Sailing with Impunity
Page 9
They spoke very little English, but Greg and Kathy interpreted for us. We took gifts for the family. We’d bought a few inflatable globes so that we could show people where we lived. The children spent a long time looking where they lived and where we lived, re-marking, “You have come so far!” We gave Irene a packet of needles and William a “made in USA” stainless steel fishing knife. In thanking us, they all kissed us on both cheeks. Bruce remarked later that it had been a long time since he’d been kissed by a man, and that had been his father.
Mary viewing Vaipahi Falls near Papeari, Tahiti
The next morning William stopped by with a bunch of green finger bananas, probably 100 or so bananas on a three-foot stalk. He rowed to our boat in his outrigger canoe. I started to take them, but then remembered that there might be bugs and hesitated. “Bugs?” I asked. He dropped the bunch into the sea and when it popped up, he said “No more.” He also gave us about a half-dozen papayas from their yard.
We enjoyed the fresh fruit. Of course the bananas all ripened about the same time and one early morning we heard soft plop, plops, as they fell off the stalk onto the deck. That evening we shared a big bowl of banana pudding with Greg and Kathy.
One evening Greg rowed over with the exciting news that William and his son had invited us to go fishing the next morning from their outrigger canoe. As scheduled, William picked us up at 5:30. We paddled in the outrigger for a distance, and then William threw out an anchor about a mile from shore, but on a reef in only about four feet of water. We dropped overboard and snorkeled through a pass in the barrier reef. We swam a distance from the outrigger and were dazzled by the coral and fish in colors from brown and black to bright blues, oranges, and yellows. Some of the fish glowed like neon lights.
We collected large shellfish, which William and Greg immediately cleaned. William made a point of showing us that he was using the knife that we had given him. He had brought fresh limes from his yard and now soaked slices of the just-caught snail meat in the lime juice for about 5 minutes. Then we ate it, raw. I was surprised with how good it was.
William and his son both speared parrotfish and I saw Bruce wince when he noticed William tuck a just-caught fish in his very brief swim suit. They brought the fish back to the outrigger and again gave it the lime treatment. We feasted on raw fish that had been swimming only five minutes before.
On our “down time” Bruce busied himself with preventive maintenance. Our main water tank was a large bladder made of a rubberized fabric. Bruce searched below decks for any possible leaks. He also watched for leaks on fittings throughout the boat. He checked the battery voltage level a couple times a day. On deck, he looked for sail chaffing as the result of rubbing against a shroud. He’d check for worn or frayed lines. He installed new gaskets on the portholes. He sanded and varnished the exposed brightwork on deck.
It often rained for a bit in the afternoon, sometimes long enough for us to collect rain water in our fresh water tank. Unless it was wind-driven rain, we could usually continue to sit in the cockpit under our awning, but occasionally were forced to go below decks.
Greg and Kathy had collected a number of shells ranging from the large spider variety down to tiny augers. We’d collected a few shells too, but were unwilling to put up with the smell and time it takes to clean shells that still have critters residing in them. Greg and Kathy had jewelers’ equipment and had professionally polished many of the shells.
Our new friends had been on their trip quite awhile and were running low on food supplies. We made a trade that was favorable to all: some of their shells for some of our canned goods. So with the trade, plus some shells they gave me for my birthday, and with those I’d found, we had the start of a nice collection.
Once, when Greg and Kathy were over for dinner they brought their cassette tapes. The tape deck that came with Impunity could record which allowed us to make copies of favorites. We also exchanged reading material.
It was hard to believe, but our month in Tahiti was coming to an end. We prepared our boat for another passage. Bora Bora, here we come!
Greg and Kathy from Genesis, paddling William’s outrigger canoe
Picture Perfect – Bora Bora
Log Entry—September 26, 1989: Impunity is like a toy sailboat on a smooth pond.
It was hard leaving our Papieri paradise and our friends there. Greg and Kathy invited us aboard the evening before departure for a farewell glass of wine. We hoped to see one another in Seattle.
We dreaded going back through the reef, but had a perfect sunny morning. We carefully threaded our way out, with me scanning the sea from the bow and Bruce at the helm.
In about 30 seconds, we went from flat calm to big ocean swells that had traveled unobstructed for 5,000 miles.The 200-foot wide pass we motored through had huge breakers crashing onto the reef on either side of us. It all happened so fast, our adrenalin pumped double-time.
Suddenly, we were back in the open sea driving fast with favorable southwest trade winds. Impunity sliced the water westward along the southern coast of Tahiti. After a few hours, the winds died completely and we motored for about 12 hours, which meant hand-steering. During the night we saw the Island of Moorea silhouetted against the stars.
On a cloudless night, the stars in the South Pacific are crystal clear and bright. Without city lights or dust, they appear bright even close to the horizon. Well south of the equator, we saw no North Star or Big Dipper, but could see the Southern Cross and Magellenic Clouds, a constellation and galaxy of the Milky Way. Orion, familiar to us in the Northwest, can be seen, but appears to be standing on his head.
During my night watch the wind picked up with a purpose and I had to wake Bruce to shut down the engine and help set the sails. For the rest of the night and all the next day we had good sailing, though a bit rough. We scooted past Huahine of the Society Islands and the southern tip of Raiatea, then turned northwest toward Bora Bora.
Raiatea sheltered us from ocean swells, but we had ideal wind. It was a strange sensation. We scooted along like a toy sailboat on a smooth pond, or as Bruce expressed it, as though Impunity were on rails. It was the smoothest sailing we’d ever experienced. How perfect was this! Eighty-three degrees, stars all around, perfect winds, no sea swells, no rocking, no splashes, just a gentle heeling at a silent five knots.
From 35 miles away we began seeing the glow of Bora Bora, probably the lights from a hotel on the southern tip of the island. During my watch, Bruce changed our course to give us plenty of sea room to avoid the reef southwest of Bora Bora. By 6:30 a.m. we were in the lagoon and inside the protective barrier reef.
Bora Bora was an independent kingdom until annexed by the French in 1888. During World War II the island served as a supply base for the United States. Military construction included an airstrip and after the war that airstrip would be the only international airport in all of French Polynesia until 1960.
The anchorage at Vaitape was deep at 85 feet, so we only anchored long enough to clear customs, pick up our mail, and do a little exploring around town. Sailors normally try to avoid deep anchorages. The point of anchoring is to keep a boat safe during strong squalls. To do this means putting out at least three to four times the water depth in anchor chain and rode. We carried about 300 feet total, so this anchorage of 85 feet in depth was marginal with our ground tackle. Most people only stayed at that anchorage for a short while.
We didn’t need groceries, but took a quick tour of the small town of Vaitape to look for future essentials. We couldn’t resist an ice cream stop, the first ice cream we’d had since leaving home.
As we strolled along a path licking our ice cream cones, we came upon a couple with their little boy. We stopped to greet them and introduce ourselves. Our conversation with Scott and Donna went like this:
They: Hi, when did you folks come in?
We: Just arrived. You?
They: Last night.
We: Where are you from?
They: Washington.
We: We are, too. Where?
They: Seattle.
We: Same here! Where in Seattle?
They: North end. You?
We: North end! Our home was 143rd and Ashworth.
They had lived about a half-block from us. We often had seen Donna walk by with Nathaniel in a stroller. Again, small world, and the second couple we’d met from Seattle.
We moved out of Vaitape’s deep anchorage and motored close to an uninhabited island, Toopua, and anchored in 35 feet of water. The clear turquoise water allowed us to easily see the bottom. We rowed ashore to a white sandy beach lined with coconut palms. Although no one lived on the island, there was a small copra harvesting operation. Coconuts were collected, split open, the meat pried out and placed on a raised platform shaded by a tarp. Later, it was bagged and shipped off to be squeezed into coconut oil, mostly for cooking and cosmetics.
In addition to coconut palms, there were orange trees and what we learned were vanilla plants.
Bora Bora is as beautiful as postcards describe. The ocean couldn’t be bluer, the hills lush and green. Besides the island of Bora Bora, there are several small uninhabited islands within the reef. We were the only ones anchored off Toopua.
We spent a lot of time surface diving in Bora Bora, adding to my shell collection. We devised a good plan to let the shells age without smelling up the boat by putting them in a mesh bag and hanging it under water off the stern. Tiny sea creatures could get in and clean the shells out for us. Then I’d clean them again on shore with oxalic acid. We also found many unoccupied shells in good shape.
Toopua was our home for one week. One day Bruce rowed our dinghy two and a half miles to Vaitape to check for mail and to pick up bread and fresh fruit and vegetables. It was a calm, quiet morning and he thought it would be fun to do. I didn’t go with him because I didn’t want to add weight to the boat. He had to work hard enough going that distance. At times like this we missed our speedy double kayak, but carrying it onboard would have taken too much deck space.
It was time to move over to Vaitape and take care of business before leaving. As we tried to weigh anchor, Bruce realized our anchor chain was wrapped around coral. He started the engine and tried to jockey the boat back and forth, but it held fast. Bruce went into the water with snorkeling gear and diving weights, and free-dived the 35 feet. It took three or four dives to work the chain free. I was impressed with Bruce’s lung capacity to free dive that deep. That’s about the depth we used to go with SCUBA gear.
American operated Hotel Oa Oa in Vaitape extended an open invitation to boaters to tie up at their dock, which is unusual. We moored on the hotel’s floats where several other boats had tied up for the duration of their stay in Bora Bora. Boaters were encouraged to use the hotel’s fresh water, their garbage facilities, and their free book-exchange library. They also offered reasonably-priced laundry services. The hotel had one of the town’s nicest restaurants and a friendly bar.
Impunity at anchor near Motu Tapu Island
Copra harvesting operation on Toopua Island
iAmazingly, we met more people from the Seattle area, Dan a teacher at Rainier Beach High School, and Alice, a chemist. Another couple, more recently from Oregon but who had lived in Seattle, Connie and Vern, were also headed for American Samoa next, as we were.
Although we had loved our little uninhabited island of Toopua, there were no roads and it was quite heavily forested. We longed to get out and really walk, but found the hiking in Viatape frustrating. The village had streets, but they seemed to service only commercial buildings or private housing. We couldn’t find a way out of town without going through people’s private yards.
One of our business errands was to redeem our bonds, since Bora Bora was our last French Polynesian stop. While having our $1,700 bonds refunded with the bank official, a Frenchman, we asked how we could hike without going through private property. That next weekend, he and a group of kids and a few teachers were going to hike Mount Otemanu and we were welcomed to join them. “Tell your friends,” he said. “All are welcome. Bring your lunch and lots of water to drink.”
We spread the word among the yachties and several joined us. Our instructions were to meet him in front of the bank at eight the next morning, a Saturday. When we arrived, about thirty 12- to 14-year old kids, all with palm tree saplings in backpacks, four teachers carrying shovels, and our banker had gathered. As we headed out, we crossed in back of what looked like private property. We were impressed that many of the hikers, including the banker, were barefoot.
Almost immediately, the hike went straight up. We followed a path, but much of the time we used vines
Hiking up Mount Otemanu
and small trees to pull ourselves up. At times, our French banker positioned himself at strategic places to help people over particularly rough spots. I admired the stamina of those kids carrying trees.
As the trail wound around the mountain, it often gave us a view of the harbor. Our boat appeared to be a dot in the water from this vantage. The different depths of water as it covered coral reefs dazzled us in shades of blues and greens.
When we stopped to rest, we perched on the steep hill. I didn’t find it restful hanging on to something so I didn’t slide back down the mountain, or pitch off its steep sides.
The hike up took about three grueling hours. Near the 2,379-foot top, the kids and teachers planted the coconut palm trees. The theory was that a palm tree planted at the top of the mountain would shed coconuts that would roll down the hill to start new coconut trees. Their purpose was to avoid erosion and to replace trees that had died.
We ate our lunches and then the group more or less disbursed. The teachers and banker took the kids back down and we left as we felt like it. I found the trip down far more daunting than going up. To look down those steep hills and descend into a void was far more challenging than clawing my way up.
At one point we could clearly see a trail of people hiking Mount Pahia. With sheer rock to climb to its very top, Mount Pahia, at 2,176 feet, is a rougher hike than Mount Otemanu.
That evening we met several of our new friends at the hotel restaurant. There were a couple of other restaurants in the village, but we felt some obligation to eat at the hotel, since they were so generous to boaters.
Sunday another couple, Kathy and Bill, stopped by our boat and invited us to join them for a walk with the ultimate destination to the ice cream shop. Later, we would also deepen our friendship with these two in American Samoa.
A recent law dictated that boaters could no longer stay in French Polynesia for the hurricane season, as had been our original plan. The exception was if the boater also worked there. We could understand that the local government didn’t want to be stuck with the costs of hurricane damage. We needed to keep moving and get to the safety of Pago Pago, American Samoa, to get ourselves secured before bad weather.
Early Monday morning we took a quick trip into town to pick up fresh bread and produce, then loaded the dinghy on board. Since we were tied to a moorage, we didn’t have to weigh anchor, but simply cleared customs, untied the boat, and left this Pacific island paradise.
Boats in Vaitape harbor viewed from Mount Otemanu
Even the captain has to take a bath
A Safe Harbor – American Samoa
Log Entry—October 11, 1989: We have a little tagalong, a pilotfish.
The hurricane season was fast approaching, and we felt pressure to get to a safe harbor. With moderate winds, we averaged between four and five knots. After a sudden squall, we passed Maupiti Island, leaving it to port under full main and the genoa.
At sea we again followed the Maritime Mobile Net’s schedule with our daily check-in and resumed patching phone calls to the family. We listened at least twice a day to weather reports, tracking low pressure areas and hoping we wouldn’t have an early hurricane season.
On the first day out of Bora Bora, when checking the jib and looking over the bow, Bruce noticed we
had a little tagalong, a pilotfish. Silver with dark vertical stripes, the pilotfish was about 12 inches long. Often seen swimming under the jaws of sharks, pilotfish feed off parasites of their hosts. In our case, it was swimming under the “jaw” of Impunity, just to the side of the bow. It kept up with us for four days. We wondered what he ate. Did he find food on our bow?
For awhile, we averaged 125 nautical miles a day; but settled into 100. The smooth passage from Bora Bora to American Samoa was blessedly uneventful. Under these steady conditions, I managed to cook more involved meals. The passage was so consistent, once Bruce adjusted the sails after the initial rain squall, we sailed day-in, day-out with the same configuration, never changing sails or even adjusting the windvane steering. It was probably the smoothest sail of the journey.
My night watches, 10:00 to 2:00, were peaceful, allowing me to sit in the stern and soak up the serenity of the calm seas and steady wind, listening as Impunity swished through the seas. I continued to set our kitchen timer for every 15 minutes, lest I fall asleep, but I rarely did. This was a dream passage.