CHAPTER 31
At one tenth the size of Tahiti, the beauty of Moorea by comparison is amazing. Riding modern golf carts or ancient scooters around the island’s one narrow road exposed us to views better than the best doctored-up postcards. Even Marcia romped with us, enjoying solid earth beneath her feet, though we did nearly lose her once when passing a commercial dock where a roadside hawker said she could book passage on a steady tramp freighter for the frightening trip back to Papeete.
“It will be quick,” he had said.
“I’ll be back,” promised Marcia.
With spirit replenished, Marcia decided bravery was her forte and stuck with us exploring the island’s fringing reefs—slowly under power.
Five o’clock always arrived on time with mystic power drawing cruisers to their VHF radios at cocktail hour, where, with drink in hand, we jabbered with our kind about what we had seen that day. The radio net around Cook Bay convinced us to head northwest inside the fringing reefs to Club Med, a facility too commercial for we who deeply love this laid-back lifestyle, but yachts were welcome as long as we paid for our beads.
Thus on a bright sunny morning with the sun at half-mast, we nosed out of Cook Bay and turned left along the reef. The pure blue water felt cleansing. Elegant full-bodied palms hung over the skinny channel’s edge, the kind people dream of lying beneath, with book in hand—because people don’t know about ugly land crabs that scare the crap out of you, or ants that could carry you home.
The stunning blue water was crystal clear, loaded with curious brightly colored fish dashing about as they checked us out, strangers in their private pond. We hugged the shore picking our way slowly among the bommies. Native kids waved and yelled out, some perched high in coconut trees. Two preteen boys came to greet us in a rickety dugout canoe, their smiles and chatter encouraging souvenirs. Their eyes light up when we tossed them bubble gum.
Islands, too small for even a hut, were to seaward. We watched seagulls quarrel over scraps with the mighty Pacific beyond them. Denise was discovering new happiness every day, and I was delighted. Along our narrow, winding channel we discovered anchorages inviting us to put life in slow gear, anchor for a spell, take our time, maybe play cards and always sip fruit drinks (laced, of course). One tiny lagoon wasn’t more than three times the size of Endymion, and we found ourselves whispering in the solitude. It appeared people had been there before, but that day it was ours alone.
“Do you suppose,” I asked Denise, “we will ever see another place like this?”
“Not in this lifetime,” Denise said quietly, taking my hand—we lived a year in that hour.
Denise and Marcia created a warm weather salad of seafood and local greens while I pretended to fish off the bow. I didn’t really want to catch anything, just admire the rainbow of fish and creatures investigating our anchor and chain. This had to be Michener’s paradise.
We slept in the cockpit, for there wasn’t a breath of air, and running the generator to cool Endymion’s interior would be a sin. In subdued voices we talked of family and friends, wishing we could share moments of this utopian night. And in our own moments, we each drifted to sleep.
One weaves an uneasy relationship with the sun that rises to catch you unaware, sleeping in the cockpit. Old Sol could quickly eliminate morning dew, but its brightness stung my eyes. Tropical temperatures didn’t just go up, they shot up.
So there we were, still wiping sleepy stuff from our eyes, welcoming the day and thinking about our first cuppa, when . . .
“What the—what’s that?” asked Marcia.
We fell silent, coaxing our ears to hear more than birds and crickets singing from the jungle.
“It’s a motor, I think,” said Denise.
It was. Moments later it became the intruding roar of a large approaching overcrowded tour boat jammed gunnel to gunnel with tourists as colorfully clothed as a Jimmy Buffet outing, and they had diving gear, tanks, compressors, and bullhorns. An enormous Club Med flag flew from the bow.
What happened next was true—so help me God!
This intruder passed slowly to land against the beach. All aboard were looking at us standing barefooted and barely clothed on Endymion’s deck, coffee mugs in hand. Suddenly one fellow yelled out, “Skip—Skip Rowland—is that you?”
There in the Club Med dive boat was one of my former clients from the Manufacturer’s Rep business. Al Barker, Executive VP of Bionaire, had been at my going-away party, and was one of those who had cut off my necktie, symbolic of departure from the business world. He was the first living soul from my past to see us in our natural environment—half a world away from home. We screamed out a tentative meeting at Club Med for that evening.
“Now you’re hitting my stride,” Marcia remarked, knowing Club Med must be close. She was painting her nails and decorating her face long before we set anchor at Club Med.
Club Med had Marcia in her niche, popular with the yuppie lawyers and doctors playing the Club Med game. We had dinner with Al and joked about friends still working. It was hollow joking, as Al would re-enter the grind next week while we might make it to Australia by Christmas. Club Med enthusiasts’ energy-packed vacations reminded Denise and me why we wanted to turn tail and sail away. They reminded Marcia it was time to get back to her old ways. So she stayed at the club, and we bade farewell to our beautiful, statuesque, dark-haired friend.
Denise and I were alone on our yacht—our first time, just the two of us since leaving Newport Beach. We slipped into another of those hidden quiet anchorages for a couple of days just to enjoy each other. We made love, tender and tempestuous. In the aura of Denise I felt safe and loved. “May this be forever please? Thank you, God.” With the sea calling, I contacted Tony and his Swedish toy by radio. Locals agreed to deliver Tony the next morning. He didn’t seem the worse for wear, or prepping for a quick wedding, so we made ready to sail again. Shortly afterward we reluctantly weighed anchor and carefully worked our way through Tareau Pass, on a course for Raiatea, a long night’s sail away.