Stained Glass Bluegrass

My whole life, I’ve loved music – so it’s no surprise that the memory of the “loss” of two radio stations, each of which I had come to depend on to introduce me to new music, still lingers.  As a teenager in suburban Washington, during the early 1970s, my station was WGTB – based at Georgetown University (GT), and billing itself and its listeners as “One Nation, Underground.”   Under its non-commercial tutelage, I grew to love David Bowie, the Velvet Underground, Mott the Hoople, Iggy Pop, and others.  Eventually, WGTB changed its format, having undermined its credibility with Georgetown’s Jesuit priests by airing too many pro-choice editorials and announcements.  Progressive music fell victim to progressive politics; alas.

Later, in the 1980s, during my young parent/early professional days, WAMU, based at American University, became my music tutor, introducing me to a quintessential form of American roots music:  bluegrass.  Every morning:  bluegrass.  Every afternoon:  bluegrass.  All day Saturday:  bluegrass.  And on Sunday mornings:  Stained Glass Bluegrass, lovingly programmed by the late Red Shipley.  Four hours of gospel bluegrass – tight harmonies, timeless lyrics, and the unamplified sounds of guitar, banjo, fiddle, mandolin, and bass.  The Carter Brothers.  The Stanley Brothers.  The Seldom Scene.   The Country Gentlemen.   I recall, as a kid, in the 1970s, my parents going to the Red Fox Inn, to listen to these bands play, musicians wearing -- defiantly perhaps – narrow string ties, black pants and white shirts.  I remember Emmy Lou Harris, in her bluegrass period, appearing at the Childe Harold and the Cellar Door.  Going to the original Birchmere,  just down the street from its present cavernous location. Those Sunday mornings with Red Shipley were a regular in our young household throughout the 1980s and 1990s, and to this day, my kids tell me that their memories of Sundays are mostly defined by the songs in the Stained Glass Bluegrass genre.  Regrettably, in the late 1990s, WAMU succumbed to the market-tested religion of “pure” (vs. eclectic) programming and now delivers a 24x7 diet of talk shows.  Alas.

So to compensate, I began to collect bluegrass CDs, including a healthy assortment of Stained Glass Bluegrass.  Here, on ile de Grace, we have a 20 song playlist of the “best” Stained Glass Bluegrass which we listen to each and every Sunday.  Sunday is also the day we call our kids, using Skype (when in harbors with internet access) or, more likely, with our Iridium satellite phone.  This Sunday was no exception, and on a windless day, with the  flat ocean glazed over with a velvety sheen of molten blue, under a cloudless hemisphere of sky, Jennifer and I listened to the music of my – and our kids – youth:  “On Canaan’s Shore;”  “I Love to Tell the Story;”  “Model Church;”  “Far Side Bank of Jordan.”  And on and on.

Many of these songs reference water, oceans, and rivers, and I was struck by our apparent aloneness on the ocean, its circular horizon 12 miles distant, sailing in the center of a 450 square mile circle of water, floating 12,000 feet above an ocean floor of restless volcanic rock.  Since we left Rarotonga, we’ve seen just a few signs of life on this expanse of blue:  two humpback whales as we left, surfacing not 20 feet in front of us, and passing, with a casual flip of their flukes, not 30 feet off our beam; a pair of mahi-mahi, one of which we caught on our fishing line; and last night, 10 miles astern, the lights of a ship headed to New Zealand.  Other than that, it’s been three days and three nights of us, the ocean, and a night sky flanked by two bright planets, east and west, and a slowly rising, daily-waning moon that lifts its orange and misshapen globe as I come on watch at 10:00 pm.  Sparked perhaps by the lingering refrains of “Model Church,” I recalled those long-gone radio stations, and in the vastness of a Sunday afternoon sky mirrored in a shimmering azure ocean,  my memories turned to sailing to Bermuda as a 15 year old – my first ocean passage.

As with many adolescent experiences, my earliest ocean passages were formative, and imbued in me a profound realization of our individual insignificance in the space and time of our universe.  Being 15 years old, with one’s hands on the wheel of a sailboat heading south, a sky full of galaxies, stars, and planets might do that to anyone:  it’s impossible not to understand, accept, and embrace the truth that it’s a big sky, a big world, a big ocean, and that one’s boat is so very, very small. 

These days, I can often lose sight of that elemental insight and emotion, drawn instead into the concrete, mundane vortices of clogging fuel filters and leaking transmission fluids.  But on nights like we’ve had on this passage, I find myself recalling those long-ago first-time feelings and the glorious sense of wonderment at seeing a moon rise so suddenly and brightly it scares you, a Milky Way smeared delicately across a speckled sky, and the simple glory of a cloudless sky stretching from horizon to horizon to horizon.  Today, I think:  material worries will take care of themselves; give them their due, but remember why we embarked on this voyage.

Today – Sunday -- with its songs and recollections, also brought welcome news from home, as we connected with our kids.  We learned that our son, David, is now engaged to be married.  He and Marisa have been seeing each for a number of years, have traveled extensively together, and, not coincidentally, have sailed together.  I know they each embrace the awareness that it’s a big world, a big ocean, and that our boats are so very, very small.  That said, I also know that, for them, as for me and Jennifer, this awareness is not paralyzing, where one might otherwise yield completely to the forces of nature and the universe.  They, and we, seem to embrace the desire, obligation and responsibility, and the attendant possibilities, to tend to our little boats, to navigate the windless days as well as the stormy days, and to press onward to distant horizons. 

So after dinner, with the strains of bluegrass gospel songs drifting out of our boat’s cabin, and David’s wonderful news enveloping me in a glow of possibility, I went to the bow and sat quietly, feeling our boat press onward, looking down at the as-yet-unparted waters of the glassy sea.  I noticed a slight discoloration here, then there, in the water’s surface, and peered more intently down at the surface.  There … and there … and then a field of small discolorations –each resolving themselves into a tiny quarter-inch round floating sac, with what seemed to be all-but-invisible tentacles hanging perhaps one-sixteenth of an inch into the water.  And then, hovering in and around these unnamed creatures, small flying insects of a kind, skittering among them – hundreds of miles from land, flitting and fluttering over the undulating flatness of a salty sea.   No whales here, no mahi here, and no ships, but yes, life everywhere around us, an ocean – a universe – a boat -- teeming with life if only we look closely enough.

It’s a big world, a big ocean, and our boats are small.  But I’m constantly surprised by the forces of life having a go of it, as my friend Tony might say.   Today, tonight, Stained Glass songs about walking across the Sea of Galilee ring true – not so much for the walking part, but for their references to forces unfathomable, to the ability to see more things more clearly when we slow down, slow down enough to look closely at world around us, to look down on an ocean laid flat, vibrating with life and echoing the words of a son relating his intent to have a go of it.

Congratulations, David and Marisa; we wish you a wonderful voyage.

Photos from Rarotonga

There is no place for boats to anchor in Rarotonga. Anywhere outside the harbor is prohibited and the harbor itself is so small that there's no room for boats to be anchored in the middle of it. So they do what is called a Mediterranean Mooring (Med Moor for short). You set your anchor in the harbor and then back up to the wall and tie off your stern and pray that you did it right so that you do not crash your boat into the wall or hit the boats on either side of you. A little nerve wracking, but we managed with the help of a friend from Tahina, a boat we met in Manahi, in the Tuamotus. (It's a small world when it comes to us yachties cruising the South Pacific.)

There are several maraes in Rarotonga and Jon and I managed to find a few. They were quite small compared to the ones in French Polynesia, but still indicative of the religion the Polynesians practiced before their conversion to Christianity. One different site was The Black Rock. I don't know it's Rarotongan name, but it was believed to be the place where souls gathered after death for their departure to the afterlife. It is still considered a sacred place. While it just looks like a black rock, it does stand out as different from the rest of the coastline and it was easy to respect how the early people used it in their beliefs.

Since the missionaries arrival, these islands are still very religious, but it is now in their devotion to Christianity. Everything closes on Sundays and churches are well attended. On Sunday, Jon and I went to Catholic mass that was conducted in Cook Island Maori. We couldn't understand a word of it, but felt blessed nonetheless to be among a congregation that sang in 2 part harmony (without a choir director) and with such joy. The priest was clearly a leader of his flock and was so friendly, kind and gentle. (No hellfire and brimstone here.) His altar boys and girls were very serious about their jobs and were adorable, but as you'll notice, they're all barefoot. Shoes are not a requirement to go to church here, and those who do wear them are usually donning flip flops. The other surprise was during the consecration of the bread and wine, when there is usually a bell rung at the moment of transformation, a loud drum was struck. We nearly jumped out of our skins, but came to appreciate their tailoring the mass to incorporate their native instrument.

On a tour around the island, we rested on a beautiful white beach and saw this little boy and his novel way of paddling a kayak. Life is laid back and it's obvious they learn the lifestyle from a young age.

The parliament and ministries are located not far from the harbor and given the islands' small population, everyone knows everyone, including their elected officials. There are also local tribal chiefs who try to maintain Maori culture and traditions while working with the western form of government they've inherited from New Zealand. Nevertheless, Jon and I found this sign a wonderful indication of their democracy.......

Last night we had a lovely dinner on the beach and savored the last bit of things we can't get at sea......like a long shower at the harbor masters' and a three course meal cooked, served and cleaned up afterward by someone other than me. At the same time, we are ready to move on. Cruising season ends when the cyclone season begins, which is around December 1st. We have thousands of miles to go before we reach Australia. And, Jon is quite happy at sea, sailing his boat and catching the occasional fish along the way.

It's Tourista-Ville, but It and They Are Soooo Nice ...

So we leave Rarotonga tomorrow after immersing ourselves in the island's Gotta-Do things, including renting a scooter and trying to follow unmarked roads to unmarked historical maraes, eating burgers and chips at any of dozens of road side "Takeaways," visiting the (closed) national cultural center, and passing one church after another, alternating faiths -- Catholic, Mormon, Seventh Day Adventist, Cook Islands Christian Church (in hand-carved coral block buildings) and, perhaps not-so-out-of-place on an island with not one but two "Backpackers Hostels", and a Ba'hai center.

It's a beautiful island, with broader shoreside plains than any of the French Polynesian islands, and with a narrower reef than those isles as well. The island seems to be at peace with itself as a tourist destination, with accommodations and restaurants for every budget category -- unlike Bora Bora, etc., which seem to discourage even the concept of a budget. One of this islands main sources of foreign currency, we think, is its insistence on any driver having a local license; I am now the proud owner, $25 NZ later, of a Cook Islands drivers license, good for two years. There was a long line after me at their version of the DMV ...

When I say Tourista-Ville, I mean that in the best possible way ... the native Cook Islanders are SO friendly and nice, and they take special pride in their outgoingness. Most of the visitors here are from New Zealand or Australia, and most are here escaping from the much cooler weather down in their southern climes. Everything is clean, and they go to some lengths to keep their environment in pristine condition.

Have I mentioned the humpback whales? We went diving this morning, and on the short ride out to the site, we saw a massive humpback breech repeatedly just a kilometer or so away, fins flapping as this extraordinary bulk of a mammal lifted itself out of the washboard sea and fell with a crash, shaking free barnacles that tend to attach themselves to their skin. An awesome sight, and a sobering one; recently, most sailors in the South Pacific have been regaling themselves with the story of the whale that breeched and landed on a sailboat.

The dive was almost as eventful; we were diving a pass between the ocean and the lagoon, and the divemaster had casually mentioned to hold on as the surge pushed out, and swim with the returning surge. All good, mate. Jennifer and I were last in line passing through a narrow chute about 45 feet underwater, and the so-called surge turned into a nasty hard current; the others obviously had swum hugging the bottom, at 50 feet -- the five foot elevation stopped us dead in our tracks, and we hung on to the rock wall for dear life (well, we were never in any danger) and could not make our way either down or up-current ... we turned and ran with the current, and made our way back to the boat, unhappy at a truncated dive, but happy to have experienced such a strong current in otherwise safe conditions. That which does not sink or kill us .... On our second dive, we swam with the Eagle Rays, which careful readers may recall regaled us with their jumping antics as we left Panama not-so-many months ago.

Jennifer is off at the spa right now (did I say Tourista-Ville?), and I'm poolside at the Rarotongan, the grand master of this island's resorts. Tonight, we dine at a fine restaurant, and tomorrow, off to Niue. It's a 450 nm trip to the reef mentioned in the last post, and another 110 nm to Niue -- if conditions are right, we will atone for our sins here by anchoring in the middle of nowhere -- the center of the Pacific Ocean. No tourists there, to be sure, but entering will require calm seas and a steady hand at the wheel.

Did I mention the 18 hole putt-putt golf course? The four-wheel drive excursion jeeps? The underwater "see-the-reef" boat with two trips daily? No -- let's just close with this: Rarotonga is a gorgeous island, with wonderful people, and amazing gifts of geology and geography which they have taken great pains to protect and treasure: incomparably clear water, beautiful lagoons, ocean waters favored by humpbacks, and an ideal transition from French Polynesia to the island nations of Niue, Tonga, and Fiji ... we're glad we came, and we are looking forward to setting sail tomorrow.

Spanish? French? English!

We arrived Saturday morning in the lovely little harbour of Avatiu, on the island of Rarotonga, here in the Cook Islands.  Our sail from Bora Bora started off with a bang, with great winds and 150 nm days, and then fell to a whimper, as we limped along at 2-3 knots, and then, as we approached Rarotonga in the evening (thus needing to lay offshore, since we can only make landfall during daylight hours, given the reefs), we spent an anxious night dodging huge thunderstorms all around us.

With the help of our radar, we could spot the main cells, and adjust course accordingly, and we arrived safe and sound, instruments intact.  Sunday, we attended a Maori celebration of a Catholic mass (again, the singing is incredible), and, since the island shuts down on Sundays, we took care of some boat chores.

Tomorrow, we rent a scooter, visit the rest of the island (32 km circumference road), do some snorkeling, and take care of immigration, etc.  Tuesday, we plan to dive, after which Jennifer will enjoy a long-overdue massage to untwist her shoulder and neck muscles, and then more sightseeing Wednesday, with a likely departure Thursday for Beveridge Reef -- an amazing underwater atoll in the middle of the Pacific (where you can anchor, even though there is NO land visible!), and then Niue, an independent country (I think the smallest such in the world) on the way to Tonga.

Internet gets scarce out here; we're paying by the megabyte, thus perhaps not so many pictures for a bit ...  hope all are well -- we miss our friends and family, and welcome any/all emails updating us on gossip, politics, and the weather ...  we're starved for news :)

Au Revoir (And God Bless the Thimble!)

After four months, we leave French Polynesia for Rarotonga and the Cook Islands.  It's been a glorious time, with may new friends, new adventures, and new experiences for both of us, as well as our now-well-christened catamaran, ile de Grace.  We leave wiser and stronger, and look forward to our next sets of adventures:  the Cooks, Tonga, Fiji, Vanuatu, and then Australia.

Enduring memories of our stay, in no particular order:

• The 3-week visit by our daughter "When's-our-next-dive-Kate."  She's a wonderful shipmate even if she reverts to her childhood habit of falling asleep as soon as we start to sail :)  See you in December!
• Our weekly phone calls with our kids, and the amazing support on our home front provided by David, our son.  It's not easy leaving everything behind, and David's ability to navigate property management companies, tenant issues, banking crises, etc. while continuing to excel in his day job was a blessing and a gift to us as we sauntered through these islands.
• The baguettes and croissants -- how will we survive the mornings?
• The wonderful, if rainy town of Taravao, which became our de facto home for two months as we waited for engine parts, repaired torn dinghies, and watched the World Cup at our new favorite bar, Remy and Loula's.
• The winding road that circumnavigates Tahiti -- where we'd share the road in our rental car with chickens, bicyclists, Hot Mape and Cold Coco stands, and weaving motorcyclists.  We won't miss the drive to Tahiti, but we will miss the spectacular views and the daily weather vagaries as we went from windward rain to leeward sunshine.
• Heiva -- something special, with its dances, rowing and singing competitions.  Jennifer especially fell for Heiva, attending a number of the events, including the opening and closing ceremonies
• Poisson cru -- the local dish of raw fish and cocnut milk -- probably Jennifer's favorite dish of all time.  Amazing medley of flavors.
• The diving -- wonderful amazing fantabulous, and filled with fish, coral, sharks, rays, and eels, in the company of our soon-to-be dive master daughter!
• Black pearls -- Jennifer's new jewelry of choice, highlighted by her diving for a 12mm pearl that she now has set into a gorgeous brooch/necklace pendant combination
• The colors of the water as the depth varies from deep ocean (almost a purplish blue) to a few inches above the reef (a brownish yellow) with every shade of blue in between.
• Our new friends -- Francois and Cristal in Taravao, Francesco in Papeete, Fernando in Manihi, Marc in Fatu Hiva, Nicolas and Marie on the re-built "Tortue," Andy and Rhiann on their delightful sloop "Zephyrus," and dozens of other sailors and locals.  We'll see many of them again as many of sail westward, and we look forward to reconnecting.
• The repairs and upgrades we accomplished here, including reinforcing our anchor chain, an additional outboard, a new two-person kayak, and lots of interior improvements, including (finally!) hanging pictures of our kids and parents in our bedroom.
• The Ace Hardware stores, the Sung Tung Ming chandlery, and the Nautisport chandlery -- not always the easiest to get to, but each helped us out with spare parts and materials when we needed them.
• Tareva, the nurse practitioner in Manihi who managed to treat my partially-severed tip of my left ring finger with humor, grace, and skill -- it's all healed, and I only lost about 1/4" of an inch!
• Eating clams that Jennifer had caught and cleaned just hours before -- with good friends and good wine.
• Anchored in the Bay of Virgins, Fatu Hiva, with its monumental spires guarding a lush valley of coconut mango, papaya, and pamplemousse trees.
• Marquesan pamplemousse juice -- is there a more refreshing flavor?
• Sailing inside the lagoons -- with their trade winds and no swell and no chop ... delightful!
• Finally, Jennifer's brilliant insight that a thimble could cover my healing finger, allowing me to pick up and play my guitar again -- after a three month hiatus.  

God bless these islands -- I'll miss them but I'm glad to be moving on.  My daughter once gave me a small card:  "A boat is safe in the harbor, but that's not what boats are for."  We're leaving this harbor for a 550 n.m sail, and we're both excited to get back to sea.

Next posting -- Cook Islands, in about a week, internet service permitting.

Dining Notes

Many years ago, I helped a guy named Stu sail his 25' Coronado sloop "Sloopy Too" from West Palm Beach to St. Thomas, USVI.  I was 19 or 20 at the time, and Stu was moving to St. Thomas to set up shop as a marine electrician.  For all I know, he's still there, plying his trade.  I remember four things from the trip.  First, he had an extremely hot and young girlfriend, and on the passage, on this tiny tiny boat with two other guys on board (myself and a friend of his), the two of them would disappear below, close the hatches in the hottest part of the day, and leave me and his friend with no misunderstanding or uncertainty about what was transpiring (and perspiring) down below.  I mastered the art of dignified nonchalence.

Second, in heavy waves, the entire hull of this tiny, not-really-ready-for-the-ocean boat would flex inward a good 4-5 inches.  Scary -- nay terrifying -- at first, but better a reed than an oak tree on a storm as they say.  Third, I remember arriving in the Virgin Islands, on the island of St. John's, in Francis Bay.  I say "on."  We beached the boat at the conclusion of the 1100 nm trip.  The boat was so light, and so shallow in draft that we could -- and did -- literally sail the boat to shore.  I have a wonderful picture of Stu scratching his head as if to say, "How did this happen?"

The last thing I remember about this trip was that we encountered three + days of miserable weather -- winds in our face, steep seas, and just plain miserable conditions.  The girlfriend got really seasick, as did Stu's friend, and my enduring memory of those three days boils down to food.  We knew we needed to stay nourished, but cooking was out of the question.  After a day or so, we ran through all the ready-to-eat/prepared-in-advance foods, and we went to the corned beef and hash.  Stu was an old U.S. Navy  radar operator, so corned beef and hash must have been a favorite on his ships, because he had stocked a large number of #10 cans of this stuff -- that's the size you see in elementary school cafeterias.  With no preamble, he grabbed a can, opened it with his pocketknife, stuck a fork in the brownish mush, and passed it to me.  We ate out of the can for two+ days, passing it back and forth when we were hungry, and keeping en eye on each other's energy levels.

All of this to say that, to paraphrase the good Dr. M.L. King, I've been to the valley bottom of shipboard dining.

Rest assured, fair readers, I have also been to the mountaintop.  Here's a major shout-out to Jennifer and her boat cuisine.  With food purchases in DC, Florida, Panama, and then Tahiti, I have never eaten food as healthy, tasty, fresh, diverse, nourishing, and downright delicious as on this trip.  Whether it's fresh fish, curried with rice and real herbs, or a pasta dish with diced chicken, or, yesterday's concoction, fresh homemade chicken noodle soup, or this morning's freshly baked banana bread with walnuts and cranberries -- it's a gustatory delight here on ile de Grace.  While in port, many's the meal with a fresh salad, and on Sundays, we have crepes, with a delicious topping of caramel.  It's a real art -- and a chore to be sure -- to think about meals every day and to plan and execute such a diverse menu; my part starts when hers ends, and I'm pretty good as a dishwasher, but the real culinary kudos go to Jennifer, my wife, best friend, and co-captain

Hallelujah!

Tidal Drifts

We're anchored off the "famous" Bloody Mary's here in Bora Bora, where a set of 4'x8' painted plywood wallboards greet the entrants with a list of the "famous" people who have eaten here.  Jennifer immediately spots Charlie Sheen and Roman Polanski, and mentions something about underage sexual encounters ...I notice Marilyn Chambers, famous for her Ivory Soap-to-porn conversion, and we walk inside, to be greeted by the American host and a iced tray of the local catches of the day, from which we three (Kate's next-to-last night with us) choose our dinner entrees.

Prior company notwithstanding, we had a great meal -- and in thinking about WHY we thought it was a great meal, realized that while the fish was no fresher or better prepared than other restaurants, the meal was presented in a Western-style -- appetizer, with a salad, main course, and dessert.  I guess this means we do miss our culture of origin -- and that as much as we embrace the local culture, there's no place like home -- or its faux hybridized interpretation here in decidedly Westernized Bora Bora.

We're moored off their dock this morning as well, as the wireless internet connection is down at the Bora Bora Yacht Club, lying about 3 miles to the northwest.  The wind has shifted to the north, and will continue to swin g to the west over the next few days.  This is about as rare as the tuna Kate had for dinner last night, and the skies are cloudy and spitting down moisture.  Kate and Jen have dinghied into town to mail some postcards ... tomorrow will be busy with Kate's departure, and then it's a few days of getting the boat stowed away, the winches disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled, and a few other chores before we leave for the 550 n.m trip to Rarotonga.

Since arriving in the Marquesas four months ago, our longest sails have been the overnights to Tahiti and then to Huahine.  We're really looking forward to an extended time at sea; the most recent overnight reminded me vividly of the simplicity and distraction-free nature of a passage.  For someone with a limited attention span (!), creating a void where the mind can wander under the lights of billions of stars and a few unnaturally-bright planets is a good thing.

We're in need of internet so that I can download an update to my laptop's navigation software.  Writing that sentence calls to mind George Carlin's (RIP, weatherman!) famous rant against the 21st century, and calls to mind some of the differences between blue water cruisers.  There's a wonderful couple who sail the boat Bumfuzzle.  They left Chicago after earning too much money as commodities traders, having never sailed a day in their lives, and bought a boat and left -- no preparation, no training, no experience.  The mainstream cruising community turned their figurative backs on this couple -- arguing almost en masse that they were irresponsible.  Maybe, but they did it -- they chased their dream. Their wonderful blog is filled with real-life examples of on-the-job training and an irreverent attitude to life, the universe, and everything.  God bless them as they undertake v2.0 on their new boat!

Another guy we met, in his 30s, made enough money in California to buy a catamaran, and for three years he and a motley gang of friends and hangers-on have wandered the South Pacific looking for the perfect surfing spots -- he's a very loose guy, quick with a smile and joke and "whatever," and his blog is worth a peruse even if it's a bit out of date.  I did the math, and it seems the entries began to trickle down once he and his new girlfriend discovered they'd become parents ... she and the baby left for home a few days ago, while he and his mates are sailing onto Rarotonga.  The sight of a Johnny-Jumper (our son David lived in one of these when he was smaller) on the bow of their 52' catamaran may have been a bit unnerving to Kyber, a free spirit if ever we've met one.  He too "just went," and celebrates when only a few things get broken on a passage.  I hope their relationship resumes intact, but it seems a stretch from this observer's vantage point.  Then again, who really knows these things ever?

Us?  We're definitely on the staid, Boy Scout "Be Prepared" side of the ledger.  Almost to a fault, I think, and it's something I plan to ponder on our passage to Rarotonga.  At "home," we embodied the lessons of the famous "broken windows" social experiments -- where if a school's broken window was left unrepaired, soon the rest of the school's windows would also be broken.  We had an unwritten cultural norm in our family -- anything amiss would be remedied immediately, and, ideally, to the better.  This helped us not only keep a clean house (!), but also gave us time and freedom (ironically) to keep a lot of balls in the air at one time (like two teenagers, and active social and community lives.)

On a boat, location and/or circumstance sometimes limit one's ability to fix things quickly, much less to the better.  I've probably spent more time, thought, and emotional energy on these "to-be-fixed/improved" situations than is probably healthy, and while I'm learning to let go, the last three weeks with Kate -- as a vacation-within-a-vacation -- have illuminated for me the importance of letting these things go, and reestablishing a balance between the moment and the so-called necessity.  Not everything needs fixing today.  Not everything will be fixed for the better.  It's a balance -- we're not a school, and our windows are still watertight.

The irony of writing this as I continue to download a 550 Mb file (8 hours at Bora Bora connection speeds!) is not lost on me.  But at least I'm downloading at a slow speed, watching the clouds drift over the volcanic cone that juts skyward from the lush greenery of Bora Bora, lying a few hundred yards from the "famous" Bloody Mary's.  It's not a bad life, and we're looking forward to more disconnection and more simplicity and fewer distractions as we head westward, just the two of us, in our little sailing boat.  A boat with, yes, some "to-do's" but they can wait a few days ... or maybe a few weeks?

A Beatnik, A German and a Dane Walked Onto an Island …

We arrived in Taha’a on Monday evening, after a lovely time in Huahine.  The sail across - 25 nautical miles or so - was brisk, in 15-20 knots of wind on an easterly broad reach.  Ile de Grace pushed merrily along at 6-8 knots on a full main and genoa.  The islands of Raiatea and Taha’a are in the same lagoon, two mountains divided by a deep and narrow passage, and together surrounded by a deep channel between the land’s edge and the outlining coral reef.

Approaching these islands is straightforward, but the underwater topography is more than a little interesting.  Coming across from Huahine, we were in 2500 feet of water, until just several hundred yards before the shallow reef surrounding Taha’a and Raiatea.  At that point, the ocean floor rises abruptly to sea level in the space of just a hundred yards or so – a large version of the “wall” we dove in Tahiti.  Imagine an underwater cliff several thousand feet high.  At the top of the “wall” lies a coral reef perhaps a few dozen yards wide, beyond which lies calm and shallow water, a sandy bottom punctuated by coral gardens, and then, a deep channel – perhaps 100-200 feet deep, and, just before the rising mountains of the land, the water again shoals quickly (perhaps within a few dozen feet) to waters just 4-8 feet deep.  This is the generic topography of these volcanic islands, and Taha’a/Raiatea are no exception.  Once inside the lagoon, the swells of the ocean disappear, and the water color changes from the deep blue of the ocean to the turquoise and aquamarine colors of postcards.  The lines between the colors are sharp and distinct, and allow for eyeball navigation:  stay in the darker blue waters and you’re fine.  Light blue moving to yellow (sand) or brown (coral) and you’re headed to the shallows.

Once through the passage, which trade winds and currents had cut through the reef, we circled clockwise around to the so-called Taravana Yacht Club, run by Richard, a displaced San Franciscan married to a Tahitian.  He’s an eternally jovial host, in constant motion, and us his story about moving to Hawaii  in 1969, and arriving in Bora Bora (the next island up the chain) via Hawaii.  Arriving in 1972, these islands were a different place, but one aspect remains constant:  generosity.  On arrival in a small sailboat (no engine), he experienced the Polynesian way:  a bundle of fruits was left on his deck each morning by a local fisherman headed out beyond the lagoon for a day’s fishing.  After a few days, Richard was invited into the fisherman’s home, and before long, Richard found himself a local girl to marry, and he now runs a distinctly American-flavored watering spot on the water’s edge.

That night, we arranged to join Richard and his merry crew for their weekly buffet feast, followed by an exhibition of local music and dancing.  The island of Taha’a has only about 5000 inhabitants, and before Richard, had no regular venue for their local artists.  

The locals’ passion for their music made up for their amateur status (no threat to the Heiva winners!), and the highlight came with an 8-9 year old boy spinning fire sticks in the Polynesian night.  They start everything early, and as a dancer, the same boy displayed some moves that might have landed him in jail in the US, and certainly led us to understand the mortified responses of the early missionaries in these parts.  (It having to do with explicit hip thrusts that would make any hip hop artist blush).

The next morning, we retraced our steps to anchor ile de Grace in the sandy flats behind the lagoon entrance, in the lee of a small motu (small island).  From there, we loaded the 20hp Honda onto the dinghy (we had purchased a 3.3 hp Mercury in Tahiti to have a spare engine as we head to more remote island groups, and to provide us a light and easy-to-deploy motor), and headed off to the Hibiscus Hotel.

Actually, it was the Hibisicus Foundation.  This is a small (!) non-profit located in the hotel of the same name, run by an ex-pat German named Leo, and dedicated to conserving sea turtles by purchasing local fishermens’ catches of same (live) and returning them to the ocean.  With a local market for live turtles, Leo has provided the fishermen an economic incentive to bring him the turtles that inadvertently end up in their fish traps.  He’s connected with worldwide turtle conservation efforts and surely possesses the region’s most comprehensive library of turtle-related research and literature.  The green turtle is reasonably common in and around the lagoons and out in the ocean; we see them periodically swimming near the surface.  They are called “green turtles” because of the color of their fat – their shells are often streaked with orange.

From Leo’s turtle sanctuary, we drove our dinghy out the bay and around the point to the Valle de Vanille, one of the larger vanilla plantations on Taha’a.  Along with Huahine, Taha’a grows most of the especially-strong Tahitian vanilla, and we were eager to learn more about this special orchid.  Yes – to our surprise, vanilla is an orchid, the only orchid in fact that has a culinary use.  There, we met Erik, a transplanted Dane and owner (along with his Polynesian wife) of the 2,500-plant plantation.  As an orchid, vanilla grows as a vine – hanging on other trees.  

The plant is allowed to grow for 2 years on its own, with continual pruning to encourage more flowers.  After it grows to a certain length, it’s allowed to flower (sun/shade proportions are crucial, and the recent clouding-over of these climes have challenged Erik and other vanilla plantation owners).  Then, manually, each flower (containing both male and female stems) is fertilized by opening the “female” bud and taking the “male” stem and inserting it into the female bud. 

In other island groups, such as Madagascar, butterflies provide the labor; lacking the same, humans are deployed on Taha’a.  Nine months later, the vanilla bean (one per flower) is ready for harvest, after which another several months of drying and preparation are required.

In each case – Richard, Leo, and Erik – a non-local married a local (only locals can own land), and in each case, the new locals have worked within the local norms and cultures – and in fact, have helped to deepen the traditions, cultures, marine, and plant life of the these islands.  It’s not easy to immigrate to French Polynesia – Richard said even discovering what the rules are is a multi-year challenge – but perhaps the challenges weed out the opportunists, leaving only a recovering Beatnik, a German, and a Dane on the shores of this volcanic island, just south of the tourist mecca of Bora Bora (of which, it is said, is only beautiful below the water).

Next stops:  Diving the reef wall of Raiatea, visiting the largest mara'e in French Polynesia, and then onto Bora Bora.