Sailing with Impunity

by Mary E Trimble

While in that small variety store, we met three yachtsmen, each from separate boats. One, a German fellow, could easily have passed for a pirate. He seemed friendly enough but was a big man and looked pretty tough, He had a scraggly beard and his clothes were a mess.

  One of the first things we did when we returned to the boat was to put up the awning. What a blessing it was. The awning shaded the cockpit from the hot sun and even made a difference below decks. As the sun lowered, we unrolled the awning’s sides to maintain shade.

  Now that we no longer bobbed around, coffee tasted good again and at the store I’d found the European NesCafé, so different from the type available in the States. I first had it in Africa and was so disappointed when we returned to the U.S. to find an entirely different NesCafé product. But here was the “good stuff” again! I’ve never figured out why the two taste so different. I knew that the European Nesafé had limited shelf life. Perhaps the lack of preservatives made the difference in taste.

  Preparing dinner was actually fun with a galley that held still. Finally, I could use two hands to prepare a meal

  After 35 days at sea, Bruce and I could finally sleep together for a full night. What a treat!

  The next day, before we left to explore the island, a fellow in a dinghy motored up to us. At my lack of recognition, he smiled. “I am Claudius. I have shaved and cleaned up,” he said in a heavy German accent. The pirate! “I would like to invite you for coffee this afternoon.” He indicated his boat, a nice craft anchored close to us. We gladly accepted his invitation and agreed we would be there by 3:00.

  We again faced a rough landing when we took the dinghy ashore. The hem of my shorts got wet, but dried quickly in the heat.

  We didn’t linger on the beach because of stinging sandflies. We heard of some people having nasty infections from the bites. After beaching the dinghy, we hurried across the black sand to the road, carrying a full laundry bag.

  At the small variety store the previous day we’d learned of a woman who did laundry for a reasonable price. I could easily keep up with our daily clothes and galley towels, but it was wonderful to have sheets, bath towels and that day’s clothes washed for us. When we picked up the laundry the next day, it was clean and nicely folded. It was worth every penny. I noticed most of her business consisted of huge piles of clothes. I gathered that most people didn’t do laundry at sea.

  After we dropped off our laundry, we explored Nuka Hiva. The main road followed the beach, separated only by towering palm trees. The road, paved with light colored asphalt, had crushed coral and shells for filler, rather than gravel. Other small dirt roads meandered off from the main one. Very few cars were on the road. We saw a couple of trucks, but mostly bicyclists or walkers.

  Making our way out of the market area, we passed green pastures. We noticed a number of small horses, not ponies nor miniatures, just small animals. We wondered if in-breeding caused their diminutive size. The goats and sheep looked small, too. Normal-sized chickens roamed freely.

  Before missionaries converted the people to Christianity, the Marquesans fought among themselves and were noted cannibals, but diseases brought by the white man had a more devastating effect on the population than earlier practices had. For 40 years, the Marquesas were ravaged by whalers, traders, and slave buyers. Finally, the Marquesan chiefs asked France to help and a treaty was signed in 1842. To this day, the Marquesas Islands are under French administrative autonomy.

  We walked to a beautiful Catholic church, Notre Dame Cathedral, surrounded by lush, immaculate grounds, rich with a variety of greens interspersed with brilliant red and yellow hibiscus and many flowers I couldn’t identify. The stone church had exquisitely carved wooden doors, probably ten feet tall.

  Climbing a hill, we found a flat landing with two large stone tiki carvings, about eight-feet tall. We were impressed with the detail. The Marquesas Islands are known for their stone and wood tikis.

  It felt so good to walk at our leisure and not have a schedule to keep. As we made our way back to the boat, we stopped for a cold Coke for me, a cold beer for Bruce, and more French bread, still warm from the oven.

  At 3:00 we rowed to Claudius’ boat, Pegasus, a beautiful well-kept craft a little larger than Impunity. We brought a gift of our dried fruit and he was grateful, saying he would save it to eat at sea. Much to my amazement, he served coffee in china cups. He mentioned his mother entertained a lot and he often acted as her host. He often sailed single-handed, but sometimes had a mate. At this time he was alone.

  Claudius was an experienced sailor. From the minute we stepped on board it was obvious that he’d be capable of handling pretty much anything on a boat. The center cockpit was rigged so that a single person on board could handle the sails.

  As Claudius poured more of his good strong coffee into our dainty cups he asked, “Who does the cooking?” He spoke grammatically perfect English, but had a strong German accent. I told him I did and about all of our preparation and supplies. He was impressed. “Tell me what you cook while at sea.” I named several dishes and he nodded in appreciation. “You have the hardest job. What we do is easy compared to that.”

  After seeing how hard Bruce worked, I doubted that, but it was good to hear anyway.

  “Do you know,” he continued, “most people don’t cook like that at sea?” No, I hadn’t known. I figured everyone did what I did. “Ask around. You will be surprised.”

  As we became acquainted with other sailors, I learned Claudius was right. Many of the people we met rarely cooked at sea. One couple said they cooked a pot of rice every few days, stood in the galley and ate it right out of the pot. Another woman told me all they have at sea were salty snacks. “You can’t cook in those rough seas,” she insisted. I didn’t tell her I did.

  Another couple we knew said that they had planned to cook, but the woman got so seasick all she could do was lie down while he was stuck with the boat’s operation. They ate crackers and canned fruit. Another woman said she only fixed sandwiches, using crackers when the bread ran out.

  We found the biggest complaint of things gone wrong at sea was failing refrigerators. Many refrigeration systems can’t take the rough jostling at sea and often leak refrigerants or their compressors fail. Most boat refrigerator motors only work when the engine is running so if the engine fails, there is no refrigeration. Boat after boat came in with spoiled food, or very little food because they’d had to dump their rotten perishables overboard. People whose boats had refrigeration and freezers had planned their food accordingly, and when their systems failed, they were at a loss for food and then forced to buy groceries at the exorbitant local prices.

  We were glad Impunity’s previous owner had thrown the refrigerator overboard. Without a refrigerator or freezer our lives were much simpler.

  Many inexperienced cruisers didn’t realize how essential it is to thoroughly seal items in heavy plastic, heat-sealed bags. Re-sealable zipper storage bags don’t work on a rough passage—the zipper commonly fails and the contents leak out, or moisture leaks in. In one case, they had stored fresh fruit and vegetables in zipper storage bags below decks, thinking it was the coldest place. Once in tropical seas, their boat reeked of rotting food.

  Another common complaint from boaters just arriving was green water in their fresh-water tanks. They hadn’t treated their water tank before they left and in the tropical heat algae had grown profusely. I saw one sample and their water was green as a lime popsicle. Adding a tiny bit of chlorine bleach when the tank is filled will keep that from happening. It’s such an easy solution. Each time Bruce put fresh water in the tank, he added a small quantity of bleach. We couldn’t taste it, and we never had green water.

  We invited Claudius for dinner one night and I served vegetarian spaghetti made with our Washington State University Creamery canned cheese. He loved it and I sent the leftovers home with him. I had learned to make that in Africa where meat was often scarce. Many of our “survival” skills we’d learned the hard way when we
served with the Peace Corps in The Gambia, West Africa.

  In port, we couldn’t use the ham radio since Bruce didn’t have a local license. We were anxious to call home to let our family know we had arrived safely. The only phone available to us was at the post office, but it had odd hours: early morning, then closed midday for an hour or two, then open until late afternoon or early evening, depending on the day of the week. Since there was a two and a half-hour time difference between the Marquesas and Seattle, it was hard to find a time when the family would be home and the post office open. We finally got through. It was always good to make contact with family.

  Bruce and I agreed that we would keep his mechanical and electronic skills quiet. Boats often came limping into port and he didn’t want to spend his time working on other people’s boats. We met a nice couple ashore and invited them aboard our boat. He asked Bruce what kind of engine we had and Bruce told him a Yanmar diesel, 3 cylinder, 25 horsepower. The fellow’s eyes lit up. “So do we!” But he went on to say they were having some problems with it and he was hesitant to go back to sea with the engine not working properly.

  Bruce broke his own rule and said he’d have a look at it. We all rowed over to their boat and Bruce found the problem. They were so grateful, they offered to take us out to dinner. They suggested we go up the hill to an inn run by an American couple. The restaurant didn’t have a menu; guests ate whatever the cook found available. We were served lobster, followed by chicken and salad, with flan for dessert. It was a delightful treat for us.

  While we enjoyed a lovely meal, our new friends told us about an incident that happened to them while anchored in a bay in Mexico. They had spent an evening visiting on a neighboring boat. Just going from their boat to the other boat in their dinghy, they hadn’t taken their shoes, purse or his wallet since they wouldn’t need those items unless they went ashore. They’d had a nice evening playing cards and then, much later, they climbed into their dinghy to return to their own boat. It was dark, but they soon realized their sailboat was gone!

  Panicked, they went back to their friend’s boat and spent the rest of the night there. First thing in the morning, they went ashore and reported the missing boat. They didn’t know if it had been stolen, became untied, or dragged anchor, so it was unknown if a crime had been committed.

  With no money, no identification, not even shoes, they were in a terrible situation. To their surprise and relief, an American, a man they didn’t know, gave them $500 so they could buy shoes and stay in a hotel until they could receive money from home. No strings attached, he simply wanted to help stranded strangers. (They got his name and address and were able to pay him back.)

  Mexican officials put out notices and the couple talked to fishermen and anyone going to sea. Finally, about two weeks after it “went missing” the boat was spotted. The fishermen who saw it said it was merely bobbing along, laundry still hanging in the transom, anchor hanging on its chain in the deep water. It didn’t appear to be damaged. After observing the boat for some time to make sure no one was aboard, the fishermen motored over to it and one climbed aboard, got the engine running, weighed anchor, and brought it back. Everything was intact, even her purse and their wallets were still there.

  The couple still sailed that boat, so thankful for the kindness of others. “And now you’ve fixed the engine for us. We can’t thank you enough.”

  When it rains in the tropics, it can be a real downpour, sometimes two or three inches in an hour. Then, it suddenly stops and the sun shines, drying everything off. Now that we had the awning up, Bruce was able to try out the rain-catching system he’d designed. He’d let the awning rinse off for a minute or two, then loosen a halyard to allow the top to sag, and hoses would direct the water into five-gallon jugs. It worked beautifully.

  Many people relied on water available close to shore. Brown, pebbly water came out of the spigot and sailors were hesitant to put it in their water tanks. They had to let it sit and wait for the mud to settle, but it was never what I’d call clean water. It was a huge problem. You can’t manage without fresh water.

  Typical of boaters, we traded magazines and books. We looked forward to having a whole new crop of reading material.

  A couple of days before we were to leave, we decided to fill the propane tank we’d used at sea. We inquired where we might buy propane, but were told that only butane was available. Bruce said he was sure butane would work. A fellow at the variety store asked us to go with him to a place on the beach where a large butane tank hung from a high tree branch. He connected our small 10-pound tank and filled it by gravity. Every once in awhile, he’d loosen a value to let air escape. It took a long time and would not fill as full as it would have under pressure, but it gave us security knowing we had a better supply.

  It was hard to believe, but we had been in the Marquesas for two weeks. It was time to move on.

  On our last Friday night in Taiahoe Bay, we went back to the inn where we’d gone as guests. By this time we’d met several yachties and seven of us enjoyed the meal together, a couple from Boston, a couple from Aspen, Colorado and our German friend, Claudius. Most of us were leaving, so it was a farewell dinner to each other and to the Marquesas.

  The next morning we went ashore for what we thought would be the last time. Bruce and I took our small backpacks to carry several loaves of French bread, fruit and our weapons back to the boat. The first order of business was the weapons. For some reason, we both dreaded this, but we walked the distance to the gendarme station and presented our receipt to the same fellow who had originally taken our guns. His dark face colored as he said, “Yes, well, the Commissioner would like to talk to you.”

  “Is there something wrong?” Bruce asked.

  “Oh, no, no. But before I can give you your weapons, the Commissioner has asked to see you.”

  Oh boy, what was this all about? We followed his directions to a big pink concrete building, the Commissioner’s residence and office. We were escorted to a large bare room with only a wooden desk in the middle and a chair behind the desk, where the Commissioner sat, and two wooden chairs in front of the desk. A huge ceiling fan slowly rotated above his desk. Tall, shuttered windows lined the outside wall. For some reason, the movie Casablanca popped into my mind. The Commissioner rose, warmly greeted us and invited us to sit.

  He could speak very little English and what little he could was difficult to understand. After saying what we supposed was something to the effect he hoped our visit there had been satisfactory, he came to the business at hand. Leaning forward and folding his hands, looking at Bruce, he said, “I want to sell your small gun.”

  I looked at Bruce’s furrowed brow. He didn’t understand, either.

  “Oh!” I said, the Commissioner’s meaning dawning on me. “You want to buy the Smith & Wesson.”

  “Yes, yes! That’s it. I want to buy that gun.”

  In the first place, what he asked was illegal. I’m sure that’s why the gendarme looked so embarrassed. The law dictated we leave with the exact number of weapons and ammunition with which we arrived. Now the top official on the island was asking us to do something illegal?

  In the second place, that was my handgun, a gift from Bruce, and I didn’t want to part with it. My mind whirled. I glanced at Bruce. He was thunderstruck.

  “But you see,” I said, gesturing to Bruce, “my husband gave that gun to me for Christmas. I cannot part with it.” I looked lovingly at Bruce.

  The Commissioner was quick to respond. “Oh, but of course. It was a gift from your husband. I do understand.” His manner was gracious and he seemed to completely agree with our position.

  The Commissioner stood and shook our hands. “Enjoy the rest of your journey.” At least that’s pretty much what it sounded like.

  In a daze, we left and walked back to the police station to pick up our weapons. Bruce squeezed my hand. “Mary, that was brilliant, calling on the French sense of romance. I was so stunned I was speechless.”

>   As we entered the station the gendarme was just hanging up the phone. He looked relieved. “I am so sorry,” he said, shaking his head in apology. “Let me get your weapons.” He asked Bruce to inspect them and then sign a receipt. We turned to leave, but he stopped us.

  “Please come this way.”

  No! Now what? My heart pounded. I glanced at Bruce’s narrowed eyes. He took my arm as we followed the fellow toward the back of the station and entered an empty jail. Bruce’s hand on my arm gripped tighter.

  “Here we are,” the gendarme said, as he opened the door to a sunny yard. “I want to give you this pamplemousse for your journey.” We stepped into what was his back yard; his home was on the other side of the property. Branches of two trees sagged with the heavy fruit. He began picking fruit and handing them to us. First one, then two, then he continued until our arms were full of the fruit. Each time we protested that it was enough, he would say, “No, please take it.” Bruce knelt and put them in our packs, filling them to the brim. We realized that it was the gendarme’s way of apology for our inconvenience.

  We left in good spirits and could see the gendarme’s relief. Our packs were so full of fruit and weapons, we had to row the dinghy back to the boat, unload, then go back to shore for our last-minute shopping.

  At 7:30 the next morning we weighed anchor and were on our way to Tahiti with plenty of fruit on hand.

  Our Private Bay – Tahiti

  Log Entry—August 16, 1989: We are suspended in space.

  We left the Marquesas August 8, shortly before eight in the morning. A pot of turkey vegetable soup sat snugly between pot restraints on the gently rocking gimbaled stove, air-tight in the pressure cooker.

  We cleared the west end of Tuamotus Islands and their coral reef hazards. Moderate seas and favorable 25- to 30-knot easterly winds kept our speed at 6 knots. The leg to Tahiti would be 800 miles, roughly a week’s passage.