Yacht La Novia

We have visited Daniel, the yachtsman’s friend for 40 years on Nuku Hiva and signed his wonderful visitors book - nothing less than an history of Pacific voyaging in small craft.

This is an unforgettable experience for any Pacific sailor. His book now stretches to seven volumes. Names, signatures, drawings, photographs, messages of goodwill.

Such names they are too! Bernard Moitessier, Robin Knox-Johnston, Chay Blythe, are just a few that leap out at you from the pages. As you turn the pages, you are completely overwhelmed by a sense of standing in the history of your present endeavour.

Daniel himself is now ancient, but as charming as ever.

Ironically, he no longer lives in splendid isolation in Daniel’s Bay. His enforced departure from his home must rank as one of the creepiest cameos of modern life as distorted by the media.

Who I wonder, was the warped mind that coined the phrase “Reality TV”? Why do I wonder? Well…………….

The ‘Reality’ TV show Survivor took a shine to his bay and decided that it was not ‘Real’ enough with him living there. So they paid the government to move him against his will to the bay next door, and demolished his house in Daniel’s Bay, so that they could film a ‘Reality’ TV show about surviving on a deserted island in a perfect bay just 4 miles down the road from the capital of the Marquesas Islands, where beer & burgers were readily available for all involved.

But that’s probably more ‘Reality’ than the moronic audience of Survivor either need, or for that matter, want, to know.

It is time for us to leave for the Tuamotos, the “Dangerous Archipelago” of such fearsome reputation that, before GPS, many yachts would take the long detour North to avoid them entirely. I can think of few places that better illustrate the extent to which modern technology has reduced the degree of seamanship required to undertake a voyage of this kind. ( Right up to the moment that the technology stops working that is! )

30 years ago, arriving from a position derived from sextant and dead reckoning, running, without radar, towards huge reefs awash and nothing taller than a palm tree ahead, night watch searching the horizon for the telltale white flash of a breaking reef in the moonlight, straining their ears to catch a warning roar of surf, this was not an experience for the fainthearted.

Even for a yacht as blessed with electronics as La Novia, this is still not a trip to be undertaken casually and I am more nervous about this passage than any we have undertaken since leaving England. The bottom line is that you need a navigation plan that allows you a chance to confirm your position independently of the GPS as you approach the danger zone, in a position where you can still turn around in safety if things are going wrong. This is a very long way from help if you park your boat on one of the myriad reefs waiting for you. We decide to use an approach waypoint on the ocean side of the Island of Tairo, which is one of the few spots in the Tuamotos high enough to be visible on radar.

550 miles from Nuku Hiva, an hour before dawn our radar picked up the Island 15 miles ahead of us at exactly the range and bearing that both our satellite navigation and our dead reckoning expected. As dawn broke we could see it on the horizon 8 miles ahead. I confess to experiencing some degree of relief at this unstressed landfall, electronics or not.

Once we have found the pass into Kauehi’s lagoon, the technology ceases to be of much use. Even though we are close to slack water, a 4 knot current is running out of the pass and the sea in its entrance is a maelstrom as the current meets the onshore breeze. Fortunately, there is only one obstacle to miss inside the pass and plenty of room around it, so we can attack the pass at full speed and clear the zone of breaking waves and sucking whirlpools to enter calm of the lagoon. Once inside, constant vigilance is required while navigating in the 8 mile diameter lagoon. It is largely deep and safe but uncharted ‘Bombs’ are scattered around - coral pillars that rise to just under the surface from up to 100 ‘ of water.

If I was to be completely honest, I might admit that we may have very slightly underestimated the extent to which these Bombs are uncharted. On the other hand, we did not underestimate this for very long! It would be no exageration to say that all complacency evaporated in a flash as the first coral pillar, perfectly cylindrical and about 30 feet across, materialised 20 feet to starboard of us at 6 knots and we experienced a “where the hell did that come from?” moment!.

Catherine takes up residence on the bow for all movements in the lagoon.

The Tuamotos are supposed to be a ‘ remoteness’ experience. But it didn’t quite work out that way. The grapevine had been working overtime and Kauehi had been chosen for a gathering of the kiddie boats. Seven boats and 15 children showed up at a deserted motu in the SE corner of the atoll.

After a token attempt at exerting some degree of supervision, the parents faced reality and the whole thing slid into a prolonged scene out of Lord of the Flies. George described it best in his diary:

“We are in the Tuamotos at an Atol called Kauehi. It is paradise and the swimming here is perfect. From the boat the sand on the beach looks white and the sea a blue blue. We made a fire on the beach ther were lots of children. Just as it was geting dark we all saw 1 black tip shark then we saw 10 baby black tip sharks.”

Back in the World, the newspapers are full of anxious discussions of the effects of depriving children of independence and risk as they grow up. Kids in London can no longer walk to school, no longer disappear with their friends on their bikes for the day, no longer build tree houses (and fall out of them) as I did as a boy. The same parents who fret about their children’s obsession with a virtual world of electronic games prevent those children from doing anything interesting in the real world because of both real and sometimes imagined dangers.

Here on a South Sea Island, the children retreated into a virtual world - one of camp fires and dens, sailing dinghies and armies, weapons and battles. Virtually no discipline was either possible or required, although against all odds George succeeded in being awarded 20 lines ( “I must not have swordfights with burning sticks” ). It was a tropical Swallows and Amazons come to life to horrify the army of Nanny-State busy bodies that western tax payers employ to tell them how to bring up their children. Yet, for all this irresponsible parenting, no one got hurt, beyond a few bangs and scrapes which they were too busy to notice. The most extraordinary part of the experience for us was seeing how quickly and intelligently the children took responsibility for their own safety when given the chance to do so.

A couple of hardcore cruising boats arrived at this isolated spot, stayed horrorstruck for a few hours and fled. The HF radio nets started putting out a warning to other boats:

‘Kauehi is taken over with children running wild. Keep clear!’ After that we had it to ourselves.

When the wind shifted north we moved to the village at the other end of the atoll to get to know the locals, organise a kids’ football match against the local team and look at the pearl farms. I think Vinnie Jones must have visited this place. The local kids had the art of the professional foul off to a tee.

I am not normally superstitious. I believe in science, in the laws of probability and the evidence of the senses. These tell me that in matters of chance, past outcomes do not affect future probabilities. But I am a sailor too, so I obviously also believe in the idea of a “Jonah” and keep my eyes open at all times for any sign of one aboard.

Now Pearl farming is a godsend to the people here and has taken over as virtually the sole economic activity in the Tuamotos.

The price of Copra is so low that the effort involved in producing it is nowhere near rewarded. The Japanese have pillaged the Pacific fisheries so ruthlessly that local fishermen cannot make a living offshore and French Nuclear Testing in the Eastern Tuamotus spread Ciguatera poisoning throughout the atolls and shores of French Polynesia destroying the economic value of the inshore and atoll fisheries that had supported people here for a millennium.

The pearl farms employ almost everyone. Without pearl farming, there would be nothing left except for a social security cheque from France.

The detail of the process is truly wonderous to see. The oysters are nurtured with amazing care, producing a pearl every 14 months which is carefully removed without harm to the oyster and replaced with a fresh seed - a perfectly machined sphere of reconstituted mother of pearl ranging in size from a tiny pea to a small marble. The oyster coats this sphere with its own outer skin and another pearl is born. The water temperature, Ph balance and nutritional content are perfect for the oysters and every inhabited atoll is now being farmed for the characteristic greenish grey “Black” pearls.

I have been trying to give my wife some decent pearls ever since I can remember. The first fiasco was at the time of our wedding. I cannot even remember what went wrong. Then I tried again when George was born, only to have it all end in recrimination. This time it would be different. Here we were in Pearl Central, anchored in a lagoon with a pearl farm, its Japanese manager and 250,000 oysters. What could possibly go wrong?

We toured the farm, got to know the quality issues, haggled a bit on the prices and went back to the boat to make up our minds. Having decided to go the whole hog and do it well, we returned in the morning to make the Big Purchase at the farm office.

Which had closed for the season…

I have a feeling that I might be a Pearl Jonah… As George said with some relish and quite a decent stab at Capt’ Jack Sparrow’s mangled tones:

“It’s the Curse of the Black Pearl, Dad”.

What a trip to Tahiti!! The conditions somehow came together to leave La Novia completely steady in the water as she sailed. We had always known about the huge accommodation in our friends’ catamarans, but what were they like at sea?

We finally knew the answer. That evening we were gliding at 8 - 9 knots on a rock steady fine reach. Seas were only about 18 inches, no swell to speak of, sailing almost upright. Gosh we said, so this must be what it’s like to have a Catamarangue (as Thomas calls them)!!! Yes please, who do we send a cheque to?

Well, to celebrate our initiation, Catherine decided to treat us to a full blown roast dinner - unheard of on passage. A new dish would enter the lexicon….Roast Lamb a La Pacific. Stick all the trimmings in the pan with part of one of New Zealands more obedient subjects and One Dish Cuisine would scale new heights. It certainly smelt that way when Catherine took it out to turn everything over.

So who exactly is Willie the Wave? Willie was a little wave who got separated from his mummy and daddy, Mr & Mrs Large Wave down in the Southern Ocean, while they were out on trip to see the Penguins. Somehow or other he wandered all the way up here looking for his mum. He felt very conspicuous up here, being about 8 feet tall amongst all these little ripples. Then he saw La Novia and felt better straight away. He knew just what to do with a sailing boat. He popped us right on the beam and heeled us violently over.

‘Just like Mum & Dad used to do to that nice Ellen McArthur back at home’

he thought happily as he rolled on.

Down below, it was a war zone. Catherine was wearing the vegetables, the lamb was gamboling around the galley floor in the gravy and the pan had dug a crater in the floorboard that you could twist your ankle in.

Then George had a Kamikaze Moment and came down to say “something helpful” to Mummy.

As George’s life hung by a thread, I didn’t hesitate and leapt heroically into the danger zone, scooping him up and carrying him off to safety with a hand over his mouth.

So, our insight to catamaran sailing was more of a tantalising illusion than a revelation after all. It was Roast Lamb a la Galley Floor not a la Pacific. Very good it was too, a certain Je ne sais quoi about it. Just as well not to know really.

That tantalising savory undertone that I couldn’t quite place was probably Thomas’ feet!

Nothing can take away the perfection of the Society Islands. Their towering central mountains touch the spirit and more prosaically, ensure rainfall, while their surrounding reefs provide still anchorages and a safe waterborne transit around the islands. They are like the best of the Tuamotus and the Marquesas rolled into one.

The scars of Papeete’s light industrial waterfront and Bora Bora’s plethora of resort developments for honeymooners from Chicago are without doubt blots on this landscape, but neither can disguise the raw beauty of their surroundings. It is like seeing an amazingly beautiful woman treading a catwalk clad in some monstrous outfit in the name of high fashion. She would look much better if she took it off, or, less interestingly, just swapped it for jeans and a t-shirt, but she is still beautiful.

After a night at anchor on the reef, introduced by an awesome sunset around Moorea’s skyline, we decide on a rest and take an inside berth in the Marina Taina on the East side of the island. Getting in is a bit of a wing and a prayer number as the Inner Harbour is really intended for much smaller boats. As we make our entry the breeze puffs up to 15 - 20 knots and we catch our keel on a submerged mooring line in a very confined space at the sharp turn into the inside basin. A med-moored Swan 60 has laid out a second bow anchor with the warp across the entry channel to the inner harbour.

This is a pretty emotional stunt, as the wind, our boat speed and our snagged keel conspire to propel us beam on towards the bow of the large Swan on the other end of this mooring line, which is graced with a big sharp plough anchor. As with any boat handling disaster, an audience has materialised, Tardis-like, out of nowhere to lend the skipper moral support and conflicting advice.

Mercifully, there are no loose lines in the water and through a righteous combination of inspired boat handling and the power of prayer we manage to extricate ourselves from this bear trap without fouling the prop, ripping off the retractable bowthruster on the mooring line under the boat or crashing into anything! The expert committee dockside shake their heads at each other and finally manage to agree on something - namely that I’d got myself properly in the cart and was well lucky to have escaped that lightly. Well, they got certainly that part right!

We sit outside for ten minutes to let pulse rates re-enter from orbit and generally recover our nerve. The skipper of the Swan, who has a Doctorate in anti social behaviour, isn’t interested in removing his obstruction from the channel temporarily for a few minutes to let us pass. Why is it that the people from the racing world can’t seem to assimilate cruisers’ all for one and one for all ethos when they go cruising?

If we have learnt anything in the last couple of years, it’s that it’s ALWAYS A PRIVILEGE to help ANYONE who needs it. What goes around comes around and God knows, other cruisers have helped us out often enough. The real friends that we have made on this journey are all those with totally uncompromising attitudes towards mutual support.

We manage the trick at the second attempt, lifting the keel to clear the obstruction and then dropping it again to get the grip to make the turn. For once, the bowthruster, quite out of character, operates flawlessly when it is really needed. We may be here for some time. Now that we’re in, there is no discernible enthusiasm aboard for repeating the experience going astern!

Traditional Polynesian culture is being marketed pretty aggressively to tourists here and even I can’t help feeling a twinge of guilt at my instinctive urge to try and sneak through the place without taking a look.

I have a pretty low pain threshold when it comes to watching native dancing, but the Traditional Firewalking Ceremony seems like a compromise that will allow Catherine to assuage her craving to see lots of blokes dressed in palm frond skirts hopping from one foot to the other shouting ‘Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!’ while at least giving me the pleasure of seeing them burn their feet by way of compensation for having had to endure it. I once saw an old boy walking slowly across red hot coals in Kathmandu and know that George and Thomas will just love it.

I really am old enough to know better. This isn’t Kathmandu and we’ve been Royally Had.

The first twinge of doubt sets in as we arrive to find that they have sold at least 300 tickets. That level of marketing implies a very untraditional level of organisation in Polynesia. We stoically endure an endless series of ceremonies involving silly hats & mumbo jumbo in Tahitian. It’s like seeing a dozen Catholic priests on acid, but not as funny.

The only ray of hope comes when they start waving burning torches about, but disappointingly, nobody’s skirt catches alight and pretty soon the punters are getting restless again. At last the moment of high drama arrives and the screens surrounding the Path of Fire are moved aside. A sudden hush descends and George’s voice carries clearly across the crowd.

“Daddy, where’s the fire?”.

The fire is safely buried beneath a path of large stones. After the dance troupe have padded along it a couple of times followed by their children and mother in laws, the audience is harangued into a queue (except for 6 Italians off a cruise ship whose urge to jump a queue is so ingrained that they barge their way to the front for the privilege of being first to be humiliated) and everyone except us stumbles sheepishly along the Path of Fire, radiating that peculiar aura of people who know that they’ve been conned, but have no idea of what to do about it.

This isn’t Firewalking. It’s underfloor central heating and for the price of 4 tickets I could virtually have installed it in my mum’s bathroom.