Part 8
“There it is!” she announced. She pointed triumphantly to a photograph of the _gempylus_, or snake mackerel, which had found its way aboard the raft at about the same latitude. Our visitor was its twin brother—snakelike body, vicious needle-sharp teeth in an undershot jaw, saucer eyes, and all. _Kon-tiki’s gempylus_, we read, had been the first specimen ever found alive, so we recognized our catch as something a bit out of the ordinary. Sacrificing all the spare alcohol on board (methylated spirits, rubbing alcohol from the medicine chest, and just a splash or two of gin), we popped our trophy into a spare five-gallon can and covered him with spirits. I didn’t know exactly what we were going to do with him, but he seemed too unusual to discard.
About this time we made a discovery which was to have far-reaching consequences. Crawling around on the deck we found a number of glossy, hard-shelled, beetle-like insects. The first one or two I captured and placed in a glass jar, thinking them isolated specimens of an insect found hundreds of miles from the nearest land. As more turned up, however, I reconsidered. Had they actually boarded us on the high seas or were they stowaways? And, if the latter, where had they hidden, and what damage might they be expected to do? Eventually we were to find out, with distressing consequences.
On June 18 in anticipation of our arrival in Tahiti—and in honor of Father’s Day—Barbara and Jessica presented me with a French flag they had made. Like our international signal flags, it was concocted from flag material I had bought in a job lot from my old standby back in Kure, Japan: the BCOF salvage depot. This lot—one of my “sight unseen” bargains—consisted of a couple of bushels of assorted ensigns, in conditions ranging from brand-new to moth-eaten. Among them were flags for Russia and Red China, each about the size of a badminton court, and all of them made in Sydney, Australia—a circumstance which we found mildly curious.
We were now about 12° South and had to be careful to give Matahiva, to the east, a wide berth. We passed it in the night, and set a course to clear Tetiaroa, north of Tahiti. Now that we were approaching our landfall, the problem of communications again became crucial. Although Mickey and Moto were improving rapidly in their ability to understand English, occasional incidents served to remind me that much of our speech was restricted to highly selective bands, like a radiotelephone.
For example, if I wanted the figures from the log, it was necessary to tune in to the proper wave length: “What is the log?” If I forgot and, poking my head up through the hatch, inquired breezily “What are we making?” I would be greeted by a polite but blank stare. The same applied to any of the other dozens of circumlocutions which I might use with Ted: “How’re we doing?” or “Has our speed picked up (or dropped)?” or even “What’s the log say?”
All of our ship work operated through such narrow, but clear channels. We communicated in a kind of basic English. Instead of saying, “Hand me the painter,” I would say, “Give me the small boat rope.” We didn’t strike sails, we took them down; we didn’t make fast, we tied.
Sometimes situations arose for which no channel of communication existed, and at such times problems arose. Take the following incident from the log:
We are approaching Tahiti now. Therefore, some time ago I made a little speech to the crew, emphasizing that I wanted particular care to be taken in making good the compass course assigned, in reading and reporting the data from the log, etc. The purpose, of course, I explained, was so that we would have a reliable dead-reckoning position, if the weather closed in on us, and it became impossible to take sights as we approached land.
It seemed to me that this was well understood by the men. On the morning of the 17th, as we worked on our dead-reckoning position, Ted and I noted that our speed had dropped off sharply between midnight, when I went off watch, and 0600, when I next checked the log—dropped, in fact, from the steady 6–7 knots we had been making to a little over 4.
I asked Nick, “Everything all right last night?” “Sure, okay!” (That international word!) “Was the wind the same, all night?” Nick consulted with Moto and Mickey. “Yes.” “Same as now?” “Yes.”
I went back to our figures, but they still didn’t jibe; I tried again. “Are you sure you gave me correct log figures?” Another conference. “Yes, okay.” Then either the log was defective or we _must_ have lost speed during the night, because now we were again running between 6 and 7 knots.
There was a long conference this time. Finally Nick said, “Mickey says log no good his watch.” “Why not?” “Fish line tangle with log line—long time to fix—Mickey thinks log no good then?” “I think—maybe not,” I said, and retired to my cabin to cool down.
We passed Tetiaroa in the darkness on the night of June 19 and estimated that we should see Venus Point light before daylight. At 0500 we picked up the flashes dead ahead and set our clocks—and our spirits—on Tahiti time.
As dawn broadened into day we could see the peaks of the magnificent island take form, their green serrated ridges touched with yellow in the early morning sun. As we approached Papeete, a rainbow arched over the town, giving us an auspicious welcome. We worked our way through the pass and a pilot boat, whose assistance is obligatory in these islands, came out to meet us and guide us to our berth. The pilot—quite naturally—spoke French, putting the burden of reply on Barbara, who, groping wildly for the appropriate foreign language, came up with only Japanese! Her confusion was only temporary, however, and soon we were able to inform the pilot that our top speed was a possible three knots. This was too slow to suit our escort (too slow, here in the South Seas?), so we were put on a tow and hustled into the harbor.
There, at 1000 on June 20, twenty-seven days and 2,500 miles out of Hilo, we dropped anchor in the harbor of Papeete—the first port of our trip that was truly foreign to us all.
5 TAHITI AND THE ISLANDS UNDER THE WIND
“Money? What I do with money?”
In Papeete, yachts are not just visitors—they are integral parts of the community. The _Phoenix_ was moored stern first to the sea wall on the harbor side of the main street, between the luxury cruising schooner _Te Vega_ and the 30-foot ketch _Tahiti_. Like them, we laid out a gangplank to the shore and, since the rise and fall of the tide is negligible, it needed no adjustment during the month of our stay.
Thus established as semipermanent residents, we settled down to enjoy our central location. From the cockpit or while working on deck (always there was work to be done) we could watch the world of French Oceania as it went by, ceaselessly, from before dawn on one day until the wee small hours of the next. Here comes a woman, pushing her bicycle with a small and squealing pig dangling from the handle bars by its trussed trotters; there go a group of laughing Polynesians, loaded with bundles and crowned with circlets of leaves and brilliant hibiscus blossoms, on their way to board an interisland schooner bound for the Tuamotus. Sometimes a squad of tidily uniformed children passes by, shepherded by a nun in a white habit; or a bearded priest in a round-crowned hat cycles past, his cassock flying.
The center of town, however—and one of the most fascinating aspects of Papeete—is the open-air market. From 4:30 A.M. on, buses full of humanity, with roofs piled high with stalks of bananas, bunches of coconuts, strings of fish, trussed fowl and indignant pigs, pour in from the outlying districts. On the waterfront similar cargoes are being unloaded. Stalls in the market fill rapidly and the whole town pours in with baskets to shop for the day’s supplies.
Most visitors make an effort to get up early—or stay up late enough—to pay at least one visit to the Papeete market, but for Barbara the 5:30 trip to market was not only fun but essential. By seven o’clock most of the fresh vegetables are gone and the fish are beginning to wilt in the heat. By eight nothing is left but the picked-over discards. The buses, loaded once again with produce which looks the same but which has, presumably, changed hands, pull noisily out of the market square and head back to the villages. By 8:30 the market is deserted and, had we overslept, it would have been impossible to buy fresh food for that day.
Usually I went with Barbara for companionship and to help bring home the booty, but mostly to marvel at the display. The Papeete market is the only place I know where a magnificent branch of bleached coral, a fresh pig’s head, and a flagon of Chanel No. 5 may be found sharing counter space in a single stall. Surprises were never-ending and, after we had made our purchases for the day—red-fleshed tuna chunks threaded on a string, a small mound of tomatoes at an exorbitant price, or a woven palm-leaf basket of fresh limes for practically nothing, basket included—we usually wandered through the crowded aisles admiring the color and variety of the wares.
On the way home, in broad daylight, we would stop at a little café to enjoy a prebreakfast café au lait, served in a cup the size of a soup bowl.
Back at the _Phoenix_, the rest of the gang would still be asleep, awakening only reluctantly at the insistent clanging of the breakfast bell. Although they shared an inclination to lie abed, we were actually very proud of our crew and received frequent compliments on their industry. Old-timers, who had seen many a yacht come to grief in Tahiti on the rocks of crew trouble, were greatly impressed with Nick, Mickey, and Moto. Far from spending their time in the bars, they worked for a part of every day on the endless small jobs of upkeep without which a boat—and a cruise—begins to come apart at the seams. This was a routine we had established in Hawaii, even in the midst of a whirlwind round of hospitality: half a day for the boat, half a day for fun. Nights didn’t count!
My own tasks, though less obvious than painting in the hot sun or greasing stays, included the ever-onerous and time-consuming jobs of locating and purchasing needed supplies, current or for the future, and the cutting of red tape in preparation for further voyaging. For instance, while in Papeete I obtained permission from the Governor to visit “Les Iles Sous Les Vents”—The Islands Under the Wind—in the French Oceania Group; I cabled the New Zealand authorities for permission to visit Rarotonga, in the Cook Islands; and I wrote the American Consul in New Caledonia about the possibility of visiting Samoa. Since there were Japanese nationals as well as Americans in our group, we didn’t dare be too casual about our island hopping.
Most of my local negotiations, of course, had to be carried on in French, of which I knew even less than Japanese. Just to convey our thanks to the proprietors of the Cercle Polynesienne for their offer of shower facilities, or to order a drink, became a frustrating or a challenging adventure, depending on the situation and one’s temperament. We began to see the sense in having an international language which would be a second tongue to all and could be dusted off and used anywhere in the world.
Tahiti has always been a Mecca for yachtsmen. During our stay, we met several—some of them transients like ourselves; others who had succumbed to the charms of Tahiti and settled themselves more or less permanently. Outstanding among the latter was William Robinson, who circled the globe many years ago in his famous _Svaap_. Robinson seemed to be very shy and reserved, but when he came aboard he soon lost his shyness, when the talk shifted from social nonessentials to a discussion of the best rig to use in trade-wind cruising.
Another yachtsman of former days deserves special mention: Robert Argod, who sailed out from France with his wife and children and several others on _Fleur d’Océan_ and has remained as captain of an interisland schooner. He is the uncontested senior host to all visiting yachts and has a fascinating logbook with pictures and accounts of all the yachtsmen they have met, a treasury of cruising yachts. We began to understand more clearly the close bond that grows up between those who sail, the gradual accumulation of anecdotes and experiences which one hears and passes on so that, although we may never meet many of the yachts mentioned in the Argod logbook, we feel that we are old friends.
As June passed into July, preparations for the Bastille Day fete began to get under way in earnest. Because of our location—practically a part of the Midway—we had ringside seats for everything and could stroll out a dozen times a day to see how the work was getting along. The concessions themselves were not unlike those of any honky-tonk state fair, but there was a charm and novelty to the French and Tahitian songs that poured out of every sidewalk café, a gaiety to the brilliant pareu, or wrap-around skirt, with which the dark-haired women clothed themselves, and a bit of humor in the fact that the frequent parking areas, labeled “Garage,” were to accommodate bicycles instead of cars. Cold pop vied in popularity with drinking nuts—the natives drinking the pop and the tourists the coconut milk!
Most fascinating of all was the transformation of the large park in front of the Governor’s Palace, which was to be the scene of the Bastille Day ball and the subsequent dance contests. A huge wooden dance floor was fitted together and laid down on the grass. Around it were set coconut palms, clumps of plants, and flowering ginger—all transplanted for the occasion. Strings of colored lights were festooned across the area and dozens of little tables were set up around the edges of the floor, changing the open lawn into a fairy-tale ballroom. On the night of July 14 hundreds of couples completed the picture, a picture as evanescent as Cinderella’s own finery, for the very next day the palms and the torch ginger were discarded, the dance floor was carted off, and a new phase of the construction got under way with the erection of grandstands and bleachers around the smooth expanse of grass where the dance contests would next be held.
The fete itself opened officially with a bang—with twenty-one bangs, in fact—as the government fulfilled the promises made on all the posters: Vingt et un coups de canon!!! That afternoon (while Mi-ke was on the boat giving birth to a long-awaited brood of kittens), the various dance teams, in costume, paid ceremonial calls on the Mayor and the Governor and presented gifts of bananas, breadfruit, and coconuts, as well as bundles of live chickens, ducks, and even suckling pigs. (After the formal presentations had been complete, the gifts were quietly returned to the donors.)
As soon as the opening ceremonies had been disposed of, the booths along the Midway went into full swing. Soon the dancers themselves became a colorful part of the scene, their grass skirts discarded and slung over their shoulders as they wandered along the street in more conventional garb, licking ice-cream cones.
Throughout the week of the fete, events came thick and fast. The most widely publicized feature, of course, is the series of dance contests in which teams from most of the neighboring islands as well as of the many districts on Tahiti itself take part. The Tahitian hula, justly famous, has to be seen to be believed. The girls vibrate with such frenetic yet effortless activity, to the insistent rhythms of native drums, and their hips perform such incredible gyrations that the dance leader not only has to call the figures but must constantly circulate among the dancers to retie a skirt or adjust a bra that a performer has danced herself right out of!
In addition to the nightly dance contests there was an overflowing program of events: sailing canoe races, spear-throwing contests, soccer games, swimming and diving competitions, horse racing, greased-pole climbing, and to climax all, the hotly contested outrigger canoe races, both single- and double-hull canoes which are propelled at incredible speed by teams of men or women rowers.
The fete was officially over, but the Midway was still going strong when we left Papeete on the 20th of July. The palm-bedecked booths were turning yellow in the heat, the flowers had long since wilted, but the performers, loath to return to their outer island homes, still wandered the streets doing brief dances for a few francs here and there or selling their dance costumes outright if a buyer could be found. We thought it time to sail on.
The island of Mooréa is eight miles and one universe away from Tahiti. After living for twenty-four hours a day in the midst of a never-sleeping carnival atmosphere, it was a blessed relief to drop anchor in Papetoai Bay, which many have called the most beautiful in the whole world. Certainly it is one of the most spectacular. The mountain peaks are a vivid emerald green and quite unreal in shape, rising almost vertically to end in a surrealist play. In fact the whole scene, the changing blues of the sky, the glowing greens of the land, the clear, translucent blue and green and turquoise shades of the water seemed like something dreamed up by a Technicolor consultant gone berserk.
From our anchorage just off the palm-lined shore we could see a couple of native houses with woven walls of split bamboo and roofs of pandanus thatch. Beyond the houses, but visible only from the top of the mast, ran the narrow crushed coral road which is the main highway around the island—a distance of some 36 miles. The nearest village, a cluster of a dozen or so houses, an octagonal church with a red spire, and two rather dispirited Chinese stores, was two miles to the east. We walked there, to present our credentials and to buy some supplies. Neither of the stores offered anything in the way of fresh fish, meat, or vegetables, and no one seemed at all interested in our papers, so we settled for four bottles of warm “lemonade”—a sweetish soft drink—a large bag of unroasted peanuts, and a handful of vanilla beans. Then we returned to the boat to open cans for the first time since our Tahiti landfall.
Outside of Tahiti, life was dreamy and time lost its sharp insistence. There was no radio, no newspaper—and not even the possibility of receiving mail. It was a relief not to have one’s anxieties and ulcers churned into unrest each day, as they had been during our stay in Hawaii, where every newscast, each fresh edition of the daily papers, had kept us aware of the manufacture of each new ice cube in the Cold War.
We stayed five days in Mooréa, and would have postponed our departure much longer had it not been for the lure of such names as Huahiné, Raïatéa, Tahaa, and Bora Bora.
From Mooréa, we sailed to Huahiné, about a hundred miles downwind. It was an overnight trip and gave us another lesson in How Not to Navigate, as recorded in the log:
Last night, just after Nick came on watch (2400), I could feel a definite change in the motion of the boat and heard the staysail flapping and the foresail boom swinging. Went up and found Nick working hard to keep the set course but unable to do so.... Noticed the stars weren’t in the proper position and checked the compass. (It is a grid-type airplane compass, on which the course is preset.) Saw at once that course was set for 252°—not proper 292°—and trouble was caused from this and not from a sudden change in the wind direction.
What must have happened: After setting proper compass direction, I presumably forgot to lock the rotating portion and one of the men, at change of watch, brushed against it, changing the course by 40°.... Learned new lessons: (1) Check the compass at each watch. (2) Keep it locked.
To this I added one more rule, just to be on the safe side: _No one_ adjusts the compass but the Skipper.
We spotted Huahiné just at dawn and were able to get a bearing and set a course to round the north end before the island was lost in a series of rain squalls. Working our way through the reef, we dropped anchor off the town, and chalked up another South Seas landfall.
Fare, the port of Huahiné, is a village of perhaps a score of small Chinese-owned stores along the waterfront, including cafés, bars, and a hotel. We were quickly introduced to one of its most charming features. A couple of times every day, one or another of the storekeepers would roll a large ice-cream freezer—hand-cranked—out onto his porch and chalk up a sign on the blackboard in front: Glace en vent!! This was the signal for customers to gather, with Jessica and Ted well in the front rank. First comers—solid ice cream; stragglers—soup!
One afternoon we took a hike around the north end of the island, looking for the ruins of a two-storied temple site, known locally as a marae—which was rumored to be in that area. The road along the shore narrowed to a trail and in an hour or so we were walking single file along faint paths. At the end of the trip, we found a small settlement with the ever-present Chinese store, but no marae—and no one who could tell anything.
Disappointed, we started back. A good-looking young Tahitian, his guitar slung over his shoulder, flashed us a smile and stepped off the path to shake hands with each of us as we passed, according to the hospitable custom of the islands, and to wish us “Iorana!—Good Day!” When we asked him, in halting French, if he knew anything about the lost marae, he answered in quite understandable English and volunteered to take us there!
The marae, it seemed, was across the lagoon on a wide stretch where the fringing reef had risen above the sea and was covered with undergrowth and trees. Getting there was no problem at all. Our guide simply commandeered a pirogue, complete with boatman, and arranged for us all to be ferried across, three in each load. Reassembled on the other side, we set off across the hundred yards or so of trackless vegetation, accompanied by a host of interested Friends and Acquaintances of our new-found guide and/or the boatman. Each had equipped himself with a musical instrument of sorts, and our South Seas safari was accompanied by an impromptu orchestra composed of guitar, dry sticks, flat stones, hollow coconuts, and an empty kerosene tin.