CHAPTER 33
There are hundreds of Pacific islands teeming with rainbow-colored birds, waterfalls carving paths in mountains—and enough snakes to keep one from getting too comfortable.
Bora Bora was one of them—beautiful and seductive.
Through the wind-swept mist of a late South Pacific afternoon, the shape and dominance of Mount Otemanu, Bora Bora’s most-photographed peak, raised goose bumps. Once a towering volcano, it was visible from every motu for miles, as the island’s centerpiece. Had this volcano never erupted there would be no Bora Bora, no fabled song, no soft moonlight nights at quiet anchorages, or reefs to explore with moray eels lurking in the shadows. So, thank you Otemanu, mountain with the rugged black face—center of the island. You have beckoned us, and we have answered your call and touched your shores.
It was, excuse me please, another description-defying paradise afternoon, as we poked our way slowly along the western fringing reef of the world’s most thought-of island. It was time to go slow, let it all sink in, make forever deposits in our memory banks. In many places the reef barely touched the surface, rendering it dangerously non-apparent. Were it not for the occasional wave falling over itself, we could have found it the hard way—going aground. Reefs like this with precious little exposed surface, potentially lead to rough seas in anchorages, as we would later learn. August, however, is generally a quiet month, and the amount of water crossing the reefs is minimal and sparkling. The breeze was light and caressing as we sailed comfortably within fifty feet of the reef. We felt safe. Our depth indicator confirmed it.
A few isolated sections of reef poked slightly higher than the main portion. Dirt managed to somehow hang on. Picture-perfect palm trees arching toward the water, coconuts clustering below the tops, managed to cling to the Spartan soil. You’ve seen them in postcards. I can say with authority, the glossiest, most touched-up, New York agency postcard doesn’t stack up to the staggering real-life beauty of Bora Bora.
There was one navigable pass through the reef. Big, wide and obvious, it also invited problems because it was shallow.
As Tony put it, “Well Pops, if you don’t believe the charts or fathometer, take a look at that guy swinging the net.”
A couple hundred feet from us, waist high in rich blue water, stood a native fisherman with a casting net. Beside him, tethered to his flowery shorts, a wicker basket held tonight’s colorful reef fish dinner. Seeing us, the tall stranger with a wide sun-shielding hat and designer sunglasses, raised a rugged brown arm and waved hello, while also signaling the water around him was two feet less than our required depth.
We understood his universal sign language: “Go where I point-n stay safe.” Our instruments agreed, so we reduced sail and turned to starboard—no problem, but the current was unexpectedly strong, causing Denise, on watch, to brace as she struggled with the wheel to keep us on course. Minutes later we were safely inside the reef, in deep water.
A cluster of anchored yachts lay a mile distant, their masts and hulls glimmering in the tropical sunlight with the mighty mountain as backdrop. A single dark cloud floated above the island, giving it a surreal, magical appearance. Like a fly to the web, we headed for the anchored yachts, finding several French yachts, as might be expected, a couple from Canada, a half-dozen US flag yachts and others from Greece, the UK, Italy, Sweden (though not Tony’s dream girl), and even one flying colors from South Africa.
We carefully chose a spot north of a village called Viatape, and dropped our chain and the heaviest of our three anchors in about twenty feet, with a potential three foot influencing tide. Within minutes our radio chattered with welcomes from other yachts.
Several small inflatables from anchored yachts came alongside offering fruit, drinks, and friendship. One was a couple we had met previously, from a lovely older wooden yawl with beautiful overhangs. We called them ‘value people,’ capable, self-sufficient individuals, constantly offering to lend a hand. All sorts of people cruised—millionaires with nannies and paid hands, shoestring budget folks, and those who had put money away and earned the right to enjoy their future however they chose.
A surprise visitor was Ted and best mate German Shepherd Cheyenne. I couldn’t wrap my head around how they arrived before us, but never mind; Cheyenne was putting on a show diving from the dingy for his stick. What energy. It was tricky, one 180-pound man rowing a plastic dinghy with a 100-pound dog lunging from the unsteady platform to fetch a piece of wood. Ted and Tony hadn’t met but had a common interest that created friendships. They both surfed. Bora Bora had the flavor of a party place. It was a relatively safe anchorage, holding was good unless you were really stupid, and there was a favorable mix of interesting people comprising all ages, families, couples, singles, rich folks, poor people, and working stiffs. Yup, a party in the making for boats anchored in front of a small waterfront hotel, the “Oa Oa” (meaning friendship), and it had a bar. We would come to know it well. First order for pleasure was a hot shower with pressure water. It was free for ‘the boat people.’ We weren’t to linger however, as fresh water was in short supply.
Oa Oa hotel on a peaceful morning.
For a sailor, the Oa Oa had a dream bar. At the entrance hung an enormous bulletin board for anything you wished to post, from parts for sale, to crew needed. Games were available to while away lazy days. A large covered dining area with huge, slow-moving fans faced the anchored yachts. It was a wondrous place to sit and watch, or just sit, if you so chose. Two of the island’s most charismatic people, Greg and Elaine Clayton, owned the place. Originally Californians, they sought distant horizons and became fixtures on the world’s most enchanted island. We didn’t know or care how they managed to do it as Americans, being a French island, but we were pleased they wrangled the slot and we’re not asking questions.
The Oa Oa’s eleven rooms were not bragging material but were always occupied. A selling point for Greg and Elaine, we later learned, was encouraging room guests to mingle with the ‘courageous adventurers who had sailed to this island’—and to ask us questions. They did, and we reveled in giving exaggerated answers, making everyone happy at the Oa Oa.
Greg and Elaine were laid so far back they could get porch splinters. “There are no rules,” Greg explained, “except two, and you better listen up! First—Water is in constant shortage. You can have twenty gallons of fresh every day but you must carry it to your boat. Never come alongside (his dock) to fill up. Never! Two—You may use any of my shore side BBQs, utensils, even plates, but every last one of you in turn, must buy your drinks from our bar. We gotta live too!”
“Sounds fair to us,” announced Denise.
To which generous Greg added, “Hey guys, I’m not that mean. You’re welcome to the twenty gallons of fresh water a day I mentioned, that’s per vessel, not per person. We just don’t have it. I’m serious about no yachts tied to the dock. It won’t hold them in a wind. Dinghies are OK. pile ‘em on for all I care—and enjoy your visit.”
Greg’s bar rules worked for bigger budget yachts, but at $10 to $12 Pacific Franc per drink it was tough for pocket cruisers like Ted. Cheyenne drank free, a reward for entertainment value, and that pup could guzzle a brew PDQ.
All yachties eventually discuss weather phenomena. Denise, though new to offshore life, had put many stateside recovery hours into armchair exploration of weather patterns and how to read them.
I felt it a worthy contribution, considering two minds are better than one, especially when weather threatens.
“You know, Skip,” Denise confided as we cuddled back in the sweet evening air flooding the cockpit, “one reason I’m interested in weather is because I’m afraid of being knocked overboard when weather is bad.”
“Seriously? Your afraid?”
“Well, when I was a kid we had a pool, but I wasn’t a good swimmer. In truth, I’m afraid of drowning.”
“Coulda fooled me,” I chirped.
“Well, I’m not fooling. I’m feeling like—well—like impending doom—that we, well like—this is still storm season. I don’t feel comfortable and I don’t like it.”
Holding her closer I encouraged her to go on. “Tell me more.” “I dreamt I was drowning once, well actually, a few times. I’m afraid of falling overboard, and you said we have long passages coming. I would feel more comfortable if we had more than Tony, you, and me. I’m not saying something will happen, but creepers, Skip, can we at least think about extra crew, maybe just one person—please?” There was no problem. I believed Denise was right, and I loved her. We decided to find another crew member, not necessarily an experienced sailor, although that would have been nice. We wanted someone fun, who liked to laugh, had a good spirit, and could lend a hand staying focused if things went sour. We headed to the Oa Oa and one of our best decisions ever.
Pinned to the bulletin board was a business card, picturing a handsome young man, hands folded and leaning into the portrait camera. It introduced Tom Peek. Minnesota born and raised, Tom was a writer-photographer-musician-world traveler. He wanted a ride.
“We need to meet this hayseed,” hooted Tony.
“Quiet, Tony.” Denise got on Tony like she had me about the family graveyards. “He looks like a nice man. Maybe some culture will rub off on Skip.”
“Yeah, and he worked for Senator Humphrey. He must have smarts,” I concluded.
We interviewed Tom, and breezed through our ritual of Tom sizing up the boat while we sized up Tom.
“I like this guy. He’s smart.” Tony had spoken.
Tom, a six-foot four-inch Scandinavian farm boy from Minnesota, joined our motley band the following day. We were to learn, as advertised, Tom was everything his card claimed. It started when Tom cooked breakfast, to which Tony commented, “Great meal, Tom, another day we don’t get poisoned by Dad.”
We got lucky. A heavy-duty mooring became available directly in front of the Oa Oa. We snared it. Our neighbors on other moorings were a Swan 65 from London and a classic double-ended wooden ketch from Iceland. This was the most secure I had felt anyplace—since January.