Tag: French Polynesia

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A Beauty Within

Link to published article: Exploring the Tuamotu Atolls in French Polynesia

As we cleared through the Panama Canal andS.V. Ātea, our 45’ steel cutter rigged sloop,  sailed back into Pacific waters for the first time in eight years, I looked west with a sense of despondency. Whereas all our cruising associates had worked hard to get to this stage and looked upon the Pacific as a the beginning of an epic adventure, I looked to it as the conclusion of ours. The Pacific in 2011 had been our beginning, but the Pacific in 2022 was our end: Twenty twenty-two would be the last year of an eleven-year circumnavigation and I was reluctant to take a step towards the conclusion of this lifestyle.

Yet, the best of the best lay before us. The Tuamotus are a string of 78 atolls that lay across the central Pacific, one of five distinct regions that make up French Polynesia.   With the Marquesas and Gambier Islands to the east and the Society and Astral Islands to the west, this central group is a string of relaxed, quiet low-lying atolls.

We sailed from the Gambier Islands to our first atoll, Amanu, in early June. Having sailed 500 miles through a continuous sea, it was remarkable to see trees set upon the ocean a mere 5 miles ahead of us. A mid-ocean mirage. Yet there it was, a round ring of coral breaking the surface to provide us protection from the roll of a continuous low swell. As an outer-lying atoll on the southwestern edge of the group, Amanu was a quiet, sparsely populated nook on the edge of an endless sea. In addition to the crab and coconut trees, the fish and manta, a small group of Polynesians lived on this remote mid-ocean outpost. A small village occupied one corner of the atoll, sleepy and slow-paced. We wandered the tidy streets to pass orderly rows of houses, tricycles parked outside property fences and gravestones set inside. We passed a person or two, otherwise the little township held the air of abandonment. The solitude suited us perfectly.

We moved around the inner rim of the atoll, enjoying the peaceful beauty around us. Long rolling waves that’d transited hundred of miles crashed onto the outer reef, washing over to settle like still pond water in the inner lagoon. The tops of palm trees waved gently in the breeze, offering perches for the terns, boobies and frigate birds taking rest and refuge. We walked the shores collecting seashells and made driftwood rafts for our 8-year old pirate and 10-year old brigadier, stick weapons sheathed as they battled for imagined bullion and lost treasure. We snorkelled and enjoyed the colourful bommies surrounded by a healthy population of reef fish and paddle-boarded the drop-off with oceanic manta drifting by below. We built bonfires on the beach out of coconut fronds, pulled down as we dislodged coconuts from their nest above our heads. We enjoyed a slow gin to the slip of the setting sun and gazed up at the fantastic spray of fairy lights sparkling in the complete black that surrounded us as night set in. We were “stranded on a deserted island” with all the conveniences of a well-stocked supply boat, Ātea our all-inclusive Club Med. 

Our next few atolls held the same feeling of remote isolation, punctuated by easy company within the small villages tucked into a corner of the lagoon. Amanu, Makemo and Tahanea were all similar in geography as these atolls were further from the more populated Societies. The townships were smaller and the feeling more remote, yet each atoll maintained a distinct uniqueness: Amanu had the feeling of total remoteness, Makemo of aquatic purity, Tahanea of unspoiled beauty.

Tahanea was our golden gem. It is an uninhabited nature reserve, therefore the only resident is feathered, shelled or scaled. The lack of hunting and poaching results in an abundance of wildlife life unfazed by the odd human guest. A few of the uninhabited islets within the lagoon provide hatcheries for three species of booby birds: The red-footed, the brown and the masked booby. To walk through the island to the abrasive warning squawk of a protective parent and the curious eye of a newborn chick is a joy, and the frenzied swarm of the disturbed flock swooping and diving overhead a curious intimidation. Step from the sand to the shallows and you enter another nursery, as foot-long predators swim and skirt around your submerged ankle, the tip of their fin barely breaking the surface. Our timing for Tahanea was very specific: We were there to witness the grouper spawning, and it was this event that we based all our planning around. During the week preceding the full moon in July, the marbled grouper perform their mating ritual: A spiralling whirlpool of fish, rippling currents of metallic colour settling their moulted brown colour alight. This year, however, it wasn’t in July. Nature likes to toss out the unexpected, and despite our well-planned timing the spawning occurred in June this year, a month earlier than predicted. We missed the grouper spawning but, by grace, got to watch red snapper spawn instead in an equally impressive courtship dance. The grouper were still around and in larger-than-normal numbers, but all resting meek and docile on the ocean floor. We came upon a large school of red snapper just inside the pass and followed them for awhile, unaware of the performance that was about to come. Slowly the numbers grew and their swimming pattern became more erratic; rather than one mass, they started grouping and regrouping, circling each other, one chasing another out of the pack. As the school grew and compressed into a tight ball, a female would break out of the group in an ascending dash and a string of suitors would chase tail in a long spiral behind her, a pearlescent flash of colour ripping down their sides in a trance-inducing display. At one point a lemon shark swam through the group, and bold of purpose, the entire school turned on it and chased the aggressive shark away. To hear it I wouldn’t believe it, but that day I watched the many defeat the mighty.

From a brilliant choreographed display of nature, we next sailed for Fakarava to watch the cultural competitions and performances of the Heiva, French Polynesia’s version of the Olympic Games. The Heiva is a month-long festival that honours Polynesian history through song, dance and traditional competitions that occurs every year in July, dating back  to 1881 and is the oldest festival in the Pacific region. Fakarava, being the most populated atoll in the Tuamotus, would hold the best example of the Heiva in a more local tradition than the highly popular but overly commercialised displays in Tahiti. And it was so: We joined the week long festivities as both enthusiastic observer and reluctant competitor. We were dragged into participating in the fruit-carrying race, the javelin toss, the coconut husking competition — perhaps we were a bonus in their own entertainment, as we were no equal in any event but was bonding to share in the Heiva and displayed a cultural openness, generosity and hospitality. Fortunately we were not invited to join the Ote`a, a powerful and seductive Polynesian dance that only humiliate any attempt by non-native guests, a shame they spared us. The week was fantastic. While we may not have witnessed the grand staged performances of Tahiti, we participated in a community festival that was inclusive, spirited, and fun, and even walked off with a few cash prizes — a token of support for our participation rather than our achievement.

Fakarava is also home to “the Wall of Shark.” I thought the name a dramatisation, but the description is purely literal: Hundreds of shark, predominately greys, pacing the southern pass in mass. I’ve never in my life seen so many shark in one place, and the thrill of getting in the water with them was a lifetime experience and one I will cherish above most others. With a fearsome reputation for aggression, it was amazing to be side-by-side with so many of them, idle and relaxed. We had local knowledge from cruising friends who’d spent considerable time in French Polynesia so we were able to dive freely amongst the shark, surrounding us in ludicrous numbers. The shark were our total focus during our stay in the South Pass of Fakarava, and we spent as much time as we could diving, snorkelling and swimming amongst them. If I could go back anywhere in the Tuamotus, it would be to return here, to the Wall of Shark, to swim side by side these docile predators.

Leaving Tahanea and Fakarava was like pulling teeth; none of us wanted to depart these rich and rewarding central atolls. But mid-season and the Societies lay ahead of us and it was time to weigh anchor and sail west. We enjoyed two short stops at Toau and Apataki and received a very warm welcome at both of them. In Toau we were welcomed by a local family who readily prepared lobster feasts for drop-in visitors, and we found two young bachelors in Apataki who’d laid their stake on a small island for a simpler life than had been on offer in the more westernised and fast-paced Tahiti. Unique to this island was a stone, set just off their homestead, which laid claim to the hopes, dreams and protections of mariners that’d travelled centuries before us. So we dressed up in palm-leaved hats and did our own ceremony for our continued safety and protection at sea, then spent the next several days with our hosts sharing bonfires on the beach, fish from their daily catch, and lobster freely delivered to our boat. While Tahanea was our favourite atoll from a naturalistic perspective and Fakarava from a cultural one, Apataki was our favourite from a humanitarian one. To be so openly accepted, befriended and included with no gain in return is the ultimate human experience. This was our farewell to the Tuamotus.

French Polynesia is remarkable, and the Tuamotus is the pinnacle of its beauty. To be able to explore these atolls from your own vessel offers a freedom that most modes of travel aren’t able to offer. A yacht pulls you from the chaos and delivers you to the calm. It offers the freedom to explore as you choose, where you choose and when you choose. It allows you access to places less traveled, less exploited, less trampled and offers solitude, beauty and nature’s bounty.

To return to the Pacific after spending time in different oceans and all the experiences that came with it, to see the Pacific as a sailor’s Mecca is a telling statement. I thought of the Pacific as an ending, but having just passed through French Polynesia I look back on it as an opening. I am reminded of all the beauty of this great ocean holds: The atolls are unique and isolated, and nature is allowed to bloom, to flourish, and to prosper. The passes are laid with expansive stretches of multi-coloured carpet, filled with large schools of fish and a healthy population of shark, whale, ray, pelagic and reef dwellers. Humpback spray their steamy breath into the air, manta glide past with graceful wings spread wide and the occasional whale shark sidles in for a curious peak. Each a treasure of nature, each representatives of an ecosystem un-depleted yet beseeching us as guardians of this earth to take care, to protect. If there is any place that best sets this example, it is the richness and diversity of the Pacific Ocean.

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The Pearl of French Polynesia

Link to published article: Pearl of Polynesia

The Gambier Islands are exactly what dreams of Pacific sailing are made of: Silvery-purple pearls generously tossed into a palm like the casual distribution of M&Ms. Its high mountain peaks poke through dense green forest offering stunning panoramic views of a reef-filled lagoon and white sandy cays that break through aquamarine water, nothing but hermit crabs and fallen coconuts crowding the shores. An outrigger pulls alongside to offer tuna fresh from the hunt. A half dozen reef shark circle around us like curious, eager puppies. The Gambier Islands fulfil every desire for an authentic Polynesian experience: A taste of the popular Societies, the lush Astrals, the crystalline Tuamotus and the spectacular Marquesas bundled together in one small island group.

Our decision to head for the Gambier Islands was driven by its relative distance from the milk run. The Gambiers lay in the southeast corner of French Polynesia, 700 miles south of the Marquesas and removed from its closest neighbour by 400 miles. While recent years has seen an increase in the number of yachts transiting the Gambiers from approximately half a dozen to two dozen within any given year, their distance from the Polynesian archipelago leave many people unaware that they are a part of the group. This remoteness results in a lower number of visiting yachts, and regardless of the increase in total cruising numbers transiting the Pacific, the lesser-known Gambiers continues to offer a low-key option for those seeking quieter destinations.

The majority of cruising boats crossing the Pacific depart from the Americas and transit through the Marquesas in route to the Society Islands. When we were looking to transit in mid-April, we were astonished to hear there were 80 yachts sitting at anchor in Nuku Hiva at the time of our departure. Choosing to shy away from the crowd, we quickly reset our plans on a last minute whim: We would tackle French Polynesia from southeastern edge to northwestern corner. In doing so, we would avoid the majority of cruising traffic and, hopefully, get a more authentic, genuine experience.

It took a month to sail from Costa Rica to the Gambiers and the welcome we received on arrival was a clear indication that we’d made the right decision. As our anchor settled in the sand, dinghy after dinghy pulled alongside offering fresh fruit and local advice: The date of the next supply ship (twice monthly), how to organise fuel (brought in by the supply ship with excess fuel for sale on a first come, first serve basis), where to fill propane (filled by a longterm expat when he happened to be on the island), intermittent internet (available at the only restaurant on the island, the purchase of lunch required), where to purchase a SIM card (exclusively sold at the local post office, when open, and out of stock through the duration of our stay), a single ATM (currently out of order), and a bakery (open at 6am, out of stock by 6:05). While we were initially shocked to see a dozen masts as we pulled into the lagoon, we learned that half were experienced, long-term cruisers and the other half were employed, semi-permanent live-boards. The cruisers in the Gambiers were tenured and because of this the unit was tight.

The Gambiers are comprised of five main islands and a dozen or so smaller islets and cays, offering both a local population and remote isolation in equal measure. The islands are surrounded by a low-lying barrier reef that surrounds a deep central lagoon. The small cays that crop up around the outer reef offer a number of beautiful anchorages during calm conditions, and the large bays circling the inner islands offer protection from the swell when the winds pick up. The three passes into the lagoon are well marked and easy to enter. Each of these are lined with layer upon layer of hard coral, offering a healthy habitat for the large variety of reef fish that inhabit it and the numerous reef shark that patrol it. The weather is settled during the summer but at 23º south, turns wet and cold during the winter months. The islands are subject to the influence of depressions that develop in the south and are considerably less stable than the rest of French Polynesia. As the islands are also far enough east to be considered out of the cyclone zone, the southern summer is the ideal time to visit.

The impressive Mount Duff juts up in the centre of the lagoon to an impressive 440 meters and offers a maze of hiking trails through dense bush up to stunning panoramic views from the sheer granite summit. Laden fruit trees and berry bushes line the trails and a hike ends with a backpack full of limes, oranges and grapefruit, fingertips pink-stained from grazing on wild raspberries. The abundance and diversity of fruit trees make the Gambiers feel far from an isolated island in the middle of an ocean. Wild coffee plants led to several cruisers collecting the fresh beans and roasting their own coffee over beach bonfires, the process a reminder of the self-sufficiency that is required of people living in the more remote reaches of the world. The cooler water temperatures of French Polynesia’s southern islands also make the perfect environment for black pearl farming, which has resulted the Gambiers becoming one of the main exporters of the “Tahitian Black Pearl.” In addition to producing some of the highest quality, black pearls are considerably less expensive than in the Tuamotus and the Society Islands. Covet them or indifferent to them, every cruiser leaves the Gambiers with a dark shimmering orb hanging from their neck.

We spent our first few days anchored off the main village of Rikitea on the main island of Mangareva, trying to buy a fresh baguette (we were always too late), trying to get cash (the ATM was still closed) and trying to get internet (the wifi was still down). Mangareva has 1,200 inhabitants concentrated in two small towns north and south of the island with one school and a dozen churches, chapels and convents that date back to the mid-1800s when the French Roman Catholic priest, Father Honoré Laval, moved to the Gambiers to create a “settlement of God.” Under his reign, the islanders were forced to build over 100 stone buildings at a cost of 5,000 lives, many which are now dilapidated and decaying ruins throughout the islands. We were lucky to join in several community events: A movie night, a sports day, and a Polynesian dance. It was beautiful to see the resurgence of the Polynesian traditions after a brutal history of cultural repression, held in buildings that represented the suppression of these local customs. As five to eleven year old students dressed up in their traditional clothing, strummed their ukuleles and pounded on their drums while telling ancestral stories through dance, it was powerful to see the pride and the beauty of the Gambian people. The biggest event, however, was the arrival of the bi-monthly supply boat. The few shops in town shut down for the day to resupply as all the villagers gathered at the port to collect their orders. A long queue built in the early evening as everyone waited for the shop doors to re-open, the air of excitement evident in the heightened banter around us.

We filled our first few weeks exploring the many churches, the few shops, hiking around the perimeter of the island and over the high mountain peaks, exchanging greetings with everyone we passed along the way. We were occasionally invited into homes for quick introductions and inevitably left with our arms filled with pompelmoes, passionfruit and breadfruit from the gardens of welcoming locals. Even the maître d’ at the island’s only restaurant handed us root vegetables in a carry-away bag at the end of our meal. Despite long periods between the arrival of the supply ship, eating well in the Gambiers was not an issue.

Having only just settled in, we received an invitation to join a potluck hosted by the delightful Hervé and Valerie at their home on the neighbouring island of Taravai, a tradition that has been running for thirteen years and is held every Sunday throughout the summer months. As one of three homes on the island, these get-togethers allow Herve and Valerie to socialise and get to know the scattering of travellers that pass through each year. For these regular Sunday socials, Hervé hunts down a wild pig, goat or free-range chicken for the roast and everyone else brings a meal to share, and the feast is inevitably followed by an afternoon of pétanque or beach volleyball. Their hospitality was so warm that I returned to celebrate my birthday with them, which they honoured in traditional Polynesian style with a communal midday meal, a floral wreath and a half-dozen beautiful black pearls. I felt like a glamorous island queen, bedecked in colourful bougainvillea and delicate orchids, my hands full of the ocean’s most prized treasures. To credit Hervé and Valerie, their efforts in establishing this tradition have enhanced the cruising experience — creating family amongst strangers. The camaraderie that came from the easy friendship, warmth and hospitality was a true Polynesian welcome. If this was what Pacific cruising offered, we’d found our Eden.

Having enjoyed time on lush, verdant mountains islands, we decided to head for the sparse, sandy islets that line the outer reef, where the water was clear as crystal and the reflection of the boat bounces back off the fine white sand below. We were travelling in company with two other boats and we spent our days together in the quiet calm of our tranquil oasis, our lazy days punctuated by wandering uninhabited shores, snorkelling the surrounding reef and enjoying the peaceful beauty of our aquatic paradise. It was wonderful to see the reef as healthy and bountiful as it was, given its proximity to human population and a prolific pearl industry. The prevalence of ciguatera, an illness that comes from ingesting fish contaminated with the toxin, means the locals avoid hunting reef fish from within the lagoon. As a result, the reefs are stocked full of a large variety of fish and the shark that are drawn to them, resulting in days spent with our heads submerged in crystal-clear water. Leaving an anchorage to relocate to another inevitably means side-stepping the scattering of isolated reefs and sailing through the maze of pearl farms and oyster nets that spread throughout the lagoon, a visual reminder of the lucrative industry that fuels the economy in this remote region of French Polynesia.

It is fitting that the Gambiers produces the highest quality pearls in French Polynesia, as it offers a product akin to the qualities of the island itself: Rich islands encircled by a string of pearly-white cays, the vibrant colours of reef fish and the unique beauty of the people. All of this combined offers the transiting cruiser an experience that is as highly sought-after as the pearls themselves. It is, both literally and figuratively, The Pearl of French Polynesia.

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A World of Wonder

Link to published article: Cruising French Polynesia

That I have more than a sentence to say about the Society Islands speaks of how plans are so easily discarded. Our intention for French Polynesia this year was to pass on the known for the unknown. Having been to the Marquesas and the Society Islands in previous seasons, we would spend our time in the Gambier Islands and the Tuamotus. It was a solid plan that suited our desire to explore new places. Solid, that is, until we changed our plan.

Having spent the majority of the season exploring eastern French Polynesia, we sailed into Tahiti for our final week in country. Our time as tourists went by in an endless blur of landmarks, sightseeing, organised tours, choreographed dancers and a constant flow of fruity cocktails. It was very different than our typical slow-paced cruising lifestyle, but we’d been here before and were keen to pack it in and push out. Burnt out from the fast-paced tourist mode, we sailed across to Tahiti’s sister island to slow down the pace. Moorea’s beauty captured and held us — far longer than we intended. Perhaps it was the company. As we sailed the short distance between the two islands, we watched the slow crest and spout of humpback whales making their own inter-island transit. We sailed alongside two large whales for awhile until they dove in union to break surface on the other side of our yacht. To be in their proximity was a rush, and I knew a few days in their company wouldn’t be enough to satisfy me. Our intended short stay turned into four adventure-packed weeks.

There is a small picturesque anchorage just inside the inner lagoon of Moorea’s second largest inlet, ‘Ōpūnohu Bay. With our anchor set in pure white sand and our boat bobbing in shallow water, we were only a short swim to a shaded local beach with the mountainous peaks of Moorea’s lush interior as our backdrop. We were in a place of tranquil beauty. It was humpback season and we spent our days watching their movements from the anchorage. The bay provided a safe haven from natural predators and a mother and calf pair were regularly playing nearby, rolling and tale-slapping in a frisky, playful display. Having watched them from above the surface, I couldn’t miss the opportunity to see them below the surface as well. Joining a whale tour allowed me that opportunity, and swimming alongside these gentle giants was an unforgettable experience. Having learned the safety guidelines from the tour guides, we continued to swim with them in the weeks that followed by taking our own dinghy out and abiding by the rules. The experience of interacting with them in the water and watching their movements up close provided us some of our best wildlife encounters. Diving to whale song completed the euphoric experience.

There was more to our time in Moorea than whales, though they did dominate our attention. We visited a rum distillery and a fruit packaging plant, hiked high peaks for areal views of the island, swam with timid sharks and curious rays who circled our feet in wait for the next tourist to feed them. We snorkelled the inner lagoon and found submerged tikis, set out in commemoration to earlier times when missionaries banned Polynesian custom, worship and gods, and Tahitians responded by hiding these sacred stone symbols in the sea for safekeeping. In the evenings, we rafted our dinghy’s up behind a yacht set up with microphone, speaker system and lead singer to belt out a melodic farewell to another day in paradise, Hinano in hand. Moorea was a wildlife wonderland, a scenic beauty, a cultural education and a social extravaganza. Weeks could have turned into months, but we still had half an ocean to cross before the end of the season.

Reluctantly, we weighed anchor and sailed west toward Huahine, Raiatea, and Taha’a, guided by more whales as we entered Huahine’s tranquil inner lagoon. Once inside, spent relaxed days playing on the beach, sailing small dinghies, snorkelling the reef, paddle-boarding over calm crystal waters and enjoying sunset cocktails at happy-hour prices. We visited pearl farms in Raiatea to purchase pearlescent sea orbs, visited the stone structures of Taputapuātea and drove our dinghy deep upriver into the lush interior. In Taha’a, we snorkelled a fabulous coral garden with winding alleys of hard and soft corals, densely populated by brightly coloured fish and snuck into an opulent $2500-a-night luxury hotel to sip bright blue cocktails to pink-hued sunsets. These last few islands seemed a proper send-off to a full French Polynesian experience. We would make a quick stop in Maupiti and Maupiha’a and then, finally, be on our way.

Again, our plan was misinformed and our expected timeframe of little consequence. We didn’t know at the time that our two favourite islands lay ahead of us. A few days, once again, would pass quickly into weeks. Maupiti and Maupiha’a sit on the western edge of the French Polynesian archipelago and are often bypassed because of their difficult pass entrances. Having spent months in the Tuamotus where entry into the various atolls is precisely timed by the outgoing tide, having this to consider wasn’t new to us. However, having successfully entered Maupiti and Maupiha’a, I can say the eastern atolls don’t light a match to the intensity of these western island passes. Maupiti is famous for being narrow and rough since it faces the prevailing wind and waves. It can be impassable for weeks at a time. Maupiha’a is sheltered, but the pass is a very narrow 50-meter ebbing tide that never stops. Once committed, there is no turning back. One requires a steady nerve and the other requires a steady engine, but once in, you’ve found safe haven in some of the most beautiful, non-assuming islands where the hospitality of the isolated community is a outpouring as the tide.

Once inside Maupiti, the eye is drawn up toward its magnificent central cone peak. As the westernmost volcanic island in the archipelago, it is a smaller version of Bora Bora without the tourists or the price tag. The true gift of Maupiti, however, is found hovering below the surface of the water rather than looming over it: The oceanic manta ray. After spending time in the village, we moved out to a shallow sand patch near the pass entrance to find a manta cleaning station — a large rock swarming with small wrasse that clean the parasites off the manta as they hover close by. Having discovered how easy it was to find them, I quickly established a morning routine that included a morning coffee and a swim with these agile giants in solitude before the tourist-filled local boats descended on the spot. By mid-morning they would swim off to other parts of the lagoon, but every dawn they would return to receive their symbiotic salon treatment, both of our rituals resumed.

The manta were a powerful magnet for me, however it was time to push on as we had been tasked with delivering fresh supplies to family living on the next stop on our itinerary. The atolls at the furthest western reaches of French Polynesia don’t receive a regular supply boat. In fact, Maupiha’a receives one every two years when the quota of copra from the island’s eight inhabitants has been filled, an impressive 50 tons of dried coconut meat. As such, the island is a prime example of complete self-sufficiency. We met one of the island’s long-term residents, Pierre — a single man with a split flipflop — at our first anchorage. I dug up a spare pair, however he declined the offer and opted for a soggy mismatch that had drifted in on the tide. The next time we met him he offered us a coconut crab caught earlier that day for our evening meal, and from that day forward Pierre became our constant companion. He fed us coconut crab, reef fish, tern eggs and freshly-grated coconut and an endless supply of fresh coconut water to fill our bellies. Within no time, Pierre had taught us essential island survival skills: We could shave the inside of a coconut to make milk, collect bird eggs for breakfast, capture coconut crabs for dinner and hook a fish with a rusty wire. In exchange, we topped him up on an endless supply of mayonnaise and coffee. Having hosted many yachties but never been on a yacht, we took Pierre sailing across the lagoon to explored the outer cays and bird hatcheries together, learning how to test the viability of an egg by cracking a few onto the ground to see its stage in development. If there were no foetus in the initial test, all the eggs in the hatchery were ready to be consumed.

As the winds changed and made the other side of the atoll more comfortable, we said goodbye to our generous host and relocated to the other side of the atoll. Pierre’s hospitality was immediately matched by our new hostesses. We arrived to barking dogs, quacking ducks, grunting pigs and the offer of fresh fish from the mother and daughter who lived there. Once again, this kindly offer sealed a friendship and we enjoyed shared meals of fresh-caught fish, coconut crab, giant clam, green coconuts, chocolate cake. The laughter was hearty and the mood cheery, but I couldn’t help but feel we imposed on their time and generosity. A considerable amount of effort had been put forth at no cost to us, other than the reciprocal sharing of resources. In exchange for fuel and oil, Karina and Adrienne taught us how to rely on nature to survive. They took us to the smaller islets to walk among tern hatchlings perched in their nests, scavenge little brown-spotted eggs scattered in the sand and showed us how to hunt fierce coconut crab without loosing a digit. Having observed the mass graveyards of giant clams throughout the Atlantic and Pacific islands but never seen them being scavenged, Karina taught us how to pry the shell from the rock. I jammed a rod through the centre of a mollusc, damaging the foot to release its solid grip in the rock. I did this once for the experience but had no interest in removing any more of these beautiful creatures from the ocean. When Karina was done, I was quietly heartbroken to count forty lying at the bottom of the plastic tub, waiting to be served at the evening feast.

We passed our days in the generous and engaging company of Maupihaa’s tiny community. The eight inhabitants were spread out around the atoll, living an existence that is as isolated as it gets. The wreckage of the Seeadler, a WWI German sailing warship that grounded on the outer pass 100 years ago, is a reminder of this isolation. Snorkelling the scattered remains of the ship resting in 5 meters outside the pass, it is feasible to understand how the stranded crew were able to survive for months on this tiny atoll with the assistance of the three inhabitants that lived on the island at the time. To see its rusty bones scattered across the seafloor is a remarkable tribute to the fortitude and determination of the 111 sailors and the ingenuity and generosity of their local hosts who helped them survive on this mid-ocean oasis.

Departing Maupiha’a was our farewell to French Polynesia. Our aim had been to focus on areas we’d not previously explored, however revisiting previous destinations was just as rewarding, like an unexpected reunion with an old friend. Certainly, the welcome we received created an instant connection that is rare to receive amongst strangers. Perhaps it is the reason roughly 80 yachts visit Maupiha’a each season, bringing provisions from other islands when they come. In exchange, cruisers get to enjoy being a part of an established tradition of welcoming passing visitors with open arms. While no money is asked for, few take without reciprocating so the underlying dynamic is one of sharing what you have and accepting what is offered. Maupiha’a is the world’s best example of this genuine generosity. It is classic mid-western hospitality typical of close neighbours, offered to complete strangers. So, if sailing to the far reaches of an expansive ocean, don’t balk at the thought of the miles of solitude that lay ahead of you. Think of the friends waiting for you at the other end. When you get there, you will know you’ve arrived home. 

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The Great Polynesian Gift

Link to published article: The Hidden Gift

There is a small island in French Polynesia that reminds me of that last gift left abandoned under the Christmas tree, passed over for all the other larger bow-tied, red-and-green wrapped packages. When the party is over and all the extended family have made their way home, a tired eye spots a small paper bag bound in scotch tape left half buried beneath the fallen pine needles and discarded wrapping paper. It is picked up, casually unwrapped and the holiday’s greatest surprise lays unexpectedly in hand.

Maupiha’a is this modest little treasure. After spending time in French Polynesia’s larger, more well-known islands, few have time remaining on their visa or in the season to tuck into Maupiha’a on their way west. With a total landmass of 2km2, sailing right past is certainly an easy thing to do. For those who choose to visit, they may need to abort due to the small island’s even smaller pass. With a circular lagoon surrounded by one main islet, several smaller motus and a continuous outer reef, all the water that floods into the lagoon at high tide must exit through the single passage on the western side of the atoll. This fast out-flowing water can cause currents up to 9 knots, so timing entry is essential. The best time to enter is at high water with the engine at full speed. The current will still be against you at about 4 knots but you can at least make slow progress. Once committed, there is no turning around inside the narrow 18 meter-wide pass. Those who succeed, however, soon discover what a hidden gift Maupiha’a really is. Unassuming on the outside, a rare treasure on the inside: Maupiha’a is that lost gift hidden under the Christmas tree.

Located on the western edge of the French Polynesian archipelago, Maupiha’a is the epitome of isolation, its residents a model of self-sufficiency. It is 100 miles from its nearest populated neighbour and there is no supply ship that comes to deliver food and staples as exists in other French Polynesian islands. The locals on Maupiha’a raise pigs and chicken, collect tern and booby eggs and hunt for fish, shellfish and turtle. They maintain their own small gardens and drinking water is collected by catchment or cracked from a coconut. What isn’t grown, raised or hunted is brought in by a seasonal convoy of willing international cruisers who come laden with flour, rice, sugar, seasonal fruit and a myriad of other staples during the dry season. When the flow of cruisers ends, life returns to a self-sustaining isolation until the Pacific fleet resumes the following year.

I sailed into Maupiha’a in 2006 carrying fresh fruit and vegetables donated by family in distant islands, however this time we were behind a group that had already done the same. Back then the lagoon had been a minefield of oyster beds, but a hurricane wiped out the buoys and killed the industry since my last visit. While Maupiha’a had a short period in pearl farming, it has primarily been used over the past century as a copra plantation. Starting with a workforce of three in 1917, the influx of workers shifted from several hundred at the height of the industry to the handful that now remain. For a scheduled ship to make the trip to the island, the residents must collect a minimum of 50 tons of copra — an amount that takes the current eight inhabitants about two years to harvest. It is a long time to wait for a replenishment of supplies, so visiting yachts are both a welcome and necessary part of survival on the island.

As such, cruising boats are met with open arms when they enter this small mid-Pacific sanctuary. We sailed across the four-mile wide lagoon to the southern side of Motu Maupiha’a and dropped our anchor through crystal clear water into fine white sand, as picturesque as any holiday postcard. We wandered ashore to take a stroll on the palm-fringed beach and soon ran into one of the island’s locals. Pierre was warm and gregarious, inviting us to make ourselves at home on his island. I offered a pair of flip-flops to replace his broken one, but he insisted on scavenging a lone replacement from the windward side of the outer reef where the supply was plentiful. We passed him again the next day, and he waved us over and offered us fresh fish for our meal that night. I accepted on the agreement that he join us, and that first meal set the foundation for communal living for the rest of our time together. Pierre showed us how to live off the island’s resources, turning us into prime contestants for Survivor Island. He taught us how to hunt, kill and clean meat off a coconut crab, how to determine if a tern egg was embryo-free, how to pluck a coconut from a tree and make fresh milk, how to catch a fish on a un-baited lure (in 5 seconds, guaranteed). By the time he was finished with us, we could be cast ashore on any mid-Pacific island and feed like royalty if given a rubber band and a rusty hook. In exchange, we supplied Pierre with a regular dose of coffee, his drink of choice, and took him on his first sailing trip since his arrival seven years earlier. We also left him with a six month supply of mayonnaise, the “magic sauce” to accompany smoked coconut crab. Pierre was happy to live in the present and take each day as it comes — and that lesson was the greatest gift of all.

After a week of exploring Maupiha’a natural resources with Pierre, we departed with the change in wind to find a more settled holding on the northern side of the atoll. We reluctantly said our farewells, feeling we’d never find such unbridled generosity and hospitality anywhere else, only to find it replicated by our hosts in our new location. As soon as we landed our dinghy ashore, a mother-and-daughter pair came out to greet us.  They had been in the middle of burning coconut husks in a fire, and they took a break from this sweaty work to extended a warm welcome and escorted us around the area, showing us their small garden, a motley collection of animals, and their home. We were offered that day’s catch and I accepted on the grounds that we share the fresh-caught spoils. I came ashore that evening expecting to be given a fish that I would cook over an open fire, and packed a number of side dishes, plates, and a bottle of wine to accompany the meal. When we arrived, the table was set and a full five course meal was already prepared, a green coconut waiting on a plate for each of us. I offered the wine but it was rejected as a slightly fermented coconut was the “champagne” of choice. I humbly accepted the one-sided extravagance that was offered us, knowing that they put aside that day’s work to provide us with such a lavish meal: We had fresh grilled fish, tuna sashimi, coconut crab “pate,” stewed giant clam, and a freshly baked chocolate cake. The night was chatty and festive, and evenings of shared meals remained throughout the duration of our stay.

As with Pierre, Adrienne and Karina invited us to join them in their daily routines and taught us about life on the island, and how to survive on it. We were taken out out to one of the smaller islets to walk among booby hatchlings, their downy heads straining to get a look and size us up as a threat. We were shown how to hunt for coconut crab in the night, Karina’s strong, deft hands a stark contrast to my timid, blundering fingers. I would willingly survive on bird eggs, but only desperation would force me to tackle one of those Hulk-sized pinching terrors. Having witnessed the mass graveyards of giant clams throughout the Caribbean, we went on a snorkelling exhibition to learn how to pry the shell from the rock. I massacred one of these vibrant purple beauties with a flathead screwdriver but had no interest in removing any more of these vibrant creatures from the ocean. Forty clams were harvested for a single meal, served as a delicacy that night and it was, indeed, a tasty one. However, I felt guilty eating something that I know to be endangered. I was only playing “stranded” on the island for a short period of time, and with an estimated eighty boats passing through in a season there would be an incredible demand put on the clam population. Hopefully a balance is reached during the off-period to let the population recover in time for the next season’s fleet.

Karina also took us out to snorkel the pass, a popular gathering spot for grey, white and blacktip shark. The site was my only instance of aggression by shark on my earlier visit and I was nervous to get back into the water with an even larger group patrolling the seafloor. They were curious but not aggressive, so we enjoyed being swept along with their darting silver forms following underneath us through the pass. Laying in five meters of water outside the pass was the highlight of the tour: Seeing the scattered remains of the Seeadler, a WWI German sailing warship that had grounded on the outer pass 100 years ago, taking the island’s population of three and turning it into an instant settlement of 111. The mixed group of crew and prisoners of war were stranded on the island for several months, building the “Seeadlerburg Settlement” out of the broken wreckage of the ship. The history of the ship and the story of its crew is as rich following the wreck as before it grounded, and to see its rusty bones scattered across the scarred earth was a poignant moment for us all.

Little did we expect our days and nights to be so richly filled with new-found companionship when we drove our yacht through the daunting pass into this little mid-Pacific refuge. If there ever was a place that time forgot, it is Maupiha’a, where living off the land — and sea, for that matter — is true to the word. While the modern world has settled into much of French Polynesia, Maupiha’a remains a little slice of ancient Polynesian past. There is no bi-monthly supply ship, no church or school, no medical facility or governmental office. There isn’t an airport, cruise terminal or tourist centre. Definitely forget your Marriott or Four Seasons. Whoever visits, whether permanent or transient, must come fully self-sufficient. According to Pierre, this is part of the attraction: Life is simple, needs are basic and demands are minimal.

As an outsider, our hosts showed us that Maupiha’a is, above all, the epitome of selfless generosity. With copra to process, small livestock to raise, a garden and home to maintain and fish to hunt, life is not idle on this little island. But regardless of everything it takes to maintain an existence on the island, routines shifts when visitors come a’calling. Daily chores become tourist expeditions, meals become banquets, strangers become friends. We could not have guessed from the outside the treasures that lie within. Maupiha’a is that forgotten gift, which once unwrapped holds a value far greater than all the other presents put together. It is proof that, sometimes, the best things do come in the smallest packages.