Mulligans

Among golfers, there’s a thing called a mulligan.  In essence, it’s a do-over of a bad shot, without penalty.  To some, they are a reasonable accommodation to the inevitability of a bad swing or an errant shot.  To others, they are an abomination to the game of golf, which has prided itself on its integrity:  each shot counts.  The famous Texas golf teacher Harvey Penick tells of joining a foursome one morning; when the first player shanked his drive out of bounds and declared his intention to take a mulligan, Penick walked away, saying “When you boys decide to play golf, let me know.”  Most weekend golfers are not so persnickety, and many will tolerate, if not embrace, a mulligan on the first hole of the match.

To take another tack, at most charity golf tournaments, you can actually “buy” mulligans, and trade cash for the chance for a re-do.  Some teams take advantage of this money-raising scheme to excess, and buy dozens of mulligans, and shoot final scores that boggle the imagination.  All for a good cause I suppose. 

Finally, there’s an old saw about the golfer who brings his playing partner to the emergency room with two large lumps on the back of the partner’s head.  When asked how it happened, the golfer said he drove the ball and inadvertently hit his partner walking away from him.  

“What about the second lump?,” the doctor asked. 

“Oh – that was my mulligan.”

Joking aside, we’ve had more than a few errant shots on our trip to date, times and events where we’d like to call for a mulligan.  We’re doing a lot of on-the-job training, and as Jennifer puts it, “When we’re finished with this trip, we should know enough to start it.” 

Bob Dylan captured our prevailing sentiment when he wrote:  “Here I sit so patiently/Waiting to find out what price/ You have to pay to get out of/Going through all these things twice.”  Thus, in the interest of full disclosure to those faithful readers who may think us charmed as we waltz across the Pacific, here are our “wanna-be mulligans.”  

--  We lost a genaker sheet overboard when both Jennifer and I thought the other person had secured the line as we readied the sail.  Luckily we had a spare line, but a loss nonetheless.  Readers may recall this event spawned a poem.  All lines now get tied off before we bring them to the foredeck.

--  We bought a new battery for our dinghy, which allowed us to raise the engine so it wouldn’t get stuck in the mud at low tide.  That night, having proudly raised the engine with our new battery, the dinghy drifted on top of a barnacle-encrusted log, which proceeded to slice a 4” gash in the pontoon.  Our dinghy repair kit had a jar of sealed but solidified glue, and not nearly enough patching material.  A trip into town, and 4 days of work, and voila, a patched and ready-to-use dinghy.  No more tying up near barnacles.

--  Somehow the concept of checking the water level in our wet-cell batteries eluded us, and we woke up to discover that our entire bank of batteries was bone-dry, and, keeping with basic principles of physics, unable to hold a charge and permanently ruined.  We had to replace our entire battery bank.  We now check them weekly.
 

--  On one occasion, we came back to our dinghy to find one of the emergency oars missing from the oarlocks; luckily, we found it floating nearby, and determined that a loose cap on the oarlock was responsible.  A month later, the same cap came loose and this time, the oar floated out with the tide into the southern Pacific.  We now stow the remaining oar inside the dinghy, and not hanging from its oarlock.  A new oar is on its way.

--  Before sea water enters our watermaker to be turned into fresh water through osmosis, it passes through a 5 micron filter to remove algae, etc.  This filter is cleaned every 3-4 days by dragging it behind the boat, and then it is reused.  One day, I inserted the clean filter and heard a grinding sound when I re-started the high-pressure watermaker.  Upon inspection, a flying fish had lodged itself in the center core of the filter.  The high pressure pump chewed up the hapless fish and shot it downstream to the highly-sensitive osmotic membrane.  We had to replace the (expensive) membrane.  I now check for fish.

--  We’ve anchored a few times into situations that created real stress and tension for us and our surrounding boats.  In the Marquesas, I moved our stern anchor only to have our boat come far too close to another as we re-positioned.  More significantly, in the Tuomotus, I took the advice of a local fisherman and tried to let out our anchor manually (without using the windlass which is designed to keep hands and fingers intact).  As the chain slammed against the windlass, about 3/8” of my left ring finger was clipped off.  Luckily, we were within 5 minutes of a small clinic, and 6 weeks later, the flesh and skin have re-grown, leaving just a faint mark.  No more manual anchoring.

It’s not a complete list, but it reflects our learning curve.  We’ve been blessed with the advice and help of many fellow cruisers, who share with us their stories of mishaps and breakdowns.  It’s nice to know we’re not alone, but on the whole, I’d like to buy a few mulligans from whoever is running this tournament we’ve entered.  Lacking that, I guess I have to wait until my guitar finger heals completely and I can once again play Bob Dylan’s classic “Stuck Inside of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again.”  

Fore!

Faces, Flora & Fauna of Tahiti

It's a rainy Sunday in Tahiti. Brazil just trounced Ivory Coast. We're back on ile de Grace for an afternoon of reading and Mad Men (which we've just started watching.) The title of this blog speaks for itself.

If I Were A Boat

Another poem penned on ile de Grace:

If I Were A Boat

If I were a boat
If my skin were smooth
If my legs turned round and round
If my head could turn sharply thru the wind
If I could somehow hold steady in a fresh breeze
If when the tides turn I would stay anchored
If I could shine from these portholes
If I would leave this shore behind
If I were that kind of boat:

I would lie gently in this port and wait for you to take my wheel.


Jon Glaudemans
June 2010

Coupe du Monde

We're not sailors for the next couple of weeks. Hopefully our engine parts will arrive this week and repair work will begin, but Jon and I are taking a break for the Coupe de Monde (World Cup).

We have a home at Chez Loula et Remy's....a local French restaurant with soccer (futball) scarves lining its ceiling rafters. We are only able to watch the games that air at 8:30 PM South Africa time, which is 8:30 AM in Tahiti, because they are not open for the 1:30 and 4:30 AM games. The staff is great and welcomes us each morning with Orangina and croissants.

We're happy for whatever games we can catch. We watched the US-England game with our British friends Andy and Rhian, and were joined by our Aussie friend Tony for the Australia-Germany game. Just finished watching Italy stumble against Paraguay. Brazil tomorrow.

Life is good.

Excursions

As noted in an earlier post, Jon and I have become friends with the owners of Zephyrus, Andy and Rhian. Last weekend, we shared a rental car for a self-guided tour of Tahiti. It was a great way to pack a lot in, in a rather short time. And, it enabled us to do so much more than if we relied only on buses. Rental cars are expensive here, but it was great to share their company and to break out of our little Phaeton Bay and town of Taravao.

We headed up the eastern and windward side of the island first. There are not many towns because it is the side of the island that bears the brunt of storms, but the coastal views and beaches were lovely. As we hit the northern side of the island, we made a detour inland at the Papenoo River. We were looking for a waterfall, but could not take the car beyond a certain point and it would have been too far of a hike. So we pulled over to check out the river.

Fresh water!!!! It was so wonderful to step into fresh (not salty) water. It was cool, clear and delicious. I was in heaven as its cool temperature was to my liking. It may seem odd, but apart from cold, brief showers on the boat, I have not been in fresh water in recent memory. Andy actually swam and rock climbed. Jon, who cannot get his bandage wet on his finger soaked up the ambiance and Rhian and I waded in to our shins and splashed our selves. It was lovely.

As we continued up the coast, we saw a man learning to surf with a paddle. The waves were average and he was making a great go of it. I decided if I ever try to learn to surf, beginning with a paddle is the way to go.

Just short of Venus Point (where Captain Cook unsuccessfully tried to track the course of Venus to aid navigators), there is a kite surfing beach. Of course we had to stop and watch this curious sport. The surfers use a board (it can either have a bow or not) that has footholds similar to snow boards. They then use a kite to pull them through the surf. They could go fast, but the turns looked really tricky. It looked like a lot of fun; some sort of combination of high end skateboarding or snowboarding and surfing. It is definitely not a sport for the timid or the weak of body and bone.

At Venus Point, we spotted the usual sight of young boys playing a pick up game of soccer. The easiest sport to play anywhere in the world.

We then made our way into the town of Pirae where there was an exhibition of Marquesean artists. We went to see our friend Mark whom we met on the island of Fatu Hiva. He is a stone carver of some renown and we had known he was going to be there. We had some “change” (bartering) to do. Mark had really liked Jon’s travel guitar, but Jon wasn’t prepared to part with it. Jon and Mark agreed to make a trade of a travel guitar for a lava stone carving of a manta ray. Later, when we had access to internet, Jon found one on Amazon, but they did not ship to the Marquesas….After Jon injured his finger, he decided to give his guitar to Mark and to get a new one once we’re back home (or have a visitor from home bring him one). Thus, instead of doing the exchange through the mail, we were able to seem him again and do it in person. The manta ray is beautiful and its tail is made from a sliver of goat horn.

We made our way through the heavy traffic of Papeete to the northwest coast of the island and to Marina Taina for lunch. Beaucoup beautiful yachts in Taina. Both times Jon and I were there, we ran into sailors we’ve met on the other islands. There’s an Italian restaurant at the Marina and it was a perfect place for lunch. Jon had a calzone the size of which could have fed all four of us…..but he managed it all on his own. Life was good. He was happy.

The next morning we drove as far as the road would go along the western side of the smaller island (Iti). We thought we then would have an 8-kilometer hike along the roadless coast to some caves. The hike was rocky and often we crossed through other people’s front yards, but no one seemed to mind. One family was cleaning fish, and assured us that the caves were just another 6 kilometers away. After stopping for lunch, we decided to turn back. It’d been a nice hike, but to continue would probably have cut short our afternoon plans.

On the way back, we stopped at a pension (a bed and breakfast), so that Andy could check it out as a possible vacation spot for his parents. The owner gave us a tour of the bungalows and his wonderful garden. He shared with us some of his Rambutan. A cousin of the Chinese Lychee, the fruit grows on a tree and once you crack open the bright red and furry hull, there is a lovely milky white fruit with a pit in the middle that is about the size of an almond. It was delicious---and a pleasant surprise.

Returning across the lawn of the fishermen, they insisted we stop so they could give us some fish. The people are simply very generous and wanted nothing in return. They gave us dinner for the evening. (Later, when Jon and I were returning to our dinghy from town, a father and his young daughter were fishing off the small dock. The father had his daughter give us a bag of bananas from his home. I made banana bread that night.) The kindness and the sharing with nothing expected in return certainly makes life pleasant. Could you imagine sharing your food with strangers on the street (or path) even if they weren’t in need?

In the afternoon, we returned north for some short easy hikes to three waterfalls. Waterfalls in paradise. To get to them, we hiked trails that were completely shaded by tall tropical forests of hardwood trees and giant bamboo. I am not sure how tall the waterfalls were, but they were significant. Beautiful long-tailed tropicbirds flew overhead and nested along the cliff walls. The water was cool, and this time, we brought our swimming suits.

On Sunday, Jon and I went to the Botanical Gardens near the Paul Gauguin museum. A botanist from M.I.T. first established the gardens in the 1930s. After his death, they became a public garden. It was lovely. So many exotic trees and plants nestled between the beach and the highway. This Banyan tree was planted in 1936. Its branches became roots and its span was (our guess) 20-25 feet across.

By the end of the weekend, we were all tired. But the excursions and diversions were worth it. Now, if I can only find more Rambutan trees.

Taravao

We’ve been in Tahiti for two weeks now; anchored in Baie Phaeton near the small town of Taravao. While we are busy organizing the repair to one of our engines and doing regular maintenance on the boat, we have been here long enough to get to know the village a bit.

Jon and I spent the first weekend here walking all over the isthmus that separates the larger volcanic mountain of Tahiti (Nui) from the smaller one (Iti). Taravao might be considered a small village compared to Papeete (pronounced quickly as Pa-Pee-Yah-Tay). There are three grocery stores, one quite large and several restaurants, buses and many cars. This was a big change from the previous 5 weeks in the outer islands. But roosters and hens still roam free around here, and there are little stands on the street where one can buy fish, coconuts, or in this case, flowers for Mother’s Day, which in France (and thus Tahiti) was Sunday May 30^th.

Flower arrangements and flower tiaras were being sold everywhere. The whole weekend I was wished “Bonne Fete Mere,” even by the checkout lady at the grocery store. We attended church services nearby and were once again treated to beautiful harmonies and joyous singing. The priest, at the beginning of his homily, turned to congregation and asked (in French), “What made you get out of bed this morning and sing with such joy in your hearts?” His happiness was infectious and it didn’t matter that Jon and I didn’t understand any of the Tahitian and only picked up bits and pieces of the French. That day was a blessing.

I found a chiropractor to help me un-kink my neck, and a wonderful Moroccan esthetician gave me a much overdue manicure and pedicure. (It’s hard to remain a lady when living on a boat.) Her name is Fatiha and I consider her my friend. We also found Granny’s Sports House: “Everything you need for extreme sports!” How could we not love this place?

When we go ashore in our dinghy, named Doodlebug, we tie her up near the local canoe club. Here, as everywhere else, the outrigger canoes, called pirogues, are out in force each evening. Just past the canoe house is a bit of flat field and a shed with what looks like a bar. It’s the Boulodrome, or Bowling Alley. Because we are in a French territory, the game of petanque is very popular here. It is similar to the Italian game of bocce, but the balls used are metal instead of wood.

Petanque players take their game very seriously and there are tournaments here on the weekends. The Glaudemans clan has been bocce players for years, especially when at the beach. In the early nineties Jon discovered petanque when we were in Paris and bought a set of boules (the metal balls). He briefly thought of bringing his set as we were packing up our house, but didn’t. So when we discovered the Boulodrome, we naturally stayed for several hours to watch the matches.

The players were very good. When we saw young children playing along the fringes of the field, it was easy to understand. They start from a very young age. It's a very relaxing way to spend a weekend afternoon, and it was wonderful to be so readily accepted into what seemed like a long established group of players and friends.

The Boulodrome is run by a man named Marcel. He is the DJ, and has quite a set up of speakers, monitors and computer to ensure a continuous flow of music, mostly Tahitian with an occasional French and American song thrown in. He welcomed Jon and I to stay as long as we liked, and burned a CD of Tahitian music for us.

Food, beer and water are sold at the bar. Laura is the scorekeeper and collects the 1,000 Polynesian Francs (about $11 US) required to enter the tournament. On Mothers’ Day, she wore her flower tiara as naturally as we would wear a headband. The Boulodrome has lights and on the weekends the games, eating and music go on until well into the early morning…..we can hear the music from our boat. The Tahitians may a bit more hurried and cosmopolitan than their brothers in the outer islands, but they are no different in their belief that the weekends should be for party, BBQ, sport and church on Sunday morning.

Jon and I bought a set of boules this week, had a practice match at the Boulodrome during a weekday afternoon (people were there, but not like on the weekends), and we might even enter the tournament this weekend. Yes, I now have metal balls; three of them in fact. Will keep you posted.

In the meantime, we have scouted and secured our place to watch World Cup Soccer matches. The Coup de Monde, as it’s called here, will be shown in at least two restaurants, one of which is close to the Boulodrome. Yea!!!!! Because Tahiti is 12 hours behind South Africa, we are only assured of watching the games that begin at 8:30 PM in South Africa. That will be 8:30 AM here. The 1:30 matches might be a go, but I doubt we’ll be able to see any of the 4:40 matches. Oh well. We will be at the France-Uruguay match tomorrow morning and the US-England match on Saturday, watching with our British friends Andy and Rhian. We are really excited for team USA and wish a special good luck to U.S. team members Maurice Edu and Clarence Goodson (former college teammates of our son, David -- Go Terps!)

Jon plans to wear his oversized US flag he found on a beach in Florida, while visiting his grandmother; the World Cup just seems to bring out the best in each of us!

Having A Go

One of the unexpected blessings of our journey has been the people we’ve met and gotten to know. Recently, we’ve spent some time with a few people who stand out, and who will be leaving lifelong impressions on both me and Jennifer.

Here in Baie Phaeton, about 60 km from the main harbor of Tahiti, located at the narrow isthmus between Tahiti Nui and Tahiti Iti (the two mountains that make up Tahiti), the boats at anchor are less interested in the glitz and money-consuming “glamour” of Papeete, and more interested in cruising. Our three new friends fall into this category (we are here because that’s where the marina is that will fix our Volvo engine).

About ten days ago, a lovely little 37’ ferro-cement sloop – Zephyrus – drifted in and anchored nearby. As is our custom, we motored over to introduce ourselves and give them a lay of the land (where’s the market, etc.). As is also our wont, we invited them to dinner, since the first night at anchor after a passage often finds the crew tired and the boat a bit worse for the wear.

Andy and Rhian had just arrived from Chile, via the Gambier Islands. Andy had spent a number of years in southern Chile and Argentina before purchasing a boat and undertaking an extensive refit. Rhian is an Antarctic researcher, and had spent many months there doing climate research. Rhian and Andy married a few years ago, despite the concern of Rhian’s friends that he “smiled too much.” Perpetually cheerful and filled with the kind of understated confidence that seems common among adventurers, both Andy and Rhian have become good friends in a short time; we’ve spent a few days hiking the island, exploring waterfalls and remote coastlines.

After joining the British Royal Marines at the age of 16 (processing error overlooked by anxious recruiters!), Andy mastered the arts of mountaineering, expeditions, and the like. He’s climbed the north face of the Eiger. He’s crossed the ice caps of southern South America. He’s rounded Cape Horn twice. Other adventures go unrelated, but were part of his official duties in the British Marines. Among other vocations, Andy also had a stint as the assistant curator at the small South Georgia museum honoring Sir Ernest Shackleton (where, among other duties, he tended the graveyard where the greatest seaman since Captain Cook lays buried). He’s in his mid thirties, and Zephyrus is his first boat. Rhian is the more-than-capable co-captain, handling electronics. She’s just put her career as a scientist on hold, first with the British Antarctic Service and then spending a lot of time working on the International Polar Ice Cap Year.

Incredibly, after refitting their boat and having just left the Chilean coast to head for New Zealand via French Polynesia, they were at anchor at a remote island off the coast of Chile when the earthquake and ensuing tsunami hit in late February of this year. At about 2 am local time, Andy woke to what he thought was the sound of nearby earthworks; instead, the steep side of the mountain adjoining the anchorage was sliding into the sea not several hundred yards from their moored boat, taking along with it the houses and buildings of the small harbor village. They had moored to a sturdy buoy built by and for the Chilean Navy, and were fortunate that they were not swept in and out of the anchorage. Soon, the harbor was filled with floating houses, debris, and all manner of junk; at one point, Zephyrus had a house pinned on its bow and one on its stern. Families were clinging to rooftops, and suddenly, a house sank under, plunging the family into the swirling waters. After saving a number of people swept into the harbor, Andy and Rhiann managed to throw a line and rescue one small girl, but the ebb and flow of the tsunami surges pulled the rest of the family out of reach – thankfully, they were picked up a bit later by another fishing boat.

Before long, they were ordered to evacuate the harbor by the Navy, and by this time, had accumulated the entire family of the little girl on their small sailboat. Hurriedly, they made their way to the next small bay to offload the family. Using an inflatable Zodiac they had picked up in the melee, and powered by Andy’s gift of his own outboard, the family cast off for the steep rocky shore only to have the Zodiac’s engine die in the vulnerable shallow waters. Risking everything, Andy nosed Zepyhrus into the shallows, and Rhian went aboard the Zodiac. Using the oars of Zephyrus’s own dinghy, she rowed the family ashore, and then returned to Zephyrus, abandoning the Zodiac and motor, and leaving as quickly as possible to escape the next set of tsunami surges.

(You can read more of this adventure here, and in an article published in the Daily Mail, an English newspaper, here.)

It’s an incredible story made all the more incredible when you learn that Andy had also survived the 2004 Thailand tsunami, as well as having then survived a 360 degree roll of a rural bus he was taking from one remote Thai village to another. We’ve gotten to know them both, I’m reminded that there is always another level to any game you’re playing. To many of our friends back home, we’re on a risky adventure; against the backdrop of Andy and Rhian’s experiences, we’re out for a Sunday stroll.

But as I’ve grown older, I have more or less completely internalized the reality that it’s not a race or contest we’re in. We each have our own game, with its own levels, incomparable to others’ lives. These are OUR lives, each unique and special, and filled with wonder and grace. Sailing, tsunamis, tending a garden, comforting a child, greeting a sunrise or ordering a special cup of coffee – these are the moments we stitch together to form a tapestry of our life that is meaningful in the moment and, once done, if we’re lucky, rewarding in retrospect. We’re enjoying our moments together, Jennifer and I, sharing our lives and experiences with an isolated intimacy deeper than anything in our 28 year history. I feel blessed.

Later in the week, after some hiking together, Andy and Rhian introduced us to a friend they have known for years, whose boat is also at anchor here. Tony Mowbray is a larger-than-life Aussie, and had just flown in to meet with Andy and Rhiann about a possible business venture. Tony’s boat, Commitment, lay downwind of us here in the harbor – a sturdy 60’ schooner. We soon learned that Commitment had been in the business of ferrying adventurers to and from Antarctica, based in, the world’s southernmost city: Ushuaia, Argentina. Last night, on Tony’s boat, during a dinner of massive tuna steaks, mashed potatoes, and carrots, and many bottles of wine and beer, we heard Tony’s story, abbreviated below.

Tony started sailing as a youngster on the east coast of Australia, and by the mid-90s, had become a rather accomplished sailor and racer. Somewhere along the line, he acquired a dream – a mission, really – to sail solo, non-stop around the world. Without much capital, he began to cobble together the resources, including a boat able to withstand the rigors of the southern oceans, where no land masses exist to slow the near-constant gale-force winds that circle the globe below the capes of Africa, Australia, and South America. By 1998, he was ready to test his boat, and with a crew of 7 (8 total), they entered an annual race from Sydney, Australia to Hobart, Tasmania, across the Bass Channel. The Bass Channel is known as one of the roughest parts of any ocean north or south; in addition to the aforementioned winds, there are strong currents that run southward down the coast of Australia, and a rise in the ocean floor that funnels enormous volumes of water through the narrow, shallow Bass Channel. The boats left in fair weather, but there were storm warnings.

The 1998 Sydney-Hobart race is known to sailors as among the most devastating races ever. Six people died, many boats were lost, and Tony’s story of captaining his boat in 80 knot winds and 100 foot seas held us spellbound. At about 4 pm, the predicted storm had more than materialized, and the waves and breaking seas were threatening to sink his boat. One wave after another passed dangerously underneath the boat; 4 crew on deck; 4 below, including Tony, trying to rest for the next watch.

Suddenly, everything was upside down. The boat had been slammed by a huge breaking wave and turned turtle. The mast and sail was underwater, and the boat’s keel surfed the surface like a huge shark fin. Water engulfed the boat, and filled the cabin. At least one crew member was washed overboard, secured by only his lifeline. For 20 seconds (count it out!), the boat careened upside down along the wave face, falling with the force of gravity down a steep 100’ wall of water. As it fell, the weight of the keel slowly began to fall from the upright vertical, to a sideways position, and with it, the boat began to rotate right-side up. After several lifetimes (count it out!), and by the bottom of the fall, the boat had more or less righted itself.

It was in shambles. The mast had broken, its supporting wires and shrouds a tangled mess. The cabin was filled with water and the decks were awash. Everything below was torn asunder. Crew were missing or unseen. After checking around below, Tony opened the cockpit hatch to see his mate and helmsman’s arm emerge, Deliverance-like, from the water behind the boat. In his thick Aussie accent, Tony called out: “Would you mind getting back in the boat, mate?” The helmsman had been swept overboard, secured only by his lifeline and harness, dragged face-first behind the boat as it fell down the wave.

Tony is a big man, with a big voice, a large heart, and a commanding presence. He’s Aussie thru-and-thru. He’s a driven man whose biggest fear is not failing to finish but failing to start. He took quick stock: a boat awash in 100 foot seas and 80 knot winds. One crew with a fractured leg; two others with crushed ribs. A mast in the water. No engine. Cold logic set in, and in re-telling, his Aussie attitude of “Let’s have a go of it, mate” rings true. He began to have a go of it.

First objective: secure the crew. The broken leg stayed on deck, crushed rib cages below; the rest of the crew were set to bailing (there’s nothing faster than a scared man with a bucket: “FILL BUCKET; “This water belongs out there!;” RE-FILL; “This water belongs out there!”) and, cutting free the mast, taking care to make sure the lines hadn’t caught on the rudder (what a tragedy if the sinking mast were to have dragged down the boat!). No need to deploy the emergency beacons yet; let’s see if we can stabilize the situation.

Once stabilized, the boat and crew still faced the weather and sea. The engines were out of commission, having filled with sea water in the turn-turtle. Afternoon gave way to night, and Tony never left the wheel. By 2am, the boat is barely afloat, surfing/falling down one wave after another. A breaking wave behind them, if it were to swamp the boat, would have meant the end; not enough buoyancy to keep the boat up, so the mate with the broken leg, facing aft and lying prone on the deck, would signal to Tony whether to push left or right to avoid the oncoming waves. A wave every 12-15 seconds. Later in the dark pre-dawn, it happened: the wave broke over the boat and crushed Tony against the wheel as the boat, again awash, fell down the wave as Tony yelled ( his emotions overcoming him as he retells the story over a decade later): “This is the one, boys!”

Tony tears up easily in the re-telling, as we sit enraptured in the small cabin, safe at anchor in Tahiti. We offer to let the story go for another night, but he lets us know he’s not ashamed to be emotional about this; during the brush with death, one of his longtime sailing mates and close friends was thinking that it was his wife’s birthday, and he was not going to die that day. It was the closest Tony has been to death, a closeness still immediately felt a dozen years later.

When a boat surfs down a wave, it either has enough buoyancy to ride up the back of the preceding wave, or, lacking such buoyancy, plows its bow into the backside of the wave and digs deeper into the wave, with usually catastrophic results. In its then-condition, Tony’s boat (the one he was testing for his solo, non-stop round-the-world quest) was in no condition to survive the latter possibility. Pressed hard against the wheel by the continuing force of the breaking wave, Tony focused his eyes on the pulpit, the small stainless steel railing at the front of most sailboats. As his boat slammed into the preceding wave, he watched the pulpit hover, dip, hover, and then slowly rise up, its buoyancy just sufficient to lift the bow above the frothing water. Even in the retelling, the relief in Tony’s eyes spoke volumes. They had survived the pooping sea, even as the boat too another damaging hit to its structural stability.

The next day, as the winds and seas began to abate, Tony managed to assemble spare parts of his spinnaker poles (which, when unused, lay flat and secured on the deck) into a makeshift mast, and hoisted a small sail to begin the long slog back to Australia. They were underway, albeit in fragile condition. Later, a helicopter appeared to evacuate the injured. In the interest of abbreviation, suffice it to say that this was another harrowing exercise, as each injured crew needed to be lowered into the ocean, there to be plucked to safety by those remarkable rescue pilots and crew. Later, a ship drew close, and a boat was launched, arriving alongside the tattered sailboat. The young marine in charge of the rescue boat called out: “Good day, Captain.” Tony replied: “Good day, sir.” The marine stated that he had been instructed to evacuate all persons from the yacht, and Tony replied that he’d rather not leave his boat, that he was making way to home, but that perhaps some of his crew wished to evacuate.

Several of his crew left then, but several stayed with Tony. A bit later, a tug sent by his insurance company came and towed them back to port, battered, torn, but not broken. The subsequent inquiry into the race and its aftermath featured Tony’s seamanship and leadership as an exemplar. Interviewed upon arrival back safely at port, he related in shaking voice his intention to pull the plug on his solo round the world quest. His crew, likewise interviewed, were in awe of his leadership during and after the storm. He brought his crew and boat home safely, which is what is expected of a sea captain.

I learned these last facts – his intentions and his crew’s awe -- when we watched the 1 hour documentary of Tony’s subsequent, and successful, solo, non-stop circumnavigation, which he undertook not 18 months later, and completed in a mere 181 days. He had the same boat that survived the Sydney-Hobart race, refitted and strengthened. In his circumnavigation, he had one knockdown similar to that experienced in the Sydney-Hobart race, and almost lost his mast when the port shroud chainplate pulled loose of the deck. The documentary records in candid, emotional fashion Tony’s heartbreak when he realizes his mast is all but lost, and then subsequently, records his unquestioning determination to fashion a juryrig solution to the broken chainplate. Seven days of non-stop labor, with an altogether imaginative use of spare lines, pulleys, blocks, winches, and brute human strength, solved the chainplate issue, and the self-filmed documentary records the exaltation in Tony’s voice as he realizes he can continue sailing, eventually to make landfall in his home port.

He’s a larger-than-life person, a curious mix of ego and self-effacement, of gregariousness and shyness. He’s faced situations that few have ever faced, much less overcome. Through it all, he evinces a humility and sense of obligation to his community that, again, seems rare to me. Each of his passages has been for a charity; he’s far from well-off (one sponsor agreed to feed his family while he was away); and he’s dedicated his life to pursuing his dream and convincing others to pursue theirs. He’s no-nonsense, and even when sponsors ask him to speak to their sales forces or executives, he flies economy. He’s a sailor’s sailor, quick with an off-color joke, a smile, and an offer to “have another go at it, mate!” For more on Tony, see here.

I’m really glad we met Tony, I’m honored to have heard his stories firsthand, and I’m grateful to Andy and Rhian for the introduction and for our growing friendship. Mostly I’m really glad that Jennifer and I are, indeed, having a go at it, mates, on our own terms, playing our own game. Onward to Australia.

Arrived in Tahiti

We are anchored in Taravao, which is on the western side of the isthmus that separates the two main volcanic islands that make up Tahiti. We arrived on Thursday morning after a very windy and bumpy sail from Manihi. Taravao is at the upper end of well sheltered bay and we're near a boat yard, where on Monday we will have our port engine assessed----it's been finicky about getting into gear since we arrived in the Galapagos in early March.

Friday was spent riding the bus the 60 kilometers to Papeete to clear in with Immigration and Customs, meet with our agent, Francesco, and run into people we've met along the way. It was a bit of a culture shock to back where there is traffic and lots of buildings, but we're looking forward to grocery shopping at the big Carrefours.

We plan to stay here for a while so pictures and stories will be forthcoming. All the best.

Update

We plan to leave Manihi tomorrow (May 25th) and will either sail directly to Papeete, Tahiti or will make a brief layover in Tekuhoa on the way, depending on the wind at the time. No internet for a few days, but will definitely reconnect in Tahiti.

A Quiet Week in the Manihi Lagoon

It was a quiet week in the Manihi lagoon. Last Sunday, our catamaran “ile de Grace” arrived to the kind of anchorage that would have seemed crowded to the long-ago sailors that passed through these islands. Seven boats, and it forced us to anchor a bit further out than normal, in about 60 feet of water. The next day, no fewer than three of the locals came by to extend a greeting to these interlopers, setting off a chain of events that left the locals chattering amongst themselves on Thursday, when the M/V “Dory” arrived at the supply dock with the usual weekly run of groceries, diesel, spare parts, and appliances.

That Monday, Fernando, the local baker, fisherman, black oyster pearl farmer, and head of the local Mormon church, swung by in his 20 foot skiff, introducing himself and his services. A few minutes later, Jean-Paul arrived on his pirogue – a large man by any standards, and seemingly even larger jammed into the narrow cockpit of his tiny outrigger. Finally, the commune’s introduction was made complete by the pulling alongside of the local gendarmerie, pointing out that we had anchored too close to the channel by which the children were ferried to and from school each morning and afternoon.

Fernando gracefully intervened, and offered to help us move our boat back about 10 meters, an offer which I (fatefully) accepted. As I began to start up the engine to power the windlass, so as to let out more chain in a controlled fashion, Fernando gestured that we could do this by hand … in the course of which I managed to catch the tip of my left ring finger between the now-tight chain and the steel windlass. The flesh at the tip of my finger was no contest for the steel, and I pulled it back, bleeding and numb. Our on-board medic, the famous Dr. Jennifer, reached into our first-aid kit, wrapped my now-bloody finger in gauze and bandages, as Fernando loaded me into his skiff to take me to the town’s small clinic.

The clinic was in the small town hall, through a door on the left just up some stairs and a few dozen yards from the tiny boat basin. I was greeted by Tereva, a seriously-tattooed nurse practitioner on a three-week rotation from Tahiti. I was his only patient at the time, but as I was to learn, he is a busy man. After introductions and a recitation of the underlying events, he did an extraordinarily-professional job at cleaning, dressing, and bandaging the wound. After tetanus serum (immediate inoculation) and a handful of analgesics and antibiotics, I was on my way back to the boat, my hand swathed in a bandage and aluminum split (to protect the now-raw tip of my finger).

Health care in France and its Polynesian territories is a public good, and the care was free. The mayor of the town helped Tareva work on my hand, and she seems to have a hand in many affairs, as we read a notice on the town hall’s bulletin board inviting comment on the need for no alcohol zones in and around the town center, over her signature.

Earlier that day, we had asked a few of our anchorage companions over for dinner, and that night, bandage and all, we hosted 5 other sailors for a wonderful evening of food (homemade chicken soup) and drink. In addition to our new friends Joel and Rob from “Alobar,” we were joined by the gang from “Horizons,” Marcy and Joseph, a do-it-yourself couple from San Diego, and their son, Steve.

The following day, we followed up on a dining/diving tip from Joel, who had spotted large numbers of clams and oysters strewn about the coral reefs that lined the shore. With help from Fernando, Jennifer and Joel donned their snorkeling gear, and swam off, only to return in an hour with a bagful of clams. Working with Fernando, they cleaned the clams, after which Joel and I went to Fernando’s house to meet his family and help in preparing fresh coconut milk for clam seasoning.

Fernando introduced us to his wife and children, reached under the kitchen counter for some coconuts, and, using a chef’s cleaver, expertly split the nut in half, draining the water. He took the halves to a grinding machine attached horizontally to an adjacent work surface, and ground out the white meat form the lining of the shell into a large bowl. Once complete, we took a cheesecloth, wrapped it around the white shavings, and squeezed hard as a steady stream of rich coconut milk poured from the tip of the cloth into a plastic jug.

The clams were pressure cooked for an hour, after which Jennifer and Joel added white wine, garlic, curry powder, and then, the fresh coconut milk. Dribbled over linguine, the meal was to die for, and Jennifer took special delight in knowing that she had pulled the clams from the sea just behind our boat just a few hours earlier.

By this time, we were becoming good friends with Fernando and his family; his son, Vetea is a well-trained outboard engine mechanic who managed to get our motor working, and his wife, Stella, is an amazing cook, and runs a small walk-up/eat-out window outside their kitchen, along the town’s waterfront street-cum-boardwalk. That afternoon, Jennifer and Joel went with Fernando to his black pearl farm, where black lipped oysters are raised over a three-year period from larvae, to small oysters, to cultivated oysters, and then, finally to harvest, where only 7 in 100 yield high-quality saleable pearls. The next day, Jennifer and Joel joined Fernando for a spearfishing expedition. It’s grouper season in the atoll, and they were determined to get their share.

Grouper season. The excitement around the atoll is palpable, as every villager with a boat is anchored in 30 feet of water dangling fish lines with octopus-baited hooks to a bottom swarming with egg-laying grouper. Since I am out of commission for diving (or any wet sports) for a while, Jennifer, Joel, and Rob grabbed their spears and fell overboard, looking to penetrate the tough skin of a grouper with the tines of the spear. All around, the locals were bringing flapping groupers to the surface almost as fast as they could lower and raise the lines by hand. The numbers are incredible. Fernando has a small crew, consisting of two close friends; the previous day, they loaded multiple 55-gallon buckets filled with grouper. At the dockside table with a thatched roof, located just in front of Fernando’s front door, they filleted these fish all night, yielding 140 kg. of clean white meat. These are bagged, frozen, and then shipped to Tahiti for use by Chinese restaurants. The going rate? 700 fpf (French Polynesian francs, worth about $0.11 each, or about $8/kilo). Revenue for the day? About $1000 US. Other fishermen were enjoying similar success, and, when queried, were incredulous that overfishing might be a problem – apparently, the numbers were too large to imagine ever running out of grouper. As Joel pointed out, abalone were once as numerous as these grouper appeared to be, only to fall victim to over fishing. In any event, the dog stands watchful eye, escaping the heat.

It seems that once a year, the grouper come into the atoll to spawn (all grouper start their lives as egg-bearing females; only later do some of them morph into males). We had arrived at the peak of the season, but alas, the fish were too deep for us to reach without scuba, and their skin to tough to penetrate from afar. No matter; Fernando gestured for us to follow him and to leave his crew and the safety of the lagoon behind; we were headed out through the pass to the reef just outside the atoll.

There, our intrepid spearfishers were rewarded with water so clear it appeared invisible. We’ve been to a lot of so-called clear diving waters, but the visibility here was out of a dream: 40-50 feet, as clear as air. The gang managed to snag a few reef fish, and spotted dozens of needlefish, eels, and other coral denizens before calling it a day. That's Jennifer with a blue fish against a blue sea. Returning to Fernando’s house, we all took a turn at cleaning the grouper, including your faithful scribe. Cut behind the fin, pull along the spine, turn the skin-covered filet over, and then pull the knife along the tough skin, yielding a delicate filet. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Note the plastic bag covering my bandage :)

Having hosted others for two nights running, we took the next night off, after watching Fernando (man of a million trades) free dive to 40 feet to free others’ anchors that had become snagged on coral heads.

The next morning, the weekly supply ship arrived. As regular readers know, this a big deal on these small islands, and Thursday was no exception.

Alain was expecting his bi-monthly shipment of meat, ordered from Tahiti at half the price in the local stores. He was not the exception; most locals ordered their food and such from Tahiti. Xavier Michel, a retired captain in the French navy, and who runs the ham radio station on Manihi used by yachts (including this one) to email from sea, was waiting on his 200 liters of diesel and a new freezer. Forklift operators carted crates of fresh vegetables to the two small stores (“magasins”) that serve this small island. And a wizened old Tuomotun, short, squat, and with a flower placed delicately behind his ear, hauled a dozen dolly-loads of oil to the supply room behind the dock. A woman sold cold coconut water from a cooler (the young nuts are filled with sweet water, for many years and for many islands, the only source of water on these rather arid atolls – nip the top off, and drink away; each nut has about a pint of delicious liquid inside). That's Rob and Jennifer, enjoying the water.

Bags of copra were brought to the dock for shipment to processing plants (7000 fpf/bag), and the iridescent shells of the black-lipped oysters whose cultivation produced the famous black pearls) also went on board at 11 fpf/kilo, to be used by Chinese factories to create baubles, belt buckes, and the like.

We also visited Fernando’s bakery – which, despite its inauspicious location, has all the modern breadmaking equipment one might find in Paris: a $50,000 US oven, large industrial mixers, and kneading machines. On Thursdays, when the ship arrives, they bake 1000 petite pain and 900 baguettes to supply the neighboring island of Ahe (next stop for the supply ship, and lacking a bakery). Fernando’s granddaughter appears to run the bakery.

That afternoon, having provisioned with fruits and vegetables and the all-important Sprite, Jennifer and Joel dove our anchors to reconnoiter the location of coral heads. The chain used to attach the anchor to the boat is essential in these waters; the sandy bottoms are punctuated by columns of coral rising dozens of feet to the light above. As boats swing, the chain slides along the bottom, and is often wrapped around these coral heads. We unpacked our snuba gear – basically a Honda engine and an air compressor, sending pressurized air down two linked 60’ air hoses, each with a regulator.

Down they went, pulling themselves along our anchor chain, and descending to about 40 feet, from which they could see that our chain had fallen on the side of one of these heads, but had not wrapped around. Getting off will be easier with this knowledge. They also dove Joel’s chain, and, as events would prove, his was in a good shape.

That evening, Joel, Rob and Jennifer went to the 4-star resort hotel tucked discreetly on the western edge of this atoll (bungalows on stilts over the lagoon’s turquoise waters) for a drinks and dinner (I needed to rest; my finger while healing nicely, still sucks some energy out me).

The next day was the birthday celebration for one of Fernando’s crew: the grouper could wait, and we spent time helping him clean the coconut shells of the husky fibers that would otherwise gum up the grinding machines used to make the coconut milk. Later, we met up with our friend Jean-Paul, the larger-than-life pirogue rower who sold black pearls from his tenuous perch. Jennifer picked out a lovely necklace, and we managed to trade for some extra pearls (tools and wine for pearls).

A short way from our boat is an other-worldly stretch of coral, awash and pock-marked with small outcroppings, and Jennifer and I took our dinghy to explore. Lots of coconut palms, some sheds, and nothing but sand and rock and water.

That evening, we were treated to the weekly practice session of the island’s dance troupe, working on their routine for the annual July contests in Tahiti between all of the islands in French Polynesia. With no lights, under a cloudy but moonlit sky, and to the tightly-orchestrated beat of 4 drums and percussion instruments, a group of about 30 girls and your women and 30 boys and young men danced in a tightly-choreographed routine.

Polynesian dance is a study in contrasts, with rapidly-shimmying hips (women) and rapidly-shaking calves (men), juxtaposed against the slow and sinuous movement of arms, all the while keeping the head and chest stock-still. Some of the movements defy description, and later, Jennifer received some private lessons from Poa-Nuie, Fernando’s adopted 18-year daughter. She’s one of six kids, adopted by Fernando 12 years ago, even as her birth mother still lives on this small island of about 600 people.

The birthday celebration was a feast for the eyes and the stomach – Stella had outdone herself, and we enjoyed the singing, toasts, and delicious spread.

After dinner, we hung out outside his house as Jennifer took her hip-swing/sway/shimmy lessons, and I bemoaned my inability to pick up the guitar sitting there. By 10 pm, we were all tired, so we took our dinghy out into the dark lagoon and threaded our way back to ile de Grace across the mile of gentle wavelets rippling atop the atoll’s coral heads, its breeding groupers, and the succulent clams. It was a quiet week in the Mahini lagoon, and we were looking forward to a peaceful night of delicious sleep.