6. Bora Bora
 Atom anchored in Bora Bora's lagoon |
Mine is the migrating bird
Winging over perilous regions
of the ocean,
Ever tracing out the age old path
of the wandering waves…
-
Tuamotuan sacred chant
Once
clear of Hiva Oa’s jagged coast, I set a southwest course to clear the rocky
ramparts of Ua Pu Island not far to the west. Nine hundred miles off our bow lay Bora
Bora.
When
French explorer Louis Bougainville sailed through these islands in 1767 he
described it as paradise on earth: “Nature has placed it in the best climate
in the Universe, embellished it smilingly, enriched it with all its gifts,
covered it with handsome inhabitants…she herself has dictated their laws.”
And so began the romantic myth of Tahiti.
In
fact, when Captain James Cook arrived a year later he recorded the Tahitians
stole anything that glittered, were constantly warring with their neighbors, and
practiced human sacrifice. By 1900, Tahiti had lost most of Bougainville’s charm
as well as Cook’s native resistance to civilized Western standards, at least for Paul
Gauguin who wrote: “It was Europe… under the aggravating circumstances of
colonial snobbism, and the imitation… of our customs, fashions, vices, and
absurdities of civilization. Was I to have made this far journey only to find
the very thing which I had fled?”
Tahiti
was not on my list of ports to visit any more than Honolulu or the American
South Seas capital in Samoa. Those places might be magnets for credit
card-toting tourists and high budget cruising yachts. They held nothing for me
and in fact represented “the very thing which I fled.”
Then
there is Tahiti's less developed sister island Bora
Bora. That double-barreled name has always been for me a magical incantation conjuring up images equally
intoxicating as the name Tahiti. The flowing syllables of those two islands more
than any other define the words exotic and sensual. Any fool would know Bora
Bora was not now as Bougainville described it. Yet I hoped civilization's heavy
hand may have come down more gently on this outlying island of Tahiti. Even if I
convinced myself Tahiti was ruined, I had more seamanlike reasons for holding
course for Bora Bora: Tahiti lay a point or two too close to the wind for
Atom’s taste.
French
solo sailor Alain Gerbault put it simply when he wrote: “Why go against the wind to
certain islands if there are some equally beautiful ones to leeward?” Through
the language and lore of sailors come metaphors apt to any man's life, such as a
sailor's struggle to windward isles or his free flight to leeward. Enough windward
destinations await us in life that we need not seek them out.
Between
us and Tahiti lay a group of low coral atolls no solo sailor with a sextant
should care to approach. From deep water, changeable currents can set you on the
reefs sometimes before sighting the sandy motus
of the Atolls. Even the chart boldly declares it “The Dangerous Archipelago” in
case it was not otherwise apparent from the groups of tiny dots sprinkled over
the chart like star constellations. True, some solo sailors did successfully
pass through these islands even in the days before GPS satellite navigation.
Most of them had dependable engines to negotiate the currents in the narrow
passes and either God’s own pilot looking over their shoulders or the
seamanship skills of a Moitessier or Slocum. I wasn’t willing to chance
another near shipwreck so soon after what happened as I approached the Galapagos
and so held a good distance off the Dangerous Archipelago.
For
three days Atom bounded smartly over the waves as if running a steeplechase. The
weather had started fair and then deteriorated to a near gale and steady rain.
As an atmospheric depression passed, the winds abruptly ceased. The seas still
ran high, as they do for a time after the onset of a sudden calm. Without wind
in her sails to steady her, Atom behaved like a rodeo bull gone berserk. Her
head would lift to a wave crest, fall and bury itself in the following trough,
then raise again to send a river of water streaming from her back. With the bow
down, the stern kicked up so high the rudder lost its bite on the water. Then
the stern fell until the afterdeck scooped another load of water to send rushing
forward. Along with the pitching motion, Atom occasionally swung round to a
sideways stance, rolling in her crazed way from toe rail to toe rail. With no
wind there was no way to hold a course and nothing to do except lash the tiller
amidships to prevent it beating itself to pieces against the side of the
cockpit. After a half-day wedged in my bunk behind the lee-cloths, a fresh wind
of about 20 knots from the southeast returned.
Atom
now resumed her familiar steady long strides over the waves. With a fair current
assisting, we covered 165 miles in one 24-hour period between two evening star
fixes. Part of me wanted to slow down to save wear and tear on the sails, but
the thrill-seeker held me back until I noticed a seam beginning to let go in the
jib. With the wind square on the beam – our fastest point of sail – the
leeward toe rail and side deck was almost constantly under water causing some
new deck leaks to make themselves known. I went back to sponging seawater out of
leeward bunks and lockers and pumping the rest out of the bilge several times a
day. Going forward later to swap the number three jib for the storm jib, I
noticed with some amazement how low the bow was riding in the water. As with any
heavy-keeled displacement boat with a short waterline, our attempt to push the sea aside
at seven knots boat speed resulted in
our nearly plowing ourselves under.
The
wind eased some and the seas gradually steadied to give us a more normal heave
and roll. The strong wind that agitated the sea so high now caressed it into
lying low. It’s soft touch produced an equally calming effect on myself as well.
About
this time I tossed overboard a full pot of vegetable stew due to an extreme strong
acid flavor that I traced to the taro root I’d harvested from Tehoko’s
garden. It turns out I had not learned so well when he showed me how to select
the edible roots from the non-edibles. I then test boiled the rest of my taro
stock and ended up throwing at least half of it overboard.
During the day I’d watch flying fish take wing ahead of our bow. Those slow to lift off risked the slashing bite of the dorado fish who hunted under cover behind our keel.
At night the flying fish were
It
reminded me of another memorable encounter with a flying fish as I sailed
Atom in the Straits of Florida one dark night between Key West and Miami. A ship
was overtaking me and I stood in the cockpit scanning her well lit bridge and
deck with my binoculars. For a fraction of a second I heard a fast approaching whoosh.
Then POW,
I was hit square in the chest with a force and shock that sent me crumpling to
the cockpit floor. My first thought was that someone on the ship had shot me.
That lasted just a second until I saw a full-grown flying fish lying beside me.
Just
before noon on my seventh day at sea, I sighted the craggy peak of Bora Bora
rise from its coral base. Having spent my childhood in the flat mid-western
states, I’ve never lost my feeling of awe at the sight of towering cones of
land emerging from the sea after days or weeks of anticipation. The first hint
of Bora Bora was a clump of white cumulus clouds piled up on the horizon. They
showed no sign of drifting away as they normally would over open sea. A few
miles closer in the clouds detached themselves from the sea, and the top of the
island’s central peak became visible as it lifted above the curvature of the
earth.
I
sailed as fast as I knew how, in a race to beat the setting sun. It would be
foolish to attempt to enter a strange harbor after dark, particularly a not so
wide, reef-lined entrance. At sunset, when green slopes fronted by a frosty white
line of surf battering the windward reef were clearly outlined, I was still six
miles short of the lagoon entrance. The night passed easy as I turned about and
then backed the jib and hove-to in the sheltered lee of the islands of Tahaa and
Raiatea. Fair skies and moonlight allowed me to see the dark mass of the islands
and scattered shore lights and keep clear of the reefs that wrap each island.
By
dawn I had reset the sails and positioned myself directly in front of the
entrance to the lagoon. Bora Bora’s central island, surrounded by the flat
waters of an encircling lagoon, was backlit by the sunrise. The lagoon in turn
was surrounded by a circle of barrier reef and its necklace of low, palm-covered
motus.
Wind
and current were both spilling directly out of the narrow pass between the reefs
so I started the engine to gain the anchorage. On both sides of me the surf
broke in an unmistakable warning of shallow reefs. Midway through the pass, the
engine failed. Now at the mercy of the current I was ejected from the pass and
in no time found myself a mile out to sea. It was a familiar routine, like some mischievous
ghost resided in this tired old engine. So happy in his former life pottering
around the safe harbors of Michigan’s lakes, he was now frightened into a seizure whenever we entered the swirling currents and hull-ripping coral
heads in a tricky pass.
Along
with the ghost, I guessed there was saltwater contamination in the fuel tank
from the leaking deck fill fitting, which in turn led to a clogged filter and corrosion to
the carburetor. With scrapped knuckles and a back sore from hanging
over the engine, I managed to strip and clean the carburetor and fuel filter
without losing any essential bits into the bilge. On our second attempt we
entered the harbor and found it was – deep, very deep:
everywhere over 60 feet deep with hard coral bottom right up to the suddenly
shallow shelf next to shore. This made it impossible to anchor securely with the
puny ground tackle I carried. What I would have gave then for my current setup
with an anchor windlass and 33-pound anchor with 150 feet of chain shackled to a
¾-inch diameter nylon rode.
After
searching around for a suitable spot, I fortunately found an empty mooring buoy in front of the Oa Oa Hotel. Next door to the Oa Oa were the $200 a day
thatch-roofed bungalows of Cub Med. A topless French girl sailed past me on a
windsurfer, confirming that I was back in civilization. Squeezed between
mountain and lagoon, the village of Viatepe lay only a few minutes walk from the
hotel’s dinghy dock.
Any visions I had of being welcomed as the brave solo voyager in this particular corner of paradise were quickly dispelled by my visit to the local gendarmarie. As in Atuona, the gendarmes here serve as police, customs, and immigration. Three officers dressed in their sensible short pants tropical uniform greeted me politely in French. Then one of them poisoned the atmosphere by bringing up that touchy issue of the $850 bond sailors are expected to hand over with the promise of having it returned by bank transfer when they leave the colony. As before, I replied in the negative, and unlike before, un petit crises ensued. Six arms flailed about like angry orchestra conductors, adding emphasis to the excited discussion, first facing each other, then to me, and back to themselves again.
It was if I were the first sailor to reach their
blessed shores with less than $850 in his pocket. This went on until they
conceded that since I had been forced into their fair harbor by the extraordinary
circumstances of my tale (broken engine, navigational error, storms, imbecility,
sea monsters no less) I could stay four days. I had asked for two weeks and got
a definite “C’est impossible!” Even
with my limited French I couldn’t pretend not to understand that, particularly
as it was spoken by three frowning faces swinging side to side. With some
further grimacing and head-scratching we negotiated a one week stay with the
familiar provision that I then sail directly to the bank in Tahiti. Let’s see,
Tahiti lies 200 miles dead to windward. “Qui, pas problem.”
It
so happened, one week was exactly how long I originally intended to stay. I was
learning that to get along with French officials when you are not, shall we say,
following the rules, you must first engage in a good long polite argument and never, never
speak to them in English, no matter how poor your French is. The sadistic
delight they take in watching you fumble with phrase book and dictionary and
then stand before you, teacher to dunce pupil, correcting your pronunciation,
goes a long way towards pacifying the puffed up French bureaucrat. It’s a
matter of feeding their wounded pride. Play the game, humiliate yourself, and
they will yield.
Another
thing that perhaps I should not keep harping on about is the outrageous prices
of goods in the shops of French Polynesia. But it was a constant concern. There
was just about nothing in the shops of Viatepe I could afford. It was fortunate
that my needs were few. And then, my luck changed in an instant and it seemed I
might even manage to depart Bora Bora with a few dollars more than I arrived
with.
In
one of the tourist boutiques I struck up a conversation with Philippe, the shop
owner. Somehow I mentioned to him I had new T-shirts I was trading for food with
the islanders. Philippe was selling T-shirts in his shop for $15-$20 each. He
came to the boat and picked out a bagful of my most colorful shirts picturing
popular rock bands. He had no garden vegetables to offer, but cash was fine with
me. “Will you accept eight dollars apiece, mon ami?”
The
next day my shirts from Miami were hanging in his shop's racks, ready to sell to
tourists from Sydney or Paris, perhaps even Miami. Imagining the pleasure the
three stooges customs officers in the gendarmerie would have in locking me up for smuggling, I
reminded Philippe, “Let’s not mention this gift exchange to anyone.”
The
best way, really the only way to see
this island if you want to avoid the rushed views of a rented tourist scooter, is to walk the island’s sole circular road as it skirts the banks
of the lagoon. The irregular-shaped island, some 20 miles around, is a bit far
for a relaxed single day walk so I brought along my tent to camp along the opposite side
of the island and continue around back to Viatepe the following day.
What
luxury to walk under the shade of the overhanging palms on the smoothly paved
road paralleling the many beaches. Neat little homes were decorated as art on
canvas with window boxes sprouting bright flowers. Pareos on clothslines
flapped in
the warm wind like colorful flags of the various states of oceania. Loaves of baguettes
hung out of mailboxes next to the front gates, delivered daily from
the Chinese bakery in Viatepe. I barely noticed the resort hotels of which there
were a few. Unlike the towering concrete eyesores of Waikiki or Miami Beach,
these were one or two stories high at most, covered on the outsides with timber and palm
thatch in the native fashion that’s so easy on the eye. The road was so
lightly traveled I wondered where all the tourists might be? It was Tahiti without
the traffic. The vehicles that did pass me were mostly motor scooters, sometimes
loaded with father, mother and three children in precarious balance.
How
magical to share the road with the beautiful dark-eyed vahine,
wrapped in pareo as they glide by on puttering Vespa scooters, bound for home with a
basketful of baguettes. Many vahine wear the hibiscus flower in their flowing
silky black hair. A flower above the right ear means available, left means
she’s already taken. If you’re introduced to a local vahine she'll ignore
your offer of a limp handshake as she joyously
plants a kiss on each cheek.
On
the far side of the island, far from houses or hotels, I stopped for the night
in a coconut grove along the beach. I knew enough not to sit down or pitch my
tent directly under a tree pregnant with skull-cracking nuts. For a long while I
sat up tending a little fire of discarded coconut husks whose smoke deterred
mosquitoes. Facing east an hour after sunset, I watched the moon rise over a
palm-covered motu
seemingly suspended in the lagoon between sea and sky. Surf breaking on the reef
miles away became a visible white line. Warm trade winds stirred the palms,
their long fronds waving and shadowboxing in the faint light. I felt I
understood Gauguin when he wrote: “The lofty coconut trees lift up their
plumes, and man does likewise.” Deeply I breathed in the perfumed island air.
This, at last, was my Bora Bora!
In
the morning I was awake before the soft glow of predawn. The sun would soon rise
over the same motu that birthed last
nights moon. Before it did, I was on the road again. Though written for a
harsher land and hardier breed of traveler than myself, I couldn’t help but place myself in
John Masefield’s poem as I made my treks around the islands.
There is no
solace for us,
For such as we,
Who search for some hidden city
We shall never see...
Instead there is only the road,
The Dawn and the Wind and the Rain
And the Watchfire under the stars,
Then sleep...
And the road again
The walking was so effortless that I gave in to the temptation to climb the central mountain peak that loomed constant above my left shoulder ever since beginning my counterclockwise walk at Viatepe. A trail lured me up and then disappeared. I continued moving up through thick brush. A vertical stone cliff face forced a detour. In another place I entered a mass of aerial roots from trees seemingly rooted in air. Hanging onto suspended vines for balance, I stepped, then swung like an orangutan, from root to branch until I looked down to see I was well above the ground in a net-like tangle of vegetation. I went as high as the rocks and trees rose. I guessed I was on or near the summit, though I had no way of knowing, for the trees and roots had me completely boxed in.
Later
that day I gazed up at that broad perpendicular cliff face from the deck of my
boat in the lagoon. The geologic story of this island was as clear as the scene
before me – an epic of perpetual struggle between land and sea. This island,
with it’s peak eroding into the lagoon showed itself older than Hiva Oa,
younger than the atolls of the Tuamotus. Ephemeral islands begin as newly born volcano peaks
pushing up from ocean depths, and like a man they make their stand for a time
against the elements, before sinking again from erosive forces. Like man’s
evolution, islands live and die in infinitely slow motion as measured in human terms.
After seven dream-filled days in Bora Bora, I returned alone to the sea and once again set aside the shore-going mask we’ve all learned to wear in society. I laid a course for the islands of Tonga, 1,500 miles to the west.
Atom
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