CHAPTER 30
Californians know that Catalina Island, as the song says, is “twenty-six miles across the sea.” Early morning mist across the sea can magnify objects, making them appear closer. Moorea, from the Papeete harbor entrance, appeared a good bit closer than its actual twenty-one sea miles, which, how about that, equated to Catalina’s twenty-six statute miles.
“Distance agrees with me!” said Marcia before we’d untied from the quay. “Bring that island closer. The shorter the ride—the better.”
Any distance in a boat is for Marcia an endless journey of agony because she gets seasick, leading to a personal hell few can understand. It happens to Marcia in cars, planes, and even at the dock on a windy day. No pill, armband, prayer, or whisky had ever helped.
For Marcia’s benefit we planned our short passage to Moorea on a morning of calm waters and gentle breezes. As insurance, we pumped her full of Dramamine, slapped a couple of patches on her wrists, and prepared a cozy, comfortable spot for her in the leeward cockpit. We waved to Bernard, who sadly cast off our lines, crying out, “I will meese you . . . no poosh anymore my car—be careful and don get seek, Miss Marcia.” The precise reminder she needed to drive her over the edge.
I swung the bow to port and aimed for the harbor entrance. We were abeam the public washrooms where we hoped Bernard’s wife had made an appearance when Marcia let fly her first missile. I’ve never understood what attracts a sick person to the high side of a yacht, but Marcia jumped across the cockpit, and grabbing the rail, held her head to windward and gave the world her last meal. The freshening breeze returned bits and pieces to our instruments and me. I screamed. Denise howled, Tony ducked—Marcia threw up again.
Motion sickness is a miserable experience. Tony had the presence to grab a bucket and give the area a salt-water wash down. Marcia, so wanting to be a trooper, was beyond miserable for the entire four-hour slow sail passage. We made her as comfortable as possible.
Sick as Marcia was, and though the weather was perfect, I had to pay attention. The Avaroa Channel into Cook’s Bay wasn’t a straight shot. To the inattentive, sparkling azure waters could shortly become troubled waters. Coral heads were plentiful. We used our Tuamotu technique, sending Tony aloft to the spreaders to point out bommies and guide us by hand signals, through the twisting narrow channel.
Clearing those dangers, we motored casually through twenty or so anchored yachts hailing from ports as wide flung as Iceland and Japan. They, too, had been lured from Papeete to astonishingly seductive Moorea. Marcia began a slow return to health with color returning to her cheeks. We swapped greetings with anchored boats as we passed, a fun part of cruising. It’s people watching people, and yes, we all put on at least a bit of a show.
This had also been Denise’s first passage in many months. Like riding a bike, she had impeccable harmony with the yacht and her shipboard mates. Had the crossing been tough?
Denise wrote home:
Skip was proud of the way I “took charge” when the jib line got caught and I went forward on my own to free it.
Indeed I was!
Tony, quick to seize an opportunity, had spotted an attractive blonde Viking on a yacht from Sweden. Once anchored, he swam over to say “Hi.”
We didn’t see him for weeks.