Rekindling a Waning Cruising Spirit

would bring fierce squalls to the Tuamotu Archipelago, a remote chain of atolls scattered between Tahiti and the Marquesas Islands in the South Pacific Ocean. Scud, our 44-foot St. Francis catamaran, was anchored in Apataki, an island known for its pearl farming. But our cruising mettle had been fading long before this latest impending storm. The arduous 16-da passage that we made to get here from Panama was plagued with ever-increasing winds and high seas. And now we were in for more of the same.

Harrowing accounts of disaster from previous squash zones had echoed over the radio nets from other sailors: Anchor rodes entangled in coral heads had bent bow rollers, winds blasting across long fetches had pitched boats, and anchors had dragged boats within a coconut’s toss towards jagged shores. It wasn’t encouraging.

Strewn around us was a minefield of hull-crunching coral teeth. Astern, razor-sharp rocks threatened to splinter our boat and spew us back out to sea if we dragged. As beautiful as Apataki was, it was nearly a death trap.

We analyzed charts and chose the nearby atoll of Toau because its protected anchorage offered secure hurricane moorings. We quickly weighed anchor; a sweeping current rocketed Scud out the raging cut as ominous black clouds started piling up on the horizon.

The Tuamotus have been a magnet for individuals with a thirst for adventure. The islands were known as the Dangerous Archipelago due to the variable currents and roiling thunderstorms that make for hazardous cruising, and many boats have been laid to rest on their perilous reefs. In the bars and cafes of Oceania, raconteurs whispered these atolls held the best of Pacific cruising – if you avoided their tenacious claws.

We’d purchased Scud in South Africa in 2003, then sailed around the Cape of Good Hope to launch our circumnavigation. On board were my husband, Peter, and our older teen sons: Adam, 19, and Warren, 17. This trip was meant to be a final adventure to celebrate the boys’ Swiss Family Robinson-like childhoods, which were spent in the island wonder and freedom of the Bahamas.

We swept into the narrow lagoon of Toau. Nearby, sandbanks and reef encircled the mooring field, protecting us from any potential dangerous fetch. Just as we secured the mooring line, the skies opened up, dumping torrents of rain; boisterous winds and daggers of lightning attacked the tiny anchorage. Days passed before conditions eased. But Toau became more than a refuge. Events unfolded here that ignited our languishing cruising spirit and taught us forgotten lessons of bluewater cruising.

Scud (top), the Dreffin family’s 44-foot catamaran, has little company in the anchorage off Toau, in the Tuamotus. Mana points his skiff (opposite page, below, left) toward the outer reef for some spearfishing with Peter Dreffin and his sons, Adam and Warren. With an island friend, Peter and Tahanea (opposite page, below, right) display part of their contribution to the feast. The clear waters off Bird Island (below, left) are a prime spot for catching shrimp. Gaston, Tina Dreffin, Valentine, and Mary Heeney from Ace, another boat anchored off Toau, take a break (below) from fishing.

After the blow, I was pleasantly surprised to see sunlight and turquoise water. The roar of an engine and a slight wake signaled the arrival of a boat. Scrambling into the cockpit, I saw a red skiff driven by a stout Polynesian ease up to Scud. On the bow stood a woman dressed in yards of red flowing print, her pareu flapping wildly in the fresh breeze.

“Bonjour!” she shouted.
“Bonjour!” I shouted back.

They clambered aboard, and the driver’s hand swallowed mine in greeting. He switched to English. “Hello! My name’s Mana,” he said, with a grin. He then introduced us to his cousin, Liza, the daughter of the island chief. Seeing our dive gear spread to dry, he asked, “You want to go spearfishing?” Just like that, our expedition was set for 1100 at slack tide. Liza invited us to dinner on the following day; we were to bring the fish.

In eager anticipation, we sharpened the spears for our Hawai’ian slings in eager anticipation; our sons handled these giant underwater slingshots more easily than bicycles, computer, or cars.

Once aboard Mana’s skiff, which operated at only two speeds – high speed or no speed – we roared over a sparkling collage of brain corals. A tawny dog named Quila – short for Tequila – stood sentinel on the bow, yelping feverishly and hungry for the hunt. He’d been trained to kill writhing fish with one swift bite to the head. When sharks roamed into beach shallows, Quila catapulted from hiding into ferocious attack. An angry scar from an irate bull shark ran the length of his back.

Our dive boat was jerry-rigged with a colorful array of flotsam and jetsam: Sun-bleached yellow plastic covered the outboard pull-cord entry, and a steering-wheel from an old jeep stood in for the helm. To start the well-used outboard, Mana removed its engine cowling, wrapped a frayed line around the wheel assembly, then gave it a fierce yank.

At our dive site, Mana donned dive fins and tossed his fish bucket – a short, black water barrel held afloat by soda-pop bottles – over the side. Peacock groupers and snappers wandered into our hunting grounds which Mana deftly speared. Then several sharks cruised by, silent as torpedoes.

A colossal mass hugging a crimson brain coral below caught my attention. Our curiosity drove Peter and me to plunge 35’ down to see a 4-foot-long, iridescent-green Javanese moray eel, with a girth the size of a football, undulating in the current, and warily eyeing us. Jaws studded with razor sharp teeth opened wide as it ambushed tiny black-and white-striped jackknifes and blue tangs.

Adam speared a red squirrel fish, offering it as a token. The monstrous thing shot out, snatched the bounty, and gulped it down, leaving a sizable bulge in his elastic gullet.

Back aboard the dive boat, I watched as Mana appeared at the side and dumped several thrashing fish into the boat from his mobile marine cage. Quila went bananas! Launching forward, he seized their heads, violently shaking them until blood and guts blanketed the boat and me.

We went back to base camp and devoured some of the fish for lunch. Then Liza sped over in her skiff with her son Tahanea, and hauled me off to the fish trap, a contraption in shallow water made of chicken wire and bamboo poles; it was loaded with fish due to the recent storm. Tahanea passed me a 5' long bamboo pole with a knife embedded into the end of it, but I posed no fish an harm in my attempt at spearing them. Tahanea dove in and speared with such swift dexterity. He caught four beauties for poisson-cru, raw fish marinated in coconut milk and lime that’s one of my favorite dishes.

Later, after I cleaned the fish aboard Scud, Tahanea arrived with his grandfather, Gerard, the island chief; two Tahitian copra workers, and Mana. “The tide! Let’s go fishing!” they shouted. Pete and I jumped in, speeding alongside the palm covered atoll until we halted outside the pounding surf. The men sprang over the side; Mana stayed behind to watch the boat. I stared wide-eyed at the rough water. The chief noticed my apprehension and nodded to Tahanea, who swept me up and slung me across his shoulders to ferry me through the crashing surf.

I strolled the flat, rocky coral, filling an onion sack with abundant periwinkles. Exquisite tiger cowries and massive green-lipped clams shimmered in the bright sun, but I left them undisturbed. A juvenile black-tipped shark skittered between my legs, jolting me out of my quiet reverie.

Looking around to warn Peter, I saw him standing with Tahanea in the rumbling
surf, waves churning about their legs and hurtling across their backs. Wearing yellow rubber dishwashing gloves, they peered into coral ledges, and plucked lobsters from hidden crevices.

When it was time to go, Mana idled outside the surf as we fought the waves, and once again, Tahanea slung me over his shoulders.

Mantis shrimp (Lysiosquillina maculata), stomatopods that are locally called varo, were the last item we gathered for our Polynesian feast. These long, otherworldly shrimp, which have sharp, very powerful claws, hide deep in sandy holes. Liza’s sister, Valentine, and her husband, Gaston, hauled us to the sandflats the next day to ferret out these elusive creatures.

Thin strips of fish were tightly wound to a stick that Gaston placed over a sandy hole, then tapped to alert the male. When its claws clasped the bait, Gaston hauled it out and pitched into a makeshift bucket. “Leave the mama for babies,” he said.

Later that afternoon, Valentine’s daughter, Davina, and Liza’s daughter, Via, invited me to join them as they practiced their traditional Polynesian dance steps, passed down over centuries. Their hips gyrated in soulful unison to the rhythm, but mine rebelled.

After dancing, I was strolling down the footpath when a shout from Valentine’s house drew me in. We’d become good friends as we shared chats on her porch and relished yoga workouts at sunrise. I’d even applied massage therapy to her ailing mother. Off-island goods are difficult to come by in these remote areas, so we’d brought extra staples more as gifts than for trade. But I accepted a few black pearls from Valentine as a souvenir in return for the shampoo I’d given her. Before leaving, she presented me with a tapa, a cloth painstakingly handcrafted from the bark of the paper mulberry tree; plant and root dyes were used to decorate the cloth with tribal patterns imagery. I treasure it.

By evening, Tahitian melodies wafted over the harbor. Pete and I lingered on the hibiscus-fringed path, listening to the soulful notes. A full moon rose, the shadows it cast slanting through palm fronds and tap dancing across a shimmering white beach. We arrived at the thatched hut to see Adam and Warren strumming guitars and bantering with Mana and his cousins by the fish grill, an old,rusty fuel barrel. Liza greeted us, and we slipped out of our shoes, leaving them at the entrance. On the table were lavish bunches of pink bougainvillea garnishing platters piled high with poisson-cru, grilled snapper, and minced snails. Placed alongside were lobsters, coconut bread, and sweet cakes. Gerard and Liza sat in miniature thrones at the head of the table, as tradition would have it.

After the ample feast, applause signaled the entrance of Davina and Via. Dressed in long, yellow, flowing prints, they danced gracefully. Hips swayed and toes crept across the wooden floor in rhythm to the drumbeat. An enchanting mood engulfed the room, and soon we were pulled up off the floor to join in the motion.

Our wanderer’s cruising spirit had been rekindled in Toau, bursting forth to inspire us for our forthcoming passage: the Coconut Milk Run to Tahiti. We’d forgotten why we cruise: To share the gift of ourselves, and to learn the ways of those whom we visit, so that we may take these impressions home, enhancing our own cultural understandings.