by Jackie Parry
‘This was a good idea of mine,’ Noel muttered into his hard-earned sundowner.
In good old Mariah II fashion, we left a safe, serene harbour to quell our voyaging thirst. The target? Thirty-two miles to Baie De Tautira – the day black, the sea lumpy, and the wind particularly difficult, whacking us hard on the nose. We heard moans and whimpers from below as Mel tried to cope with the esoteric world of a live boat pummelled by grumpy seas.
‘This was a dumb idea,’ stated Noel, staring pointedly at me.
As the winds hugged the jagged mountains, Mariah became a perpetual weathercock and words such as retreat, defeat, and blurrrrrrhhh were heard whistling across our soggy decks. As we started to discuss our flight back, Mother Nature took pity and smoothed the waters, allowing the sails to fill with a beam-reach.
The entrance was wide and deep, permitting Mariah and her crew, along with the grey cloud that decided to umbrella us for the entire day, to putter slowly in without much ado. Tautira, on the northeast of Tahiti Iti, had a petite village with a well provisioned shop where prices shifted into the expensive category, instead of exorbitant. Shy locals were easy going and accommodated our shameful attempts at French. The cleanliness transported us back to Iluka in northern NSW, where freshly painted homes, quaint boulevards, and tropical flowers garnished the welcoming hamlet. Relaxing island music wafted into the shallow anchorage where we were firmly dug in. Dugout canoes were the main mode of transport, while runabouts were for fishing. Reality swam its way back into our tranquil anchorage and hunkering down in the black sand, Mel and I took advantage of running water on shore to catch up with the building laundry.
Dreams are made of tiny, soft sand islands, handsome palm trees, and crystal water. Motunono Island, ten nautical miles from Taurita, sat offshore, inviting cruisers to step onto her dazzling beach. Anchoring a short swim away, in deep water, I snorkelled to shore while Mel and Noel carried lunch and water in the dinghy. Even the two or three other groups of visitors did not upset the equilibrium of the slice of heaven. Sitting beneath idyllic shady palms, we silently absorbed the breathtaking views. The mainland stood high and proud, the green velvets of jagged peaks punctuated the rain clouds that were hurrying home. Heavy cumulonimbus clung to the zeniths and sagged in the troughs, thickening and feeding the abundant plant life. Neighbouring valleys plunged and all but called out to us, inviting for exploration. Staring at the striking panorama, I let my imagine run like a tidal stream. I studied the enchanted crests that were brushed with cloudy whispers of mystical secrets, a thousand years old. The scene was set, like the Scottish Highlands where Braveheart bounds out of the eerie mist on his bold, black stallion.
Departing from our magical lunch site, we travelled north for about six nautical miles, destination Pointe Tefauoa. A consistent reef circumnavigates Tahiti, much of it causing too many shallows to allow a completely protected run. From Motunono Island to Pointe Tefauoa, much of the journey was protected by the glorious reef, but this had its pitfalls. Reaching our proposed anchor site at four in the afternoon, we found the tiny harbour on our charts big enough for Ken and Barbie’s boat, but not Mariah.
‘Don’t worry,’ our illustrious leader said, ‘we have a few hours. Plenty of time to find an alternative.’
For two hours, I scurried about coral chocked lagoons in the dinghy, sounding depths within possible anchor sites. Abundant anchorages of twenty-five metres were scattered along the coast, however, our anchor winch had decided to have a holiday and shallow anchorages were our arm-muscles’ preference. Suddenly, the deep blue shallowed to less than a metre with vivid coral shelves; the dinghy’s bottom became a little sore and the air somewhat bluer than the water. As dusk hinted at the horizon, much to Mel’s horror, we discussed doing an over-nighter to Venus Point. Actually, we would have arrived around eleven at night. Mel’s reluctance was backed up with mine. The dinghy survived her ungainly scrapes, but I wasn’t prepared to risk the mother ship. With shortening tempers created from fear, we journeyed two miles south to reach the pass (Passe Faatautia) into the ocean. Our charts indicated a possible anchorage near the entrance, the fair weather permitting us the luxury of one last possibility of a night at anchor.
‘Come on, Matilda, us girls need to do some sounding.’
Matilda had replaced our home built dinghy PJ, and she was earning her keep. The worn dinghy and my weary body cautiously puttered into the small, inviting bay near Teruaiti, and my hopes were raised as I sounded seven to twelve metres of depth. There was also enough swing room between the treacherous coral; the miserable crew on board Mariah morphed into happy bunnies.
After a peaceful night, we awoke to the grandeur of verdant valleys and statuesque peaks where a cascading waterfall plunged down shiny rocks like Rapunzel’s lavish hair. By a shear fluke, it was Sunday, and we traipsed in the direction of the fresh falling water. Slightly smug at the deserted area and a little soggy at the sucking mud, we reached the gushing hum of the breath-snatching, cool water. Childish splashing and giggling soaked up the morning, and then our cool bodies hot-footed it back to Mariah; we didn’t want to risk our luck in our unprotected anchorage.
As we stood on Venus Point in the footsteps of our heroes, we tried to envision what they saw. The scattered houses and thundering roads mimicked around the world, in every town near a large city would not have been here. Instead, the verdant splendour that carpets the mountains would have reached the shores, stopping short at the black beaches. The twenty-two nautical mile journey to Venus Point was hot and still. Mariah’s Yanmar pushed her through the smooth water to the famous landmark. We heard a family’s fun on the raven beaches, and in the transparent water we watched them splash about. Happy laughter, peaceful snorkelling, and safe children encompassed the sunny scene. The town was busy, small, and dirty. One of the highlights included a tourist trip to the leper colony – we decided to pass on that one. We tested the perfect water temperature many times during our three-day stay. The soft breeze cooled the boat and Venus Point sheltered us from any fetch. The searching beams of Stevenson’s lighthouse accompanied the still, black nights, while Bligh and Cook’s landing went unmentioned.
Time ticked on. Mel had one week left, and we wanted to spend four days at Moorea, Tahiti’s neighbouring island. First, we needed gas (propane), water, and our winch repaired. A board meeting of captain, guest, and scapegoat (me!) was promptly organised with ample refreshments. As the sun tickled the horizon and offered the glorious gifts of shifting yellows and burnt orange, point one on the agenda was broached. Where to go next? A) To our original anchorage near Marina Taina, B) Moorea, or C) Try for an anchorage north of Pape’ete. We chose option C because it was somewhere different and had a short walking distance to town, which was located near the mechanique that had fixed the anchor winch once and should damn well do it again! Point (2) on the agenda was then tackled: red or white wine?
Five miles west, we reached the main fishing port of Tahiti. The proud, professionally maintained fishing fleet lined up against industrial wharfs and we puttered around for an hour, indecisive at where to anchor within the deep port. Near a thinning hedge on shore, a seven-metre depth was located. At the edge of the channel, we parked Mariah and felt rather chuffed at our pioneering discoveries. Gas refills were a short dinghy ride away (as was diesel). The mechanique was two boat lengths from shore and water was easily available at the small, local marina. The town was a ten-minute walk away, avoiding the bone shaking bus rides. If you ignored the layer of scum floating on the water and the perpetual chemical smell, the anchorage was perfect! Cautiously leaving one body on the boat each time we tackled jobs ashore, we were relieved to be ignored. Out of the way of the surprisingly sparse traffic, no one cared that we had anchored in the main port, and we took advantage of having all the things we required nearby.
We planned to leave the follow day for Moorea, as the winch was repaired. We vowed to remember Tahiti’s magic, her enchanted valleys, her plethora of facilities,
her superb anchor sites, and her kind people. But mostly, knowing that we graced the same shores of our heroes left a stimulating tingle that was sweetly shrouded with respect.
For Mel’s last week on board, we explored Moorea. A safe, protected anchorage and one of the most stunning: fertile lands rendered peaceful with crystal clear water – many contented sighs wafted across the placid bay. That was until we had our second major encounter with a whale.
Facing another day in paradise, friends collected us from Mariah for a trip to splash around with the friendly stingrays. Casting off, consumed in cruisers babble, we drifted for a few minutes, all vying for our say. Until the words, ‘There’s a whale heading our way,’ stopped the gaggle of conversations.
As the sinister dark shadow came closer, we could clearly see the monster’s tail propel his bulk through the water at an alarming speed. The three metre inflatable dinghy was overflowing with silence. The five passengers, of which I was one, sat still, stunned into silence. The thump in my chest and the squeeze I felt in my eyes as they tried to pop out stirred the silence; looking around, I noted that my companions mirrored these symptoms. The humpback whale had us in his sights, and there was nothing we could do.
The ominous silhouette moved towards us with speeding purpose. Some of us stood, some stayed frozen on bottoms. With no wave, wake, or drama the baby humpback slid beneath our grey dinghy, and there he stayed.
‘He’s hurt; he’s a baby,’ the tourist boat skipper called to us as we drifted past. We were all perplexed as to why a whale would swim into a narrow, windy channel (following the markers no less) and swim under our dinghy.
‘I hope he’s friendly,’ I said.
The statuesque mountains paled into insignificance as we watched, helpless, while the magnificent humpback sought sanctuary beneath us.
The seventeen foot long blue/black humpback hovered sedately, seemingly content to let us drift above him. One of us reached to touch his soft, smooth skin, but did not linger. We knew we should not be this close, let alone touch him. But what could we do? We studied the tubby baby, chunks of fatty flesh hung across his solid body, possibly score marks from outboard motors, but he obviously felt safe under our shadow.
‘We’re drifting into shallow water, and I can’t start the outboard with the whale there,’ stated Thor (the elected pilot), a little too coolly for my liking.
As the men started to paddle with those ridiculous small oars that inflatable boat builders uselessly provide, we gently bumped with the whale, the shallower water brought us closer together. Our friendly giant refused to come out from his handkerchief safety cover.
‘He’s starting to panic,’ someone called out. It may have been me.
The whale, in his comfort zone, did not notice the water lose its depth. For us, our awareness of our surroundings was reaching red alert, even through our state of awe. The athletic men struggled bravely, but they could not out row a whale! Suddenly, our gentle, giant friend flipped his hefty, proud tail and elasticised his body, arching his solid back, doing that marvellous whale dance we have all seen on TV to ease his bulk back to deeper water. The fact that he had a rubber ducky on his back with five fearful passengers hanging on for dear life, didn’t seem to bother him.
‘Hang on,’ someone else called as panicking faces searched for the most stable part of the bucking dinghy. The comparatively small boat rose up out of the water and fell, balancing on the whale’s curving back; a dip with our expensive camera became inevitable, as I tried to work out how to keep the pricey equipment above my head and dry. Sharp, unforgiving coral loomed nearer and the seriousness of the moment started banging around our heads in rhythm with the rocking dinghy. Worry lines carved patterns across the crews’ tense faces.
Finally, the whale moved us all into deeper water, and I remembered to breath. We all searched for answers to what we could have done to avoid the situation. Luckily, we all survived unscathed, just losing a few thousand heartbeats each. For no rhyme or reason, the whale moved havens and wallowed under another dinghy that had helplessly stood by in the commotion.
Free of our clingy mate, we took the opportunity to race back to our mother ships and grab our snorkel gear. Noel, Thor, and I wanted to experience his company in his world; besides, we thought there must be someone we could call to get him help. Perhaps if we saw how fit he was or how hurt, it would help.
Speedily donning our masks and with our heart’s thumping in our throats, we jumped into the water and slowly paddled up to the big guy. He was calm under the dinghy. His deep, chocolate, sad eyes watched us approach; we quietly allowed him to get used to us being nearby, unthreatening, before swimming closer. Gradually, I inched to his left side and just hovered in unison with his massive bulk. My wide eyes were watchful of his huge fins that kept him balanced. Tears of gratitude stung my eyes. He was simply beautiful. To me, his wounds looked superficial, like they were already healing. He was quite fat, and apart from scars, I would have said he was pretty healthy, though I am no marine vet.
We did not linger and retreated after just a few precious moments. A repeat of shallows and panicking conversation started up again, and we voiced our warnings to the other dinghy. They managed to escape, carefully turning on their outboard, so as to not cause the soft skin more damage. Cold and elated, we returned to our boats. We relished in the incredible events of the last hour, but wondered how we could help the baby find his mum.
After a hot shower and even hotter drinks, we peered outside at a small dive boat that anchored right by us. Climbing on deck to fend off and figure out just why they felt they had to be so close, we noticed the whale right by Mariah. On board the dive boat, a diver jumped in with the whale, grasping bulky photographic equipment. Urgently, he snapped off film and a bright flash frightened our gentle friend. He sought haven under our hull, and I hoped our small home offered the big guy a bit of protection, but another flash exploded in the water and the whale panicked. With a huge flip of his immense tail, he propelled his bulk under our bow where he promptly snagged himself between our two bridled snubbers that attached to the anchor chain. He started thrashing in his confined space, and I could almost taste his fear as he became further entangled and trapped. For about two seconds, which felt longer, I watched, horrified. He thrashed to port and without conscious thought, I took the opportunity to release the slackened starboard rope. Our giant friend swam away like a bullet. Awe and sadness sat in our boat. The gift of swimming with this glorious mammal was unforgettable. We hoped he was strong enough to survive and find his mum along the way.
The following day, as friends approached Moorea, three adult whales were spotted together with a baby. The scars matched descriptions of the whale we’d seen, so we were sure that our friend found his mum. That’s our hope anyway.
We bade farewell to Mel and the small life in her tummy that would be called Matilda Jade at birth – which she had revealed to us during her stay. With a new life in our thoughts, the marvels of nature, and another parting, we left Moorea. Huahine was our next destination.
For five days, anchored within a quiet bay at Huahine, we enjoyed the solitude and caught up with paint jobs on Mariah. We ventured into the tiny village just twice. During our second visit, Noel’s sandals that were left in the dinghy were stolen.
I was relaxed on board and by now it had been about eight years since Martin had left this world. The scars had healed; I could feel them though, and it was around this time that I had a vivid dream I would never forget. It was about Martin telling me that it was time to let him go. I had kept him too long, and it wasn’t fair. I was selfish and I couldn’t let him go. The second was a dream in which I felt I wasn’t entirely asleep throughout its duration. I was in a small, square room. The walls and door painted beige. I was sitting on a plain, brown timber chair. It was covered with black, cracking leather, spilling crumbling foam, facing the door. Martin was in the doorway, holding the round door handle. The door was partly open, partly closed. Wi
thout saying anything, he would slowly back away, looking at me, pulling the door closed, separating us. As the door almost shut, I said, ‘No, not yet. I’m not ready.’ He slowly opened the door and came back into the room, partway. His hand never left the door handle. This scenario repeated several times, his lips never moved, but I could hear him say, so softly, ‘It is time to let go, let me go, I want to go.’ Eventually, with an empty, dull ache, I accepted and let him close the door. I found myself lying in bed crying – fully awake. The next day, I felt lighter and told Noel the whole story.
‘Whether it was real or not, whether it was your body telling you to let him go – it doesn’t matter,’ he said gently, ‘it was time to let him go completely.’
We briefly stopped at Tahaa before heading to Bora Bora. Green, lush, and exquisitely beautiful and expensive, we renamed Bora Bora ‘Boring Bora’ – only because we couldn’t afford the costly activities on offer. Instead, we enjoyed a couple of beers at a bar named Bloody Mary’s with good cruising buddies from My Chance, Theta, and Adverse Conditions. The time at the bar was not all fun and games, as we had important decisions to make, like, could we all fit into the anchorage at Aitutaki? The entrance was quite shallow, at only five feet we knew we’d just make it. Theta was too deep, but My Chance was a catamaran and Adverse Conditions would just follow us all in and hope for the best.