Enchanted Isles

Happy it would have been for these people had they never been visited by Europeans; for, to our shame be it spoken, disease and gunpowder is all the benefit they have ever received from us in return for their hospitality and kindness.

SURGEON HAMILTON OF HMS PANDORA, SOCIETY ISLANDS, 1791

I groaned. The best part of another morning would now be lost and the planned work programme for Tern put on hold yet again. The call had come down from the balcony of a bar overlooking the main street of Papeete, along which I had been walking, hoping not to be observed. A vain hope. I should have known better.

In the early days of our arrival in the port we had met, in a bar, a bunch of tough-looking characters who had welcomed us into their group. It transpired they were captains, and in some cases owners as well, of a mixed bag of inter-island trading schooners and small steamers. The voice I was hearing could well have been that of a Cape Horn master hailing the fore upper topgallant yard. I could not ignore it, and nor could the rest of the street.

The vessels they commanded were moored in a row a little further up the roadside quay from us and, like us, stern to the main thoroughfare with anchors out ahead. This bunch of old reprobates, at least they seemed old to me, came here each year in their ships to sit out the tropical storm season. It now being near mid March, they would be gone in two or three weeks time, but they did not give the impression they were in any great hurry to get back to business. Their tempo was the tempo of the islands. They were Bob McKittricks, and it might well have been that he had known some of them in the past. I must confess I enjoyed being with them and was somewhat flattered they wanted to include me in their company as a fellow skipper, even if only of a small yacht. A new face, it would seem, was perhaps a refreshing change, or perhaps more prosaically, a new recipient of their yarns was what they needed. Be that as it may, I learned a lot about life in the islands. Most of the inter-island schooners had local native captains, but there was this small enclave of white skippers, their annual get-together being important to them. The rest of the year their lives were involved with Polynesian crews, so this time off with others of their own kind had therapeutic value, a necessary break.

A recurring problem they all had was the enactment of the farewelling ritual each time they left Papeete. It did not matter whether the forthcoming voyage would be protracted or only for just a few days, as many of them were, the farewell afforded by the families to their departing menfolk was always a big event, enjoyed to the hilt by all except the captain. The families of each crewmember assembled en masse at the time of departure, dressed in their most colourful attire. In varying states of inebriation, they filled the decks with laughter and uninhibited displays of affection. The captains knew the form and exactly what to expect. There would be an untidy unberthing from the quay, and the first night at sea would be one of some stress for the captain whilst his crew sobered up.

We had, as it happened, an awareness of the ramifications pursuant to these farewells. We were berthed alongside a large American-owned steel yacht, Vega, a schooner rigged of some 90 feet overall. Her masts were not standing, lying instead along the length of her deck. She was deserted. We had been on board to have a look and were appalled at what we saw. Gear was lying everywhere and she had the appearance of being completely neglected. Of particular interest was her big steering wheel on the afterdeck, only half of it being there. The missing half had been neatly sliced off. It was evident she had been dismasted and the mainmast coming down had sheared the wheel in two. What, we wondered, had happened to the helmsman? Vega was a well-known sight on the waterfront and it was not long before we heard her story.

Hailing from the west coast of the United States, she had been sailed down to Papeete the year before and for some reason had then been sold. The new owner, also American, had employed another skipper and sent him down to bring Vega back to her home port. He engaged a crew, all Tahitian including the mate, and prepared to sail from Papeete. It would appear he was not conversant with Tahitian farewells. The night before sailing the whole crew slept ashore, to arrive on board in the morning complete with families and all drunk. Later that day the skipper, with some difficulty, managed to get the well-wishers ashore and then got under way. It was apparently a beautiful afternoon and the mate insisted on setting every sail Vega could carry. What had not been noticed was a small cloud up to windward, rapidly building and getting blacker. The captain saw, with growing alarm, the approaching danger. They had to get sail off, and quickly at that, but he was unable to get any sense out of the mate or the crew. The heavy squall hit them and something had to go. What went was the lower shackle on the forestay at the point of attachment to the stem fitting. The pin on the shackle sheared and the whole rig arrived on deck. One could only begin to imagine the ensuing utter chaos: all the spars, the full outfit of sails and a tangled mass of running and standing rigging about the ears of the panic-stricken and now, no doubt, stone-cold sober crew. We understood that in the States a battle over insurance liability was raging. In the meantime, poor Vega sat and sat. She was still doing just that when we left. It was sad that what had been a gracious ship was in such a state, but at least we had now a feel for what a Tahitian farewell meant.

We were uncertain about our feelings about Papeete, our reaction being a mixed pot of impressions of this multi-racial seaport, but what was clear was how much we had enjoyed making a landfall on this fabled superstar amongst South Sea islands. Over the centuries it has had more praise of its charms and beauty heaped upon it than has any other in the Pacific. Charles Darwin, homeward bound in Beagle, was one of the many to add his share of the outpourings, referring to it as ‘the island to which every voyager has offered up his tribute of admiration’. We, in Tern, would add our voice to the songs of praise. Tahiti is reported as being visible in fine weather 100 miles away, but we were not so lucky in our approach to it by having to sail on some distance past Mehetia before the clouds enshrouding it lifted. Then we suddenly saw our objective. Rising to sharp, lofty peaks, the highest of which is Orohena at 7,300 feet, the volcanic island displays to dramatic effect the torture to which it had been subjected during its creation. Ravines and valleys with precipitous flanks form, as a hugely impressed Darwin informs us, ‘mountain gorges far more magnificent than anything which I have ever before beheld.’ All of this was laid out before us as we sailed close up to the barrier reef of coral that almost completely surrounds Tahiti, a mile or so offshore. Within the reef were the calm waters of the intensely blue lagoon and turquoise shallows washing up to the narrow sandy shore, with its encroaching dense covering of palm trees on the mountain’s lower slopes. The impact on the senses was one of admiration for absolute beauty.

At 0600 next morning we had Venus Point on the port bow, and on gybing ship we set the spinnaker to head down the coast, keeping clear of the breakers smashing over the reef. Nine miles away to the west lay Moorea, with its jagged, broken silhouette so similar to Tahiti and of comparable beauty; so much so that we resolved we would visit it when we sailed for home. If we had known how much the perfect island of the South Seas it was, we would have gone there much earlier. By early afternoon we were off the small town of Papeete – ‘the best sheltered harbour in Tahiti,’ said the Pilot, but for us to be received in its embrace we had to negotiate Passe de Papeete, the narrow opening in the barrier reef. This, according to the Pilot, was a ‘navigable channel reduced in width to about 65 yards by a shallow spit which extends from the reef on each side. In the summer months, November to April, there is sometimes a considerable sea on the bar in the pass. At times a heavy swell sets in from north-westward without any apparent cause, rendering the pass a mass of breakers. A speed of at least 7 or 8 knots should be maintained in the pass. Pilotage is compulsory.’ The speed stipulated was for us hopelessly out of reach. We would just have to hope for the best. We hoisted our International Code signal flags to identify ourselves, and with them up went flag G, ‘I require a pilot’.

We hove to and awaited developments. Sure enough, in surprisingly quick time, out through the pass came the pilot boat, to range alongside and deposit the pilot on board. His English was passable and, reminiscent of the last pilot we had had when in the Canal Zone all those months ago, he indicated a marked degree of unease about the task ahead of him. Expressing concern about a problem with currents, he confirmed what the Pilot had been on about, there being ‘very strong currents found in the pass’. Like our previous man he also was unimpressed by the shortage of horses in the power of our engine. Under full main and jib, with the engine working its little heart out, we shot through the pass with no drama, with the joys of Papeete then laid out before us to take unto ourselves. The pilot directed us over to a clear spot on the waterfront quay, his boat helping us into our berth by pushing us round to put our stern against the shore. Handling the boat with precision, the pilot boat coxswain most obligingly laid our bow anchor and kedge out ahead. A couple of onlookers amongst the little crowd that was assembling on the foreshore took our stern lines, and dropping them over old cannon buried upright in the ground, we were safely secured in place without any fuss. I was reminded of the last time we had engaged in this manoeuvre in Cristóbal: it had taken seemingly the best part of a football team to get us into position. We expressed our appreciation to our friendly pilot for his help and that of his team. We were tempted to think the French were not so bad after all.

We liked to think we had made a little bit of a splash on entering harbour, with a brave array of bunting and flags on display. At the mainmast head was the RNSA’s (Royal Naval Sailing Association) burgee, at the mizzen head on a staff which Peter had made, was our ‘house flag’, which in its other life had been a flag from Peter’s sailing club and was now serving as our wind direction indicator. At the starboard mainmast spreader were our four signal flags, plus flag H: ‘I have a pilot on board’. On the other spreader was the yellow flag Q: ‘My vessel is healthy and I request free pratique’. To add to it all, at the mizzen mast was the plain blue ensign. The long-established maritime flag for Great Britain is, of course, the red ensign, and probably this is the one we should have worn, rather than the blue version. Because of my membership of the RNSA I was entitled to hoist the undefaced blue ensign, but in fact, this was to cause the occasional difficulty in places remote from home waters. Its meaning was often not understood. Perhaps most importantly of all in the full display was our ‘courtesy flag’, conveying a mark of respect to our hosts. Above the signal flag hoist we had this flying in the form of the French national flag, the Tricolore, which remained hoisted the whole time we were in French Polynesian waters. The courtesy flag had a somewhat deeper meaning, however, because it indicated that we accepted the islands were part of the Republic of France, albeit there was in reality no legitimate right of ownership, they having been stolen from the previous owners at gunpoint. In actual fact, the group of islands could well have been British, but Cook, and before him the discoverer of Tahiti, Captain Wallis of the Royal Navy, well before the arrival of the French gunboats, had deliberately chosen not to claim it for the British crown. It was not theirs to claim.

Whilst we were settling down in our berth, the multi-ethnic crowd of onlookers had grown. They gave us a happy welcome with a cheer and the hope we would enjoy their island. We could not help but notice in their midst quite a few young girls, all smiles and prettiness, who had arrived riding side-saddle on motor scooters behind their boyfriends. They were to become a familiar sight, night and day, as they rode along the boulevard close to our stern, long hair blowing in the wind and laughing.

Accompanied by some of the bystanders, acting as guides, I walked into the town centre to call on the port authority, police and customs. These were all quite relaxed. I paid the modest harbour dues, demanded in advance, which included the services of the pilot for both entry and exit and repaired back on board. It was time to sample the delights of Papeete. Evening was coming on and the bright lights beckoned. The passage from the Marquesas had been the easiest of all our passages to date, with benign weather, gentle breezes and an absence of those blinding squalls, peculiar in the tropics, which can make life so uncomfortable. We had consequently not arrived in Papeete tired out the way we had been on previous landfalls. We were ready for those bright lights.

Having attended to ship’s business I felt it was due time I let someone in the navy in New Zealand know where I was, having last sent a situation report way back in Colón. That had been over three months ago. During this span of time of no news, I could only surmise on what conclusion had been reached in far off Wellington: a) it was presumed I had sunk without trace; or b) there was some confidence I would report in from somewhere, sometime; or c) naval command had its mind on other things.

Next morning, after a lie-in to compensate for the delay there had been in getting to bed the night before, we turned up at the British Consulate wondering, a little doubtfully, what sort of reception we would receive. Our previous experience with the consulate in Las Palmas had not been too encouraging. The Papeete branch of Her Majesty’s Consular Service was a different animal altogether. The consul himself was home on leave and we were in the hands of the vice-consul. He was to prove kindness itself, throwing the consulate open to us with an immediate invitation to enjoy a shower and at all times use the place as our own, including a suggestion we should sleep there every night. The vice-consul, David, already knew about us, it transpiring that the Navy Office in Wellington had reached conclusion b) by informing the consulate of our movements with the hopeful prediction we would turn up sometime.

Over coffee it became apparent that David felt it his duty to inform us about a certain aspect of life in the islands, and one particularly relevant to Papeete.

‘Clap is rampant in the town. You are two young chaps and there are plenty of very attractive young girls around. Take care!’

During our time in Polynesia we had become aware of the ills bestowed on the natives over the last 200 years, two of the principal ones being venereal disease and missionary domination. The origins of sexual disease in the islands are obscure, except that it had been introduced by westerners. Before Cook’s time it was unknown amongst the islanders. Although the Society group was visited by Quirós in the early 17^th century, the discovery of Tahiti is usually attributed to Wallis in 1767, who fully documented his stay on the island. There appears to have been no perception that his men may have infected the local women, although given every opportunity to do so. In 1768 the next known visitor was Bougainville. Sometime later, when Cook was in Otaheite, the native name for what was to become Tahiti, his men contracted the scourge. In the intervening period after Bougainville, the Spanish had tried to establish a Roman Catholic mission, but this had been short-lived. It is generally accepted that neither Wallis nor Cook were the guilty parties, so it has to be assumed that either Bougainville’s French seamen or the Spanish sailors from the mission ships brought the disease to Polynesia. It spread rapidly, vastly assisted by the sexual freedom naturally enjoyed by the Polynesians. It was a major cause of the massive depopulation that ensued throughout the islands.

On his return home, Bougainville wrote a book, A Voyage Round the World in 1766, 1767, 1768 and 1769, which reveals some special difficulties of his own whilst in Tahiti.

‘As we came nearer the shore, the number of islanders surrounding our ships increased. The canoes were full of females and most of these fair females were naked. It was very difficult, amidst such a sight, to keep at their work four hundred young French sailors, who had seen no women for six months. In spite of our precautions, a young girl came on board, and placed herself upon the quarterdeck, near one of the hatchways, which was open, in order to give air to those who were heaving at the capstan below it. The girl carelessly dropped a cloth, which had covered her, and appeared to the eyes of all beholders, such as Venus showed herself to the Phrygian shepherds, having, indeed, the celestial form of that goddess. Both sailors and soldiers endeavoured to come to the hatchway; and the capstan was never hove with more alacrity than on this occasion. At last our cares succeeded in keeping these bewitched fellows in order, though it was no less difficult to keep the command of ourselves.’ We don’t know how successful he was with this latter endeavour.

The problems presented to those early captains by Tahitian maidens, not demonstrating any great sense of shyness, were first to be experienced by Wallis in HMS Dolphin on anchoring in Matavai Bay. A large fleet of canoes, containing an estimated 4,000 Tahitians, came out to greet the new arrivals. In the canoes were many bare-breasted young women, which did not escape the attention of Wallis’s 150 seamen. Suddenly, for some unknown reason, the natives started throwing stones, to be repulsed by broadsides from the ship. However, fences were mended and trade began. Top of the list were iron nails, metal being unknown in Polynesia, and so was launched prostitution. This practice did not exist in the islands, being totally irrelevant to the Polynesian culture of free love. It did not take long for the islands’ women to catch on to the fact that they had an asset, invaluable to the visiting sailors, which could occasion the acquisition of the equally invaluable iron nail.

‘The young girls whenever they can collect eight or ten together dance a very indecent dance, which they call Tumorodee, singing most indecent songs and using most indecent actions in the practice of which they are brought up from their earliest childhood.’

Cook’s journal was published on his return home and, coupled with Bougainville’s book, ensured that Europeans, pruriently inclined or otherwise, now knew for the first time about this paradise on Earth in the South Seas. The Tahitians’ fate was sealed.

Very little is known about how Cook, as a man, coped with Tahiti’s indulgence of total sexual freedom and ‘its women warm in welcome’. Innumerable biographies and his own writings do not reveal much. It is difficult to accept he remained throughout just a dispassionate observer, restricting himself merely to making objective comments on the Polynesian attitude to life such as: ‘There is a scale in dissolute sensuality, which these people have ascended, wholly unknown to every other nation.’ His own special position in the scheme of things put him in a particularly difficult situation. As captain of the ship, the maintenance of discipline and preservation of his authority demanded a high degree of exemplary behaviour in the way he appeared to his men. Added to this he was, it is evident, of strong moral code and faithful as a husband. What he had to contend with, however, were the pressures on him when dealing with the locals. His was a world of high society, mixing with the chiefs and tribal elders. They would consider it the most natural act in the world, not to mention their duty, to offer a favourite daughter to their honoured guest, the girl herself assuredly a most willing participant. To have declined such a gift, no matter how politely done, would have been taken as a major insult, so major that Cook would have found it next to impossible to contemplate such an action.

Having done his best to frighten us to death, David then invited us to lunch for the next day. This, cooked in the traditional native way, was to be a delight. We collected our mail and returned on board to catch up on family affairs and rediscover there was still a life out there in the world apart from ours of boat and sea.

The other major contributor to the islands’ depopulation and the demise of the Polynesian traditional way of life was the ‘missionary effect’. Following national publicity about Cook’s voyages, it did not take long for well-intentioned would-be purveyors of the Word to perceive that in Tahiti lay fertile ground, ready to receive the Gospel. In 1797, under the command of Captain Wilson, the ship Duff, which had been chartered by the London Missionary Society, arrived with the first load of lay preachers. It was to take them and their successors over 20 years before the first conversion was made, but thereafter, with the full co-operation of the local chiefs, responding to bribery and threats, progress was rapid until the domination of the Tahitians’ lives became total. A way of life which had existed for thousands of years died, and with it large swathes of the population. The missionaries, it would seem, were unabashed at what they had done.

A discerning and sad reflection on the ‘missionary effect’ is contained in Somerset Maugham’s short story, Rain. Maugham had been through the South Seas in 1917 and had spent some time in Tahiti. One of the central characters in the story is an English, totally dedicated missionary, and here we have him expounding on his attitude to the Polynesians, as conveyed in a ‘sermon’ to a visitor from Britain.

‘We’ll save them in spite of themselves. Yes, with God’s help I’ll save them. I must save them. You see, they were so naturally depraved that they couldn’t be brought to see their wickedness. We had to make sins out of what they thought were natural actions. We had to make it a sin, not only to commit adultery and to lie and thieve, but to expose their bodies and to dance and not come to church. I made it a sin for a girl to show her bosom and a sin for a man not to wear trousers.’

‘I instituted fines. Obviously the only way to make people realise that an action is sinful is to punish them if they commit it. I fined them if they didn’t come to church, and I fined them if they danced. I fined them if they were improperly dressed. I had a tariff, and every sin had to be paid for either in money or work. And at last I made them understand.’

‘How could they? You must remember that in the last resort I could expel them from their church membership.’

‘They couldn’t sell their copra. When the men fished they got no share of the catch. It meant something very like starvation. Yes, they minded quite a lot.’

Whether the influence of the missionary was good or bad or something of both is, of course, open to wide debate, and views on the issue, like the perception of beauty, lie ‘in the eye of the beholder’. Opinions on the matter have been aired in the writings of innumerable visitors to Tahiti, but all too often the views expressed are those of ‘overnight experts’ who have spent only the briefest of periods on the spot. An observer not of this breed is Herman Melville, much admired by Robert Louis Stevenson as ‘a writer who has touched the South Seas with genius’, and one whose opinions carry real weight.

‘Let the savages be civilized, but civilize them with benefits, and not with evils; and let heathenism be destroyed, but not by destroying the heathen. Among the islands of Polynesia, no sooner are the images overturned, the temples demolished, and the idolaters converted into nominal Christians, than disease, vice, and premature death make their appearance. Enlightened individuals...clamorously announce the progress of the Truth.’

So what were our impressions as yet more visitors in a long line? Tahiti, for us, lived up to its reputation of unsurpassed beauty, but unfortunately that was more than could be said for Papeete. It was witness to the ravages that western cultures had imposed on what had once been a South Sea paradis. Most of the indigenous population had been driven out or died off as a result of the white invasion. In its place was now a motley collection of French, Americans, British and other Europeans, Australians, New Zealanders, Chinese and half-castes, but happily there were also some full-blooded Tahitians, or nearly so. Also happily included in this mix were very pretty girls. Overall, the impression was one of vibrant life. Constant movement of people, motor vehicles racing up and down in the shape of trucks, runabouts and obscenely large American automobiles; vehicles of all kinds in varying states of repair, bicycles and scooters all adding to the noise and pollution.

Music was everywhere, day and night, but most of the time of a type that one would not term easy, enjoyable listening: American-style, mixed up with westernized Tahitian renderings, dominated. When we stepped off our stern onto the quay beside the road into town, we could turn left or right from one contrast to the other. To the right were berthed the inter-island vessels, and further along the pleasant, cool residential area of the more well-to-do, overlooking the lagoon. The leafy lawns and shady verandas suggested relaxed, comfortable living. A left turn took us into the business sector, civil administration centre and shopping area. White-owned shops jostled for a place in the sun with those of the Chinese, and amongst them one could get most things. Back of the main street was the central vegetable and fruit market, an unattractive building in itself, with close to it more interesting satellite small stalls. Between them all we had a wonderful choice of exotic tropical fruits and island-grown vegetables. Shopping was all action and noise.

Dominating the commercial scene were the Chinese. Originally imported into the island in the 1860s as cheap labour, the Tahitians not being work inclined, to tend the newly established white-owned plantations, they had stayed, multiplied and become prosperous until it was estimated at the time of our visit they accounted for a fifth of the population. With them was associated opium which, combined with the white man’s alcohol and firearms, exacerbated the afflictions bestowed on the Tahitians.

The Tahitians of today would be of a very different race to that which Darwin and, even more so, Cook knew. A ‘one-liner’ had it that the missionary and the French took control of their lives, the Chinese took control of their economy, with the Polynesians left with just their land. In Tahiti, this perhaps rather simplistic observation was unhappily evidently only too true. However, we were told that in more recent days there had been in the islands amongst the young a reversion to the beliefs, customs and culture of their ancestors, but one has to doubt how long this trend would withstand the seductive, escalating power of technology, with its so-called benefits to all peoples.

Throughout the town ran a theme of liquor and sex. So-called nightclubs catered for those seeking an evening’s entertainment and satisfaction. Two of the principal ones, Quinns and Col Bleu, had been recommended to us on our arrival, but we found them not quite as exciting as we had been led to believe. They were tawdry. However, they were alive with people and the food was cheap and good, the former feature being of particular interest to us and our pockets.

Where Cook, Wallis and Bougainville had anchored their ships, in the northern reaches of the harbour, flying boats came down, bringing in hopeful travellers looking for the paradise they thought would be there for them to enjoy. In the main they were middle-aged males with pot bellies and they were too late. Quinns and Col Bleu did quite well, though. The flying boats of Tasman Empire Air Line (TEAL), the predecessor of Air New Zealand, stopped bringing in their pot bellies when, in 1960, the international airport was opened, to welcome in today a quarter of a million camera-wielding tourists a year.

In fairness to the French, their attitude to the Tahitians was one of tolerant understanding of their free morals. This was remarked on by the Swedish ethnologist, Bengt Danielsson, who had been one of the crew of Kon-Tiki. He had stayed to live with the Tahitians, study their habits and write about them. His book, Love in the South Seas, was being written whilst we were in Papeete. It is not an erotic account but brings out vividly the Polynesians’ love of sex which played such a major role in their lives. They indulged themselves in it and they enjoyed it so much because it was such fun. That is until the Anglican missionaries came along.

One of the ‘must-see’ landmarks on the island was where Cook carried out his famous observations of the transit of the planet Venus across the face of the sun. Pointe Vénus, the northern extremity of the island, was in its way something of a shrine to which we duly made our pilgrimage. A lighthouse and a church with a couple of radio masts were located in near proximity to a stone in the ground on which was marked a meridian line where Captain Cook made his observations. Cook had been in Tahiti largely because he had been sent there by the Admiralty, specifically to make these observations. As a biographer records:

‘Calculations having been made that the planet Venus would pass over the sun’s disc in 1769, the Royal Society, under the patronage of King George the Third, presented a memorial to Government, requesting that a vessel might be fitted out to convey proper persons to observe the transit.’ The government, in the form of the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, appointed Mr Cook ‘to the distinguished post of the commander of the expedition and promoted [him] to the rank of lieutenant in the Royal Navy.’ In the ex-collier Endeavour, Cook, now entitled to be addressed as Captain, duly arrived in Otaheiti (Tahiti) and executed his orders to watch Venus, like a model on the catwalk, strut across the sun. This was 3 June 1769. The purpose of observing this beauty parade was an attempt to determine more accurately than had been achieved hitherto the distance of the sun from the Earth. Having an idea of what was the diameter of the sun, and also of the distance of Venus, our closest neighbour from Earth, the time taken for the planet’s transit would hopefully enable the sun’s distance to be worked out by geometry. Cook, to be on the safe side, set up two observation posts, separated by some distance, and in good conditions took his readings. They were not a resounding success but the right spin was put on them.

‘Both the parties that were sent out to make observations on the transit met with good success, though they differed more than might have been expected in their records of the contact.’ Cook laid the blame for this squarely on the shoulders of the girl herself in that she was behaving like a woman – difficult.

Cook went on to open up the Pacific, up till then largely a blank space, apart from various cartographers’ flights of imagination colourfully shown on the world’s maps. He was, of course, an extraordinary man, respected for his exemplary conduct, for which history has rightfully treated him kindly. On arrival in Tahiti in Endeavour, amongst his first actions was to draw up a code of practice for the guidance of all hands ‘for the better establishment of a regular trade with the natives’. This exhorted his men to be humane to the inhabitants and to cultivate friendly relations with them. The cynically minded would say his edict was commercially driven rather than out of respect for those inhabitants’ human rights. However, he has always, and justifiably so, been considered humane. The maximum punishment handed out by Cook was two dozen lashes, which compares favourably with many hundreds – which frequently was the case. It is all a matter of degree, as not long before this ‘flogging round the fleet’ was still in vogue, the offender being rowed around the fleet to be handed out a dozen lashes by the boatswain’s mate of each ship in the anchorage. Cook undoubtedly merits his reputation, but consider this cameo: Endeavour is at anchor off an island in the Society group when a canoe paddles alongside. A ship’s officer hands down a piece of Otaheitean cloth for barter to an occupant. It was of particularly high quality and the recipient decided to keep it.

Furthermore, he refused to pay for it or give anything in exchange. He ‘paid dearly, however, for his temerity’, being shot dead on the spot. His companions, rather understandably, ‘fled with great precipitancy’. Interestingly enough, the tribal elders felt he had deserved his fate. It would seem Cook held the same opinion, as seemingly no further account was taken of the incident, and certainly no punishment, it would appear, was administered. If this murder had been committed back home in England, it might be surmised that Cook could well have been subjected at least to a court martial as being party to an act of unlawful killing. What does this tell us about the man? Although his moral standards were certainly higher than many of his contemporaries, he was still ‘a man of his times’ and as such imbued with the conviction, shared wholeheartedly by the missionaries, that natives and heathens were lower down the human scale and certainly did not have the right to possession of their lands, let alone their souls. That right rested solely in the hands of the whites. It was their God-given preserve. The arrogance of the early voyagers, and especially the missionaries, was staggering. Although Cook’s attitude was commendable over not annexing Tahiti, with the hope it would never be colonized, he did take possession of other islands ‘in the name of his sovereign’.

Back at the ranch, or rather our berth at the quay, we were in contact with the other yachts around us, all American and from the US west coast. We had given up on the likelihood of ever seeing a British yacht. Our immediate neighbour was a plush schooner of 70 foot out of San Francisco, Nordlys. Next in the trot was another ketch of about our size, Mandalay, also American, which was of some interest. She was owned by Pebble, a young member of one of America’s most illustrious families, the Rockefellers. Apparently he had been, he told us, something of a thorn in the family’s side, to the extent that they had bought him the boat and told him to push off and not to be in too much of a hurry to return. This he gave no indication of doing. Judging by the frequency of visits by young maidens with long flowing tresses, and the sound of laughter and guitars, day and night, he was not feeling too much pain over his banishment. Pebble and his graceful companions were good company, and Peter in particular spent many a happy hour on board, joining in the music and enjoying the entertainment. So did I, but for me a few days of rest were called for as I wrestled with a complaining stomach. Was it Quinns or Col Bleu? The hygiene police would have had a field day there whilst they took time off to investigate first-hand the other attractions those places had on offer. Our departure date was coming up and it was agreed that when we left for our projected stop off in Moorea, Mandalay would sail over with us in company.

Stored and watered with the ship ready for sea, it was time for farewells. A final drink, or two, with fellow skippers up in the bar brought home how much I would miss that hard-drinking, warm and convivial gang. Then a thank you visit to David and the staff in the consulate, with whom I left a cable to be sent off to the Navy Office breaking the news I was off and they should start to hold their breaths towards the end of April. The final call was at the Harbour Office to obtain clearance and to arrange for the pilot. I really need not have bothered. The same relaxed mood prevailed, but even more so than when I had first presented myself. They inferred that actually nothing needed to be done. With our harbour dues already paid I could go whenever I felt like it. But what about the pilot? The response was one of those lifts of the shoulders which convey so much expression; a physical feat excelled in by the French and one with which no other race on Earth can compete. In other words, it was entirely up to me. The message evidently was that it was only important to have a pilot on arrival to ensure we got into the harbour safely so we would be able to spend our money in the town. Now we were leaving we would be making no further contribution to the economy. If we landed up on the reef, so be it. I said not to worry about the pilot, and about this the officials were quite happy. Less trouble for them and they already had my money in the till, his services covered both ways. Pragmatic people, the French.

Tuesday 23 March 1100 Slipped from the quay. Recovered our anchors.

It was quite extraordinary how the word of our departure had spread. The same small crowd assembled off our stern. Someone let our lines go, accompanied by much laughter and expressions of goodwill, with wholehearted exhortations for us to return. The voices sounded as though they really meant it. My memory of our departure, as the gap between our stern and the quay widened, was of smiling faces and white teeth.

We passed through the reef without incident, leaving astern of us Tahiti, the Pearl of the Pacific, its beauty on full display. The sharply broken skyline was outlined in clear, sharp contours against a cloudless sky, and down the side of the mountain to the sea plunged the heavily wooded clefts, their depths emphasised by the dark shadows which lay in them. It has long been the touching little custom for voyagers leaving a Pacific island to cast upon the waters a lei, the sweet-smelling garland of intertwined flowers, to make sure that one returns. We did not leave a lei in our wake. We did not want to return. The island, which has suffered so much from change, would be undergoing yet more, and I for one did not want to see it.

As we cleared the pass in the reef, laid out before us was Moorea, rising abruptly out of the sea, dramatic and imposing like its neighbour but with an even more jagged silhouette of starkly defined peaks. Ahead, on full display as we closed it, was the Gem of the Pacific, transcending the Pearl, its sister beauty. At 1600 we passed through the reef into Pao Pao Bay. It was just lovely, quite the most beautiful setting I had ever seen; a South Sea island to perfection. It was deserted, the silence broken only by the crashing of the surf on the enclosing reef. The sense of isolation totally enveloped us before it was intruded into by the arrival of Mandalay. She anchored a little way off. We had had our moment of sublimity and did not resent her intrusion and, at one with the world around us, we respected her privacy. On board was Pebble and he was not alone. It was evident he was not proposing to exchange the way of life in Tahiti for a monastic one in Moorea.

We woke to a glorious morning and wished so much we had come over here earlier, at the expense of our time in Papeete. The town had been of considerable interest and well worth the visit, but it was unnatural and it had been spoilt. Pao Pao was natural and completely unspoilt. We would have enjoyed a few lotus-eating days, immersed in its loveliness and tranquillity, but we were compelled to get started on the last leg, the long haul to Auckland. After all, there in New Zealand we would still be in Polynesia, but how different!

With the thought of a long ocean passage ahead of us, it seemed to me to be a wise seamanlike precaution to recheck the chronometer’s time and rate before we launched into space. We were anchored in the lagoon, protected by the reef, in calm water, with a clear view of the horizon. This was an ideal spot for taking an astronomical fix from a steady platform to compare with our known exact position on the chart, determined terrestrially by taking compass bearings of features on the shores around the bay. Any discrepancy between these positions would throw up the time error on the chronometer watch, which could be calculated by working back the sight for longitude to give the correct time. I had not been able to pick up any time signals whilst we had been in the islands, that being beyond the powers of our radio. However, the conditions for taking celestial observations were good, such that having taken them I worked out our position with some degree of confidence. I was somewhat surprised at the result.

As it did not appear from our surroundings we were in a holy setting, there was obviously a navigational glitch somewhere. I rechecked our position obtained by the terrestrial bearings and could find no error. I then reworked my astronomical calculations and again could detect no error. What had put us where we obviously weren’t? We might well, however, have been in holy surroundings, because suddenly a blinding light of revelation shone forth from on high. I remembered the time of year! In the southern hemisphere, winter was upon us. Sure enough, the Nautical Almanac confirmed that a couple of days before we had left Papeete, the sun had deserted our hemisphere and gone north. It had crossed the equinoctial, but we had been a little too occupied with life in the town to have noted the occasion of the autumnal equinox. It was not something they worried too much about in Papeete: the seasons did not change to any significance. For so long I had been accustomed to reading the letter ‘S’ for ‘South’ before the figures for degrees and minutes in the Almanac for the sun’s declination, and I had failed to register that this was now an N for North. Feeding this into the calculations changed everything.

The difference between the two positions in Pao Pao Bay was now gratifyingly small. The error in the time shown by the chronometer now known, and its rate re-established, we were ready to depart. With our hearts heavy at leaving, we got our anchor and passed close by Mandalay to exchange greetings and farewells. Peter and I were as one in wishing we were staying on in that superb scene, but it was now too late for second thoughts. We were on our way. We told ourselves without conviction it was always better to leave when not wanting to do so rather than staying too long.

At 1100 we passed through the reef under jib and mainsail, turning west to cross the entrance to Opunohu Bay, from which we took our departure. It looked so inviting that the thought welled up we should weaken and sample what was so invitingly on display before our eyes. It was a picture postcard view of gently waving palm trees, golden sands and smooth, unruffled vividly blue lagoon against the backdrop of deeply fissured, wooded mountain slopes. We diverted our eyes and sailed on. The Enchanted Isles had the power to have held us irresistibly in their embrace. How fortunate we were to have known them.

The exercise to check the accuracy of our chronometer could not help but bring home the problems facing those early navigators as they blundered about the enormous sweep of the South Pacific, with only the vaguest idea where they actually were most of the time. There was no mercy in a coral reef if they got it wrong. We were still in Cook territory, and how, for example, had he found his way so confidently to these islands, having criss-crossed large swathes of the ocean on the way? It is difficult for a modern navigator to fathom this out. On his first voyage he had no chronometer, the longitude problem still in the process of being solved, or rather the Admiralty was having difficulty in accepting its solution. John Harrison, a carpenter employed on a country estate, amateur mathematician and clockmaker, had finally succeeded in constructing the first timepiece accurate enough to determine longitude at sea. This was some years before Cook had set off on his voyage, but through official prevarication he was denied its use. Rather he had to fall back on ‘lunars’, a longitude-finding method based on measuring the angle between the moon and selected stars, considered fixed in the firmament, and their position in it shown in the almanacs of the time. The procedure was prone to error in taking the observations, exacerbated by a heaving deck, and required lengthy calculations, providing in themselves further sources of error. It was ironic that this method had been dreamed up by Dr Maskelyne, the astronomer royal, who had done his best to rubbish Harrison’s efforts, because it was Maskelyne’s unshakeable conviction that the right way to determine time, to the required accuracy, was not by some man-made contraption but rather by using what God had provided, the heavenly bodies.

Maskelyne was a brilliant mind and compiled the first Nautical Almanac, in which he included the positions of various stars to enable the lunar system to be used. However, in the end, Harrison won the day, and four copies of his final masterpiece, a watch known as the H4, went with Cook on his second voyage. Remarkable accuracy was achieved. Only the Admiralty could afford the cost of a chronometer, and although the cost came down progressively, it was many years before its use became widespread in the world’s merchant fleets, lunars holding a place until the 20th century. It is a snippet of history that on the eve of Cook embarking on his second voyage in his replacement ship, Resolution, a time check was carried out in Plymouth on the same lines that I had done in Pao Pao Bay, nearly 200 years later. Observations were made on Drake’s Island which established the latitude and longitude with the time ascertained to ‘put in motion the timepieces and watches’.

As we progressed along the northern shores of Moorea, the wind came and went such that we had to fall back on the engine on brief occasions to keep us clear of the breakers as we cleared the north-west tip of the island. Our relations with the engine had improved somewhat, mainly because we had come to realise that it was inclined to behave more favourably if we fed it the nourishment it needed and, when it needed it, in the form of petrol, rather than trying to force paraffin down its throat. Daybreak saw us on course for Auckland before a light east-north-easterly wind, under all plain sail, plus the spinnaker doing more than its share of the work. The log records:

‘A very quiet night with Tahiti just visible in the bright moonlight. Little wind but the boat keeps ghosting along. Saw a shark very close, gently swimming around us.’

Ahead of us lay a period of frustratingly slow progress in light, uncertain winds. The prevailing wind through the Society group is predominantly easterly but the region is beset by a high incidence of calms. According to that never failing source of knowledge, the Pacific Islands Pilot, over the last 60 years of record taking the frequency of calms in March ranged from 21 per cent in late afternoon to a staggering 55 per cent in early morning. We could not say we had not been warned. However, the not unreasonable expectancy was that once we got clear of the islands we would feel the effects of the south-east trade wind, now free-ranging and free of land interference, and start to make progress. We were wrong. The wind continued fading away to nothing, with lengthy periods of total calm becoming ever more frequent. We felt aggrieved and started to take it personally. Writing up the log became a helpful way of relieving feelings.

Flat calm with no steerage way. Have been becalmed all day and now into the second one; this is becoming a record. However, the sea in close proximity to the boat is marvellous, the deepest blue I have seen yet and the surface completely smooth. These are without doubt the calmest spells we have had in the entire passage, beating even the Gulf of Panama. These days which keep repeating themselves are so tedious and it is particularly irritating to see our fresh provisions vanishing with nothing to show for it.

Desperation coming over us, we tried running the engine for an eight hour stint to help our morale by giving the illusion we were going somewhere. In the scheme of things it achieved little. Twenty miles was nothing in just over 2,200 on a Great Circle track to cover, and we could ill afford the fuel for such an extravagance.

There was another point of concern over our slow passage. With the approach of winter in New Zealand, Ocean Passages for the World told us westerly winds would be likely. They would also be fresh and I did not relish having the wind well forward of the beam again, with water continuously over the decks and everything, including us, getting wet. I wanted to get to Auckland before those westerlies set in. On the plus side, we were getting significant help from the ocean current. The South Equatorial Current, having threaded its way through the Societies, turns south-west and was giving us a good push along. The other plus was, as compensation for the lack of progress, the calm spells meant relaxed living. We were having meals on deck or at the table together in the saloon, enjoying swims over the side and, moreover, with the boat going nowhere, we could harden in sheets and sleep our heads off. These consolation prizes did little, however, to relieve the overall sense of frustration and tedium.

Despite the paucity of wind, we had nevertheless been making southing, albeit pathetically slowly, and quite suddenly everything was about to change.

‘Nobody has found a substitute for the sweet chuckling of water, like the laughter of young girls, that you hear outside the hull whilst lying in a small yacht’s bunk.’ So said Samuel Eliot Morison and he was right. In the midst of yet another flattest of calms I had stretched out below on my bunk. There was no movement to the sea, no movement to the boat, no sound of wind and no rustling of gear. Peter was dozing at the idle tiller. I must have drifted off because I suddenly became aware of a strange sound that had not been there before. And then I realized what it was. It was the laughter of young girls trilling sweetly along the boat’s side just beside my head. A feeling of joy swept through me. I got up and there was Peter, his hand firmly holding the tiller and he was grinning.

The wind had suddenly come true and steady out of the south-east and slowly building. We were under Yankee jib, balloon foresail with main, topsail and mizzen full of wind. The lot was up. Everything drawing on a reach and we were making six knots; the sea around us still quite flat and sparkling under the sun. ‘It was a day to remember.’

We were to stay like that for the next few days, the despondency and state of near despair we had been in during the preceding days, forgotten. The only cloud on our horizon was Peter suddenly once again developing toothache. This could have been serious and we debated the best course of action. Auckland was maybe three weeks away, and that was a long time to have to endure toothache. Rarotonga was within reach and we could have fetched it with the wind we now had, but Peter said the pain was intermittent and thought we should carry on, if necessary with doses of painkillers. What might have been at the back of his mind were the options. Chief of these was extraction. The scenario for this was not good. Our medical kit did not embrace the dental tools and gum injection equipment to ensure a non-agonizing operation. Pliers out of the boat’s tool kit would be less than ideal. I also lacked a dental assistant to hold him down. We decided to press on to Auckland, the decision being swayed by us now having wind and the wind charts suggesting we would keep it. I just had to hope it was the right decision. The problem was Peter belonged to the ‘stiff upper lip’ brigade, and in such circumstances I never knew if I was getting the truth. It was, as it turned out, the right decision, as by great good fortune the tooth seemed to cure itself.

Sterner days were now our lot, the days of warmth and idleness just a memory. The wind had settled down, fresh and cutting, south of east and slowly veering into the south bringing the cold with it. For the first time for what seemed ages we were sailing under reefed mainsail, and out came oilskin coats over thick woollen jerseys. The helmsman’s bare feet readjusted to the change in temperature as once again they got used to the cosy feel of cold sea water swilling about the cockpit sole. We were back to reality. I was later mindful of a somewhat relevant remark by Kevin O’Riordan, who had accompanied Humphrey Barton on their demanding, and often wet, epic crossing of the Atlantic in Vertue XXXV. When subsequently I had occasion to be sailing with Kevin, an exponent of bare feet, he related that when once asked if he ever wore socks he replied, ‘No, they give me colds.’

In the log entries, such as ‘Sea state: rough’ started to appear. For most of the journey out from Plymouth we had largely escaped seriously bad weather, and although experiencing some unpleasant conditions down the west coast of France and off Portugal, most of the way across the North Atlantic and the South Pacific gales had not featured. Our time was about to come. The classic build up heralding the advent of a gale appeared in the heavens high above our heads as the day progressed. Streaking thin cirrus cloud, with its distinctive, curved ‘mares’ tails’, progressively covered the sky, and the barometer inexorably started its downward fall. That night there was a multicoloured vivid halo ringing the moon and shining through the cloud veil. With the wind steadily increasing in strength and veering round to WNW, the message was becoming all too clear. We were soon to have a full gale on our hands.

In an attempt at precision in the imprecise art of weather prediction, which it tries to convey in the shipping forecast, the Meteorological Office would today define ‘soon’ as ‘6 to 12 hours from time of issue’, and that was to be right. By mid-morning next day we had its full force upon us. Although we were without any way of measuring wind speed, the state of the sea told it all. Gale 8 on the Beaufort Scale has the wind at 34 to 40 knots, resulting in ‘moderately high waves; edges of crests begin to break into spindrift. The foam is blown in well-marked streaks along the direction of the wind.’ But for those unfortunates onshore and deserving of every sympathy it ‘breaks twigs off trees; wind impedes progress’. Around us the scene measured up well to the former description. We gave the situation best. Leaving the boat quietly hove-to on the starboard tack under reefed staysail, we retired below, pulling the hatch over our heads to turn in for the duration. In closing off the hatch opening we had shut out the sound of wind and sea, it feeling so much more secure in the sudden quiet of the cabin. The noise on deck associated with a full gale is dominating and threatening. The sea tumbling over itself with the crests breaking has the roar of crashing surf. The wind tearing through the rigging and swirling round the masts sets up a pronounced moaning sound which rises dramatically in tone to a near howl as the boat, following the action of the sea, rolls and lurches up to windward, the relative wind speed rising sharply. A gaff-rigged boat has a mass of lengths of rope hanging down the mast, and these hauled taut resonate like the strings of a large musical instrument. The change from the clamour on deck to the peace down below is most marked. The noise is possibly the most frightening feature of a gale.

The front moved through, the wind shifting back into south of west and slowly moderating such that we started sailing again just about on course under No 2 jib and trysail. During the blow, the use of the galley had been denied us. Trying to work at the stove up in the forepeak was unacceptably difficult, the motion being just too much. In anticipation of this situation, the frame I had made – in which swung a Primus stove in its gimbals, the whole assembly being mounted when needed on a shelf at the after end of the cabin – made life much more tolerable. This was another occasion when the Heinz self-heating cans came into their own, due recognition of which featured prominently in my final report to the company. They did much for the helmsman coming on watch when emerging into a cold, wet cockpit.

The big day came up. We went off the South Eastern sheet of the South Pacific chart onto the South Western sheet, and in doing so passed the 1,000 miles to go. Now showing on the chart was New Zealand. It could be seen to be within reach. The waters in which we were now sailing are particularly noteworthy to the ornithologist and that special breed of person, the ‘birder’, being the northern limit of the world of the black-browed albatross. On cue, the first one appeared, and henceforth one or more kept us permanent company up till our arrival in New Zealand. The sighting of this great bird had its own significance for me, bringing into focus awareness we were nearing my homeland. The first time I had seen one was when sailing from Wellington for England nearly 12 years before, in 1942, in these selfsame waters.

It is a feature of the black-browed albatross, the most widespread of the species, to follow ships, and many had been the hours spent standing on the afterdeck of our passenger ship, Rauhine, absorbed in watching and admiring the fluidity of movement and grace of these creatures.

Although not identified as such by Samuel Taylor Coleridge through the haze of laudanum, it was most likely a black-browed albatross that played the pivotal role in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Albeit we were not sharing, self-inflicted or otherwise, the Mariner’s misfortunes, we nevertheless knew something of what he had endured when we were locked in the depths of windless periods in the Doldrums.

The last leg, we knew, was not going to be easy, the pilot charts making that only too clear. Ocean Passages emphasised the point, talking about ‘unsteady trade winds’ and ‘variables’ for the region we were now entering. The Good Book also gave warning of the threat of tropical storms, known as ‘cyclones’, in the south-western part of the Pacific, as still in season until the end of April. These usually generated to the east of Australia and the north of New Zealand, then to track westward. The risk to us was not great, but nevertheless it was there and sufficient to cause me enough concern to do my homework and read up about the warning signs of a cyclone coming our way. The Pilot also took the subject seriously with helpful hints to the mariner. ‘The indications of the approach of a tropical storm include: a swell not caused by the wind then blowing.’ I made it a point when I took over the watch to study the run of the sea, explaining what it was I was looking for to Peter. His response was to laugh.

‘You are always worrying about something or other. Is this the latest one? If one hits us, so be it. Not much we can do about it!’ What a gift, I thought, to have such fatalism. But I had not given up completely.

‘Yes, but the swell’s direction would give us a clue on which quadrant of the storm is ahead of us. Could be the dangerous one.’

Strong gale force wind from WNW. Hove-to on starboard tack under staysail and trysail. Frequent violent squalls with drenching rain and bitingly cold spray lashing over the helmsman. A b***** awful day.

But to reinforce the point about also being in the variables there was next a completely different story:

Have been praying for an easterly wind and now have one but only just. Under all plain sail and spinnaker with little real progress. It is unfortunately only too plain to see we now have the anticipated countercurrent flowing NE at 25 miles per day or even more against us. Along with the south-east trades the favourable South Subtropical Current has gone.

Back, of course, came the wind and this time out of the south, very fresh and bringing with it a particularly uncomfortable sea, rolling relentlessly and unceasingly towards us from the far-off horizon. I suddenly felt I had had enough of it. I found myself standing up in the cockpit facing the wind and that cold, remorseless sea, cursing its spitefulness, directed personally at me, perverse and hostile. It was a living being, full of malice.

Fortunately, Peter, sound asleep below, or so I hoped, was not witness to his skipper out of control. The mood wore off and on we sailed, passing one milestone after another. Five hundred miles to Auckland and then came up 30 days at sea, the longest time yet, with our routine working well, one day flowing into the next. The only change in our lives was the change in wind and weather with the infinitely varying moods of the sea. A strong southerly brought rough, cold and boisterous sailing under storm jib and trysail with the decks running water continuously and heavy driving spray, but then soon afterwards it was all change again and it was a wonderful night’s sail over a calm sea in bright moonlight with ‘the old lady doing a steady 7 knots and no fuss’.

With the nort-east coast of New Zealand just a few days away, the realization came over us that the adventure was nearing its end, and with it went the feeling we didn’t really want this to happen. It had all been so fulfilling. Peter and I had been through so much together in complete harmony, and sadness gripped me at the thought that it was all but over. I had come to grips with the dispassionate aggression of the sea, accepting this as just a fact of what life at sea is all about, and had recovered to a large degree my equanimity. Although, of course, looking forward to seeing again my country and family, I had become so at one with our way of life that I would have been relaxed about sailing on. Tern also indicated she was happy about continuing. All she needed was fresh water plus some fresh provisions and a new supply of torch batteries. Peter seemed to be of the same mind but would have been torn. He was keen to see New Zealand and looking forward to that experience. The country’s reputation was good, being a part of the world looked upon with favour by many of his countrymen and women, quite a few of whom having strong family links with it.

Navigationally the final days were to be difficult. The weather was overcast, dull and cold, thin altostratus cloud covering the sky and obscuring completely the sun and stars, effectively preventing the taking of sights. We were closing the land on dead reckoning, about which I was not relaxed. In other words, I did not know exactly where we were. Then there was a breakthrough, albeit temporary. The outline of a watery sun suddenly appeared during the forenoon through the cloud coverage and the lower rim was sharp enough for an observation. I grabbed it. Then just after midday the sun, for a second time, put in a very brief, shy appearance and once again I grabbed it. It was now 20 minutes after the time for a standard meridian altitude at noon, when the sun and the observer share the same meridian, but it was still within the time span for an ex-meridian altitude to give a latitude position line. I had almost given up hope. Running up to it, the result of the earlier forenoon shot of the sun gave us our position. We had been fortunate as the heavens closed shut again and remained that way for the rest of the day and into the evening with no chance of star sights, but I was now happy. I knew where we were.

Monday 26 April 1900 Sighted Mokohinau light right on the nose ahead.

2200 Picked up loom of Cuvier Island light on the port bow; where it should be.

We were home! Ahead lay the entrance to the Hauraki Gulf, the large, semi-enclosed stretch of water at the bottom of which lay Auckland Harbour. At 0300 next morning we were bang in the middle of that entrance channel, making fast time in smooth water under full sail, and the memory of that moment has remained with me ever since. High above my head the mainsail, black against the night sky, was full of wind. Astern stretched a long glittering wake, alive with phosphorescence, our final link with the South Pacific, our home for the last 35 days and long before that, way back to the Galápagos.

Near the top of the gulf lay the beautiful little island of Kawau, in which was contained a sheltered anchorage where we anchored mid afternoon that day. Tern II had done her job. To bring us back from our ocean existence and into the world around us, the appropriate transition was as noted in the log: ‘Advanced the clocks one day.’ We had crossed the International Date Line on the passage down from Moorea but had not bothered to change the day and date on board. We had been at sea long enough for these not to be of any importance in our daily lives, apart from having been noted to meet navigational dictates.

There had been no debate between us about anchoring in Kawau’s Mansion House Bay rather than carrying on down to Auckland. We needed to adjust from a sea routine which had been a world of our own, shared only with boat, the elements and each other, to a world of people and structured society. We needed to catch our breath. To help with the adjustment process we launched the dinghy and went ashore to the island’s only hotel for dinner. First off, I made the duty call to report in to the naval officer in charge, Auckland, checking in with the duty officer, it being out of working hours. That telephone call was, for me, hugely symbolic. I had handed back my ‘ticket of leave’. Henceforth, others would dictate my life. No longer would my actions be under my sole direction, governed only by wind and sea, Tern and my obligations to Peter. Suddenly I had ceased to be my own man, whereas Peter would continue to be his. Perhaps I envied him. Then, after also reporting in to my parents in Christchurch, it was high time for a celebratory drink. The hotel manager assumed the role of host, insisting drinks and dinner were on the house. Things were going well.

Interrupting our first ‘happy hour’ on dry land, there came a telephone call from the Auckland daily newspaper requesting an interview. We were suddenly famous. I was not sure, however, how I felt about being the local lad made good. It would seem the duty officer in the naval base had embarked on a PR exercise with the press. The only guests in the hotel were a young, newly married couple on their honeymoon, no doubt expecting to have a full measure of exclusivity to enjoy it. We could only hope that the advent of two sailors straight out of their boat with tales of the high seas was not stealing the young man’s thunder and spoiling the sweetness of the lovers’ moment. We also had to hope that after five weeks at sea, sweetness still prevailed in our near proximity.

Next morning we were nearly to become even more famous. After a leisurely breakfast, aware of there being only a short final sail ahead of us, we hoisted our full set of canvas, perhaps to show off a little by making something of a display, and then got our anchor. Rather, that is what should have happened. Heaving in the anchor cable it came up short, fouled on something on the seabed. With the breeze picking up, we finally succeeded in sailing the anchor out, but as it came free we found ourselves heading for the rocky beach. Tern, with her long keel, takes some time and distance to turn. We came uncomfortably close to those rocks before we sailed clear. Dear old Claud Worth would not have approved, being a great exponent of buoying one’s anchor on an unknown seabed. We had not been far off a highly embarrassing ending to our cruise, but the press would have loved it.

In a failing wind we arrived in the approaches to Auckland’s harbour to be met by a naval launch from the dockyard sent out to tow us in, casting us off when we were in the yard’s confines. We were somewhat surprised, and pleasantly so, at the appearance of the launch. Apparently, the signal tower overlooking the approaches to the harbour had been co-opted to monitor our progress and alert the naval base when we closed the entrance. It was a thoughtful gesture, we having no means of ship-to-shore communication to report our arrival, apart from International Code flags or Morse code by flashing light. In this regard we would have been, 30 years on, more or less literally in the same boat as Claud, with maritime communications unchanged, but I suspect again not meeting with his approval, as our expertise in flag signalling was not likely to have been up to his standards. In his other work, Yacht Navigation and Voyaging, he relates how in the course of a circumnavigation of the British Isles in Tern III he had occasion to report in to his own authority, the redoubtable Mrs Worth.

‘A little before noon we stood in towards Flamborough Head to get a telegram sent to Mrs Worth to tell her that we intended going into the Nene (or Wisbech river) instead of the Ouse. Fourteen hoists were required, but it took only a few minutes, because each hoist was read and acknowledged almost as soon as it was clear of the deck. The telegram was delivered within a couple of hours. They are smart signallers at the Flamborough station.’ In our case, if the need had arisen, hopefully the signallers at the Auckland station would have been equally accommodating, having to exercise a full measure of patience.

Peter and I then carried out the last manoeuvre we were to execute together in Tern. The engine obligingly started and I went forward with the bow line whilst Peter put the boat alongside. I heaved my line up onto the quayside to welcoming waiting hands who secured it. As I walked aft to join Peter in the cockpit I saw him send his line ashore. It was all too apparent he was not pleased.

‘Ben! I thought we had agreed a long time ago that because Tern is so hopeless in going astern we would always get the stern line ashore first to stop her and then get the bow line ashore.’

‘Peter, I am sorry. You are right. What would I have ever done without you?’