CHAPTER 34
The Maramu winds of Bora Bora have many cousins with equally enchanting names—Chinooks in the Rocky Mountains, the Chubascos of Mexico, the Wily Wily from Australia, and Santa Anas in California. All are devil winds. Maramus rip down from the shadows of Mount Otemanu during July and August unleashing torrents of rain amidst howling winds of thirty plus knots, gusting suddenly to fifty knots.
There would be no more snorkeling or strumming ukuleles on this day. Milliseconds after we had entered the hotel, a maramu hit with deafening vengeance, ripping apart awnings, scattering lawn furniture, even tearing board games and cards from the grips of guests. Tony, I was told, dropped his burger, and that, if anything, should give relevance to the size of the calamity. Everyone dashed immediately—tourists for cover, and yachties for their shore boats.
“Let’s go, Tom!” I shouted as we bolted to our Avon, which was tangled in a jungle of lines with a half dozen others secured to the same cleat on the Oa Oa dock.
“Get the line, Tom, and get in.” I shouted, moving unsteadily from one bouncing dinghy to another, attempting to reach ours. Playing hopscotch during an earthquake would be easier, and I watched Tom, who had never done this before, hesitate, and plunge recklessly forward, landing eventually alongside me, unharmed.
Wind-whipped waves were breaking over the dinghy dock as we left it. Families, couples, and singles were nearly submerged as they clamored to get back to their endangered floating homes.
Pulling alongside Endymion, I was again thankful for our powerful Honda four-stroke outboard engine. We could not have rowed against this wind and sharp, steep waves sweeping the lagoon. Climbing the boarding ladder, I saw Tony waving frantically from shore, saying, “Dad—come get me!”
But we couldn’t and I had a nerve-tingling moment of regret. Why hadn’t I found Tony first? Was I stupid? I needed him! I found myself willing Tony to get out here; Denise will be OK on shore, and these things do blow out, or so we’d been told.
Tom handed me the painter, which I secured as Tom climbed up the boarding ladder. I knew the importance of lines, knots, and how to use them. A good line with a proper knot can be your best mate, but if the knot on a strong line can’t be broken and it takes you or your yacht with it—well, not so charming. I could (and still can) tie a bowline behind my back with my eyes closed. In fact, given two ends of a line, I could throw them in front of me, tying a bowline in mid-air. It’s a skill best used for winning bar bets.
On deck I saw only a broken batten in our large sun awning and a heap of backgammon chips hugging the cockpit sole. Not big damage considering the wind.
“Hang on, Captain!” Tom yelled. A forty-foot French sloop, out of control and with no one aboard careened toward us, dragging a broken mooring line. Its oversize long boom swung wildly as the boat, pushed by the waves, barreled toward us.
“Pillows, Tom, pillows . . . grab the biggest . . . don’t tie it, just hold it where he hits us.”
Pillows were really semi-inflated boat fenders used to keep piers and boats from mutual damage. Denise had renamed them ‘pillows,’ perhaps to keep a reminder of home and all that was once comfortable. Thinking it cute, Tony and I had adopted the word. It confused Tom.
“OK, Captain,” said Tom, suddenly getting it and holding two of our largest. He was poised to do as told. I was impressed.
I had grabbed a boat hook, intending to catch the rigging and push the approaching yacht away from us. But a puff of wind caused the French boat to miss us by a couple of feet. One down.
Over the radio a concerned voice was calling: “Cool Change, Cool Change, Cool Change . . . Captain Gary . . . listen up! One of your mooring lines has chaffed through.”
We could see Gary ashore with his wife and kids, all trying to get into his pitching dinghy. Would they get to Cool Change in time? We watched a diver from another yacht hoist himself aboard Cool Change and thread his way slowly forward on the unfamiliar yacht. He was looking for ways to further secure it. Back at the dock Gary had left the family and was speeding toward Cool Change in his powerful inflatable, waves trying to flip him at every pounding opportunity.
Once aboard his yacht, even with the diver’s help, Gary was unable to attach another line to the bouncing mooring, so he decided to cast off and seek shelter in the lee of a nearby small motu.
With Endymion secure, I felt Tom and I should help others return to their vessels, so we climbed again into the thrashing Avon and sped to shore with Tom hanging dearly to the painter and me with one hand on the outboard handle and the other clutching an inflatable fitting. Something to the right caught my eye. Hare Maru, with Cheyenne still aboard, was loose and driving toward a nasty reef. Tony and I knew the owner was hiking the island, likely unaware of what was taking place here.
Rain and spray had penetrated every crevice of foul weather gear Tom and I had climbed into. It was getting dark. We were chilled in the tropics. Tom turned to me, “We should go after it, Skip!”
I spun the Avon to put the wind and waves at our back, our most secure position, and shut the motor to idle. The Avon lurched to a clumsy stop.
“Tom—quickly—change places with me. Move, Tom! You steer and I’ll jump aboard Hare Maru.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Stay focused, Tom, and whatever . . . don’t get tossed onto the reef.”
Hare Maru was dangerously close to the reef, where a couple of abandoned boats, including a classic wooden sloop, already in pieces, were taking a pounding.
Hare Maru was a scant fifty feet from the reef, backwash waves mixing with wind-driven seas made it difficult for Tom to maneuver or for me to stand and leap onto the distressed yacht. I was crouched, prepared to leap, when Hare Maru hit the reef, stopped suddenly and snapped off the lower half of her rudder. Our forward motion, impossible to stop, carried us into the yacht, launching me painfully into the port side rail. I grabbed for the boat’s lifelines and managed to hold on, dragging my left leg and climbing aboard as Tom backed the inflatable to a safe distance. My knee and left forefinger were bleeding and my head ached. What hurt most was seeing Cheyenne, the Pacific’s best loved dog, tied to the mast, cowering in fear. Seeing me, heck seeing anyone, sent Cheyenne’s tail into overdrive. He was held in place with a bowline, easy for me to break, and Cheyenne, already with sea legs, dashed for the cabin.
Coral reefs crumble easily. Hare Maru lurched and pushed further across the reef every minute. The stomach-turning crunch of coral devouring fiberglass was painful to hear, adding to the nightmarish event.
Searching for a line to affix to the mast and heave to another boat, I looked below long enough to see Cheyenne plant himself into a settee while books, pots, pans, and fittings flew and clattered in every direction as the boat thunderously bashed its way further onto the reef. Seawater mixed with sand and jagged coral edges, cascaded into the cabin through a broken navigation station port. (window)
I found a hefty line, tied it around the mast and led it forward to toss to a couple of small inflatables standing by—all the while grabbing another handhold as I inched forward on deck, now tilted to 70 degrees. Somehow I was able to heave the line to the inflatables standing by. They had good intentions but they lacked the power to pull Hare Maru from the coral’s death grip. Cool Change had returned to help and was circling nearby. The line was affixed to winches and the 44-foot yacht from Chicago pulled like a mighty pit bull, but to little avail.
It had become pitch dark. The relentless wind and seas gave up nothing. A crowd had gathered ashore, many with flashlights. The Oa Oa contributed a powerful light, similar to a sealed beam headlight. Alone on the stranded boat, I heard a voice calling for Cheyenne.
Ted, with tears in his eyes and heart, was making his way across the reef to rescue his mate, Cheyenne. Hearing Ted’s voice, Cheyenne’s ears went up, and he scrambled from below and practically flew into the water in a simple display of pure unfiltered love.
Cool Change, still with towline, was having problems. Her engine was overheating. Gary had to hold back on the throttle, being careful he too didn’t get dragged onto the reef. Meanwhile Tom, still a rookie and driving our Avon inflatable, came too close to Cool Change’s stern as it came off a wave. Cool Change slammed into our Avon, rupturing the fuel line, nearly knocking out Tom, and almost sinking the inflatable. I saw the strobe signal light and powerful deck lights of Endymion through the pelting rain, maybe 100 yards distant. I figured Tony must be aboard analyzing what he was seeing and planning his next move. Moments later Endymion’s powerful, hand-held searchlight provided enough light for another small inflatable to take Tom in tow, returning him safely to Endymion.
By this time Ted had waded back from shore to Hare Maru and used a spinnaker pole to pry Hare Maru, assisting Cool Change and Gary, who continued pulling Hare Maru in spite of his overheated engine. Two beefy tourists managed to cross the reef to lend broad shoulders to the effort. After two more passes with weight properly deployed, a rising tide and slightly abated wind, Cool Change managed to pull Hare Maru free of the reef, but she had no steerage because she had only half a rudder. And it was bent.
Three inflatables joined Cool Change in towing the stricken small yacht. Everyone shouted encouragement. Gary, a corporate headhunter in his previous life, was stalwart, leading the tow procession through driving rain, back to Hare Maru’s original mooring, where two additional inflatables waited with lines, already threaded through the mooring thimble, to secure the stricken yacht, at least for the night.
The wind was down to a manageable 25 knots when I realized for the first time Denise was still ashore. The whole event had taken place directly in front of the Oa Oa. There were 100 or more spectators, a mixture of tourists, hotel guests, and crew unable to return to their yachts. Denise had not been idle.
Seeing Cheyenne leap onto the reef to find Ted, Denise, who loved all creatures, went to help. Cheyenne had cut his paws and back on the coral. The dog was bleeding, in pain, and could have been nasty. Denise wasn’t bothered. She carried her four-legged patient through the water and sand, falling herself at one point. With assistance from Greg, while soaked and covered in sand, she was able to peroxide the wounds and stop the bleeding.
Most yachties came ashore again close to midnight for post-storm quarterbacking. No lives lost. A few bandages and sprains, however, three inflatables and one pristine wooden sloop destroyed beyond hope of repair
A long night was not yet over.
While Tony and our Avon remained for the quarterbacking, Denise and I hitched a ride back to Endymion. I climbed aboard first. Denise was putting her foot on the first ladder step when a wave pitched the inflatable, sending Denise into the coal-black water. I reached for her but missed. I couldn’t see or feel her! Denise, who said she wasn’t a strong swimmer, managed to grab the ladder moments later while calling for help. I pulled her aboard. Thank God she hadn’t been crushed between the hulls or run over by a propeller. She did lose an earring.
Eventually, Tony and Tom tired of rehashing events, pulled alongside in our Avon. Tom stepped onto the ladder and Tony, as he should have, shut down the engine with the taped-together fuel line. But novice Tom had not taken the painter line with him when he climbed the ladder. Tony was now adrift, and headed toward the same reef that had claimed Hare Maru.
Tom, somewhat frantic, aroused me. It didn’t take long to find Tony in the beam of our spotlight. Still attempting to start the engine, he was only a few feet from the reef. While we watched, Tony, with great presence of mind and superb timing, lifted the engine’s prop to avoid it hitting bottom, and laid prone in the inflatable as the waves swept it over the reef. With nothing lost but pride and a slipper, he waded ashore with minor coral cuts, to later be attended by Nurse Denise.
The Oa Oa gave Tony coffee . . . and a free room.