22. Floating Coconuts

French Polynesia

After getting our anchor set and having an emotional reunion with Pete and Chris, we have time to look around. This is a tiny village – maybe only fifty houses, spread around a grassy esplanade lined with palm trees, with a couple of tiny wharves, and no large vessels. People, brightly dressed in sarongs, stroll casually around the shoreline. There’s a car here and there, and something that could be a shop buried in greenery. As we dinghy towards a tall rusty ladder at a rickety wharf there’s a smile on my face and a stone in my stomach. How, in this remote village, can we repair the engine, the alternators and the pole to continue our voyage?

The Marquesas are volcanic islands, piercing the sky above with palm tree and rainforest. Everything seems gentle here – the way people sway as they walk, the soft breeze, even the rain. The mists seep around the tops of the high crags, nestling into the gorges, softening the skyline, and even the waves seem to lap the dark sandy shore lovingly. After rain the cliffs run with waterfalls in every direction, distant and noiseless. It’s very hard to stay worried about anything for long.

The local internet cafe owner recommends someone called Philip, an engineer who could possibly do a repair on our motor.

Ted telephones the number given.

‘Yes?’ It’s a cultured English voice.

‘I’m told you’re the diesel engineer on the island?’

‘No, not me, not on your life. But I used to drive a truck.’

‘Well maybe I have the wrong number.’

‘I don’t think so – I’m the closest thing you’re ever going to get to a diesel mechanic on this island.’

‘Oh, well then, er, that’s good. Would you be able to look at our engine?’

‘Yes, but I have to warn you, I can only work in the morning.’

‘That’s perfectly all right – I understand if you have another job . . .’

‘No, I don’t have another job. In the afternoons, I drink a bottle of rum. I’m an alcoholic, you see, and I only last until lunchtime. I just work to get enough money to buy rum.’

While the repair is proceeding every morning, we explore, enjoying ‘pig-in-the-ground’ with locals and some Polynesian dancing. We take some four-wheel drive trucks with other cruisers and set off across the tops of the mountain peaks, stopping to examine the undergrowth or marvel at the staggeringly beautiful views. The history of the Marquesas is a little horrifying, as we learn of the cannibalistic rites of the past, the sacrifices and the celebrations that accompanied them. We visit one of these sites, whose meaning and history still mystifies anthropoligists. We see the Great Banyan tree which was used for cannibalistic sacrifices. Under its roots is a very deep pit with sheer sides, too deep by far for any human to escape. Legend has it that the pit was used for holding until the celebration those humans who were meant to be sacrificed.

The lifestyle of today’s locals is enhanced by an irony of history. When the white man came to the islands he brought a plethora of diseases – chicken pox, measles and the common cold, not to mention syphilis and herpes. These diseases decimated the vulnerable Polynesians, leaving islands full of fruit trees sufficient to feed a much larger populace. Today, if you go walking, the locals gladly give you armfuls of fruit and vegetables that would otherwise rot because they cannot eat them all. I think about the current problem of global overpopulation. Introducing unknown diseases is probably not the best solution, I decide.

Our engine and alternators are repaired by our new friend Philip, the alcoholic ex-truck driver. He does, as promised, work every morning and disappears at lunchtime. With little in the way of tools, he has done a fine job of enabling us to sail to Papeete, where we can embark on repair of the GPS and all the other breakages.

As we sail away from Nuku Hiva, we are conscious that we have now passed the halfway mark to Australia.

We arrive into Papeete just in time for Heiva Nui, the annual festival celebrating Polynesian local sports, culture and crafts. This traditional festival is not only full of energy and artistry, it also shows the pride Tahitians take in their unique culture.

We attend the games – the Tu’aro ma’ohi, where, owing to a revival in interest in the traditional sports, thousands turn up to watch stone-throwing, carrying-the-fruit-pole races, javelin, coconut-tree shinning and coconut-opening speed competitions. It’s a joyous day with much dancing and singing to accompany the sports.

Yet it’s the final evening that turns out to be one of the greatest cultural highlights of all our cruising years. For weeks now, dance companies and singers from all the islands in French Polynesia have been competing. After the judging, the winners are given an evening to strut their stuff, and we are lucky enough to get some of the last tickets.

In a gigantic outdoor auditorium on the foreshore we sit with thousands of others to watch the performances which are a cross between operas and musicals. The costumes are grand and startling and the casts of each performance run into the hundreds. We listen under the stars to glorious complex harmonies, and enjoy spectacles of dance – it would have been worth coming to Papeete just for this night alone.

The time comes when our engine, our pole (repaired ingeniously by Pete from Chatti) and even our GPS are all working and we’re ready to move off once again, heading for another unfamiliar anchorage, another unknown destination. So long, Papeete, it’s been good to know ya.

In the next few weeks we amble through the Society Islands, enjoying each island for a different reason. On Moorea we see our first moondog, those rare bright circular spots on a moon halo, on Bora Bora we swim with giant rays, and on Taha’a we are fascinated by the pearl farms – but the most joy comes from the people we meet.

Captain Cook stopped here in the Polynesian Islands, and what a wonderful find it must have been – mostly easy passes through the reefs, towering tropical jungle, plenty of water and fruit trees, friendly people. The Polynesians really seem to love their water. They swim and gambol – the mothers by the shore, the children screaming and splashing, lovers strolling alone, noisy family groups socialising.

But there’s one thing I really don’t like about sailing among the islands of Polynesia – the coconuts. They float around the lagoons and out to sea. It seems that everywhere you look you see another coconut. The problem is it’s just too hard to tell the difference between a coconut and the head of a dead body, and I am really tired of all the necessary double-checking.

As we sail westwards, heading for the Cook Islands, it occurs to me that it may not be a coincidence that the lifelines on a yacht so closely resemble the ropes around a boxing ring. We’ve left the Society Islands, it’s thirty-three degrees in the shade and the wind has veered. We need to put the pole up.

Skipper Ted goes to the mast to get ready, hot sun burning on his bare brown back making it glisten. I dive for the sheet and brace to loosen them. But in the corner of my eye I see the end of the slippery headsail sheet minus its figure-eight knot slipping towards the block. I scramble to catch the line before it reaches the block and goes out into the ocean.

Just as I grab it (now bum-up, head-down along the side deck), I hear the first clang, ringing out like a church bell on a Sunday morning, and know instantly what that noise is – it’s the fragile pole clanging against the forestay track. I gasp, retrieved sheet in hand, and start backward-scrambling to the cockpit to stop it. It clangs again, swinging free, and I cringe.

But at the first clang the shouting starts. ‘What the f&%@ are you doing?!’ and more expletives. ‘Get that pole under control for f&%@’s sake!’

‘What do you mean?’ I shout back. ‘I was doing something!’

By now I have yanked the brace and the pole has stopped its wild yawing. We swing it up into position.

Ted’s returning to the cockpit. ‘How long have you been f&%@ing doing this on this f&%@ing boat? Ten years?!’

The volume is quite loud, uninhibited, as we are out at sea.

My head roars with anger and hurt feelings. ‘I told you: I was doing something. Why couldn’t you see that I was looking after the headsail sheet which was slipping off the boat? I had to save it!’

‘You can’t let the pole hit the forestay – you know that!’

‘But I didn’t know you were going to raise the pole at that instant. I wasn’t ready! You’re so used to my watching every move you make so that nothing goes wrong . . .’

‘Yes, you are supposed to be watching every move I make.’

‘Well normally I do, but what’s wrong with a simple “Are you ready?” And why can’t you watch me too? Why do I have to do all the watching?’

Ted, obviously knowing more about the relationship between Discretion and Valour than I do, doesn’t answer.

Here the similarity with the boxing ring ends, because here there is no umpire, and so we grumpily retire to our corners, doing the metaphorical equivalent of pouring cold water over our heads and bathing our faces with a wet towel. It takes at least fifteen minutes for the grumps to disappear. They float away behind us, drowning in the wake that streams out to the horizon.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘What a good idea! Sounds marvellous – thank you.’

We’re heading for Palmerston Atoll, in the Cook Islands.