yesterday. But when they made their third attempt to leave today (attempt #1 was rained out, the same rain which fell heavily when we were at church and that we forgot to shut the hatches against…) their anchor wasn’t coming up very easily, then the rode sheered inside the windlass and they lost all their chain and their anchor.

So they set a stern anchor and arranged to have someone dive through the murk, muck and sharks(!) for it. But so far neither the diver, nor their efforts to grapple for it has yielded an anchor. And it now seems that the stern anchor is hooked up as well.

Which brings us to Tiki. 

 In the Marquesas Tiki is recognized as the wise and potent ancestor of the human race. He’s usually portrayed as a squat, heavy figure with a big head, large round eyes, a flat nose and a straight-line mouth. Some myths say he is the offspring of Papa-'una and Papa-'a'o and some say he is Papa, himself. But either way he’s a powerful deity who was the recipient of many a bloody sacrifice and it’s tapu (taboo) to mess with him (or touch him, or move him…).

Honestly—I really thought we were being respectful and if any of us bothered Tiki during our jungle meanderings it was accidental. But I’ll apologise anyway—I’m sorry, Tiki.

Now give the anchor back.

Lectronic Latitude

Pop on over to Latitude 38 and check out the story of our arrival day party:
In Celebration of the Big Jump

Lost on Nuku Hiva

 “I think we’re on the wrong trail. Again,” Michael mentioned, as our intrepid group followed a muddy track deeper into the jungle. But I insisted I could hear the cascade, or waterfall, that we were searching for. Anyway—there were cute little feral piglets up ahead (the local pigs that roam free are a cross between the original Polynesian pig and a European wild boar) as well as ruins all around us. “The pigs are cute, but I’m sort of sick of tikis,” Maia said, when I pointed out these unexpected highlights of our collective inability to read a map.

 We were road tripping. Yesterday our two families (ours and the crew of Whatch Gonna Do) rented a 5-seat truck (you do the math) to tour the island. Barb volunteered to be our tour guide after it turned out that hiring an actual guide (and a vehicle big enough for all of us) would cut too deeply into our rudder budget. So we set off at 8am—with a map of the island and a Lonely Planet guide in hand.

copra drying shed with its removable roof

a woman weaving herself a birthday crown

 Our first stop were the villages of Taipivai and Hooumi on Controleur Bay. Here Barb told us that Herman Melville had written his book Typee. What I personally found even more interesting were all the ancient pae pae (house foundations) that lined the river—and in some cases the old stone platforms even acted as modern home foundations. I also rather liked the copra drying (coconut) sheds.

At the end of the road we came across a group of men who were preparing a luncheon of poisson cru (fish cooked in lime and marinated with coconut) for the island children who were gathered at the nearby church for their catechism class. They gave us coconut milk, grated meat and even the nut of a coconut (which none of us had encountered before) to sample. Then we squeezed back into our truck and went in search of a nearby Me'ae (religious shrine) that was located in the hills above Taipivai.

 It took us about 15 minutes to hike up to the Me’ae. The religious areas were separate from the village sites and were often tapu (taboo) for women and lower class types to visit, unless they were being sacrificed--which makes them sort of lucky, because they stuck these places way far up... These are the sites where the tikis (the stone ancestors of man) were most commonly found are most powerful (touching them can release bad spirits).

 After bonding with the gorilla-like tikis (while doing our best not to irritate them and release their bad spirits…) and dropping the kids in one of the sacrifice pits (archaeologists found sculls and other signs of cannibalism here) we headed off in search of the cascade. We looked hard for the trail to the waterfall, a couple of times—encountering feral pigs, feral chickens and feral horses as well as discovering dozens of pae paes and other interesting structures (the Marquesas is one giant archaeology site and only a tiny fraction has been excavated).

 Eventually though we had to give up on the cascade and carry on along the squeal-inspiring roads to the (wait for it…) next archaeological site that Barb had selected for us. By this point the kids and Michael and Evan were getting surly about tikis (I think one of the kids must have rubbed a tiki the wrong way and released a few bad attitude spirits)—but luckily this site was right on the main road and when we all saw the huge tohuas (main meeting area) as well as the massive banyan trees we all opted to explore one final site (although Barb had a few more on her list…)

the banyan trees are found at important sites

 The rest of our day was spent touring the island—marvelling at the changing geography (we actually got up into a chilly pine forest) and the awe-inspiring views. We also marvelled over the fact that seven people jammed in a five-person truck could remain so cheerful after almost 1i-hours of travel over rough, winding (death-defying-sheer-cliff-edged) roads. But it turns out that not only do we and WGD cross an ocean similarly, we have a similar tiki tolerance. And it helped to be exploring in a place where everyone we met was unfailingly friendly and smiling.

looking out to sea

One Week in Polynesia

 I woke this morning and realized not only are we in French Polynesia but we’ve been here for a week. Actually, it was the moment after I walked out into the cockpit, admired the mist on the mountains, and then picked a banana from a bunch we have hanging outside that I realized we are really here.

It’s a realization that hits regularly. We had a bunch of the boats over for Cinco de Mayo (on, err, May 5) and just about everyone made the comment, “We are in the Marquesas!” And then when we go for our daily walks or hikes (Barb and I have walked in the am when there is no big hike planned) at some point someone will do something remarkable—like notice an avocado tree, or discover a tiki hidden in the jungle—that we’ll become aware of where we are all over again.

This sense of happy discovery is a good thing—because we’re not yet any closer to owning a rudder. We got one (utterly outrageous) quote from a French Polynesian shipyard (our first true case of sticker shock…) so we’re casting the rudder net a bit wider.

 As far as sticker shock goes, while it is expensive here, we felt well prepared (the files section at the Pacific Puddle Jump group had excellent cost comparison spreadsheets) and we stocked up ahead of time on the costly stuff and are only replenishing with the affordable options (dairy, lamb, baguettes, some tinned goods). We’re finding fruit ranges from free to medium expensive and the fresh veggies that we do find (mainly tomatoes, green beans, lettuce, cucumber, onions and potatoes) are about double what we paid in Mexico.

A Sailor’s Tattoo

It stings a bit but I take a deep breath, unclench my teeth and focus on the music. A well-tattooed Marquesan artist named Mahekua looks up and catches my eye. “Ok?” he asks in Marquesan (at least that’s what I think he asked…). “Perfect,” I tell him. But I can’t help but wonder what the needle will feel like if the pen he is sketching out the design with is already making me sweat.

Since Captain James Cook arrived in the Marquesas in 1774, sailors have been getting tattoos. And while I know they’ve grown into the hip thing to do—I’m still doing mine for the traditional reasons: I sailed over a big bloody ocean, crossed the equator, and ended up somewhere cool. A place where they used to eat people (after storing them by hanging them in a tree, then bashing their brains out when it was time for dinner, or so Maia tells me).

Tattoos have been an important part of Marquesan culture for as far back as their oral history goes. Boys got their first ones when they became teenagers—and with each stage in life and each accomplishment more tattoos were added. Women were also tattooed—but not to the same degree.

I was worried about being a tourist and getting a traditional Marquesan tattoo—wondering if it was a form of cultural appropriation. So I asked Mahekua how traditional Marquesans feel about ‘sharing’ their ancient symbols. He explained that because the designs and motifs are different for everyone, and each tattoo tells an individual story, it was okay—the tattoos are a gift from the islands.

He showed how on mine there is a symbol that tells Marquesan people that I came in peace and with love, and another that says I want to share their bananas (there is a chance I misunderstood this bit…), and how another says I am traveling a long distance.

And then it was time to start. I’m not sure if it was the rhythms of the music he played (harmonies from the church) or his relaxed attitude—but the actual tattooing seemed less painful than the pen had. He worked quickly, drawing straight lines over my curved flesh (faster than I could draw on paper)--singing as he filled in the old symbols with black ink. Now and then he would stop to ask me a question, or alter a drawing. And then we were done.

 

My story now winds itself around my ankle—showing the world I’ve sailed a long way and that I have many more miles to go. And that I’d like to share some bananas.

“Did he use a hollow comb tipped with watered-down fruit ash and then pound in the colour with a little mallet?” Maia asked me when I got home to the boat.

Eating Like the Locals

The last of our Mexican produce is running out—we still have cabbage, carrots, onions, potatoes and apples (and even one tomato) but anything green and leafy is long gone.

Green and leafy isn’t a huge part of the culture here but for about $4.50 each I’ve been buying huge lovely lettuce, and $2.50 got me a big bunch of long green beans. The true bounty here though is the fruit.

mangos

 We can buy breadfruit, bananas, pamplemousse and mangoes--but the traditional way to get them is to forage in the jungle and collect them ourselves (or get gifted them). There really is nothing quite like eating a starfruit fresh from the tree (once you’ve knocked the ants off), or trying to figure out how to get that breadfruit, right there.

just one variety of breadfruit

manioc and roasted breadfruit

 Breadfruit, for the uninitiated, is starchy like a potato, but slightly nutty in flavour. It can be eaten raw, or fermented, or roasted, or mashed, or dried and used as flour. And the leaves are used for cooking while the sticky latex sap was used to caulk canoes. My favourite way to eat it is to bake it like French fries—brushes with oil and dusted with spices then baked at 400 for 30 minutes it comes out crispy with a soft centre and makes a great side dish. I’m guessing with gravy and cheese I could call it Marquesan poutine.

Archaeological Adventures

 What happens when an agnostic an atheist and a Jew go to church? They get the time wrong and miss mass…

Our group of five puddle jumping boats set off this morning with the plan of going to mass and hearing the wonderful Polynesian harmonies that the congregation here is known for, but we arrived about 10 minutes after the service ended. Which meant it was time for a plan ‘b’. 

Ruins anyone?

cultural tradition is alive and well here--Marquesan man on the streets of Taiohae

 The Marquesas is thought to be one of the first island groups that were colonized during the Pacific Migration. Estimates vary—but the consensus seems to be it was first settled sometime from 300-600 AD by a people who grew into one of the more unique cultures in Polynesia. They also built a whole bunch of stone stuff—tikis (sacred statues), wide tohuas (meeting places), pae pae (house foundations) and various pits and platforms. All which are found in the jungles throughout the islands.

 We decided to visit a waterfront site—which turned out to be built in 1989—so then we opted to head to a second site that is found deeper in the mountains behind town.

‘Tohua Kouvea was a communal gathering place that once belonged to the great war chief, Pakoko’, Barb from WGD read as we meandered out of town. Along the way we were each distracted by different things: fruit, flowers, roadside pigs and the like, and after what seemed like a very long time we found ourselves at a lovely viewpoint high above the boats, but without a tiki in sight.

 I told Barb that I thought we might have missed some detail in the directions she had. So we read back through and caught the bit about needing to leave the main road after 1km. So we back-tracked and eventually asked a man on a horse for help. Technically a group of people who got themselves across an ocean should be able to find ruins they have directions for (and get to church on time) but we were all pleased with our guide. And Roo Touhine led us deeper into the jungle with calls of encouragement spoken in Marquesan.

 Eventually we arrived at a long stone wall and Roo pointed our way in. As I wandered and explored I tried to imagine the culture that inhabited this peaceful space. With its soaring Banyon trees and wide lawns it had a mystical feel. Too soon though our water ran out and the bugs overwhelmed us. So we started back--tired, hungry and thirsty but well pleased with ourselves.

 

 Along the way we foraged—finding tart/sweet starfruit to keep us going. Then we encountered Roo collecting his own fruit. He served us pamplemouse—then he gave us a huge stalk of bananas to share.

 I’m not sure if there is a point to this story—but I can say being late for church and then getting lost on a hike with a group of sailors who just crossed the South Pacific was a pleasant thing. Perhaps a journey like ours gives perspective. Our maybe we’re all just so grateful to be here that going astray in a steamy jungle, with no food, and limited water while dressed in our Sunday best simply doesn't make the cut for stuff to worry about.