Swell

by Liz Clark

“Eha to oe huru?” (How’s it going?) a large, jolly one asks.

  “Maita‘i,” I reply. “E oe?” (Good, and you?)

  Clearly amused by my effort to speak Tahitian, the white-haired veteran sitting on the cooler pulls out an icy Hinano for me and scoots over to offer a seat. I sip the icy refreshment and answer their questions. Where did I come from? How long will I be here? Need any ice? Or fish? Alone!? Then be careful on the street at night and lock up your boat, they warn. Come let them know if I have any problems. ‘Aita pe‘ape‘a (don’t worry), the dock is free. I soon have eight new Tahitian dads watching out for me. I stay for a while and listen to the rugged group joke and tell fishing yarns.

  “Māuruuru! Anānahi!” (Thank you! See you tomorrow!) I call to them when I pedal off to check out the rest of the neighborhood.

  The thundering sound on the outer reefs makes it impossible to sleep that night. I toss and turn with visions of the punishing lip and jagged coral below. At dawn, after a bit of nervous puttering, I reluctantly pull out my 6'4" and load into the dinghy. I wave goodbye to my Tahitian dads as I head off across the lagoon, talking myself through a strategy.

  I idle the dinghy in the channel, scoping out the sets and the dynamic of the crowd. The cloud cover gives the surf a gray, angry look, as wave faces suck up and heave into cavernous water cylinders. The sets look manageable, though. It’s only a couple feet overhead at most. I spot a few familiar faces that I’ve seen at other breaks, so I tie up to the buoy in the channel and paddle for the lineup.

  I sit wide for a while to get comfortable and observe. And then, “This one, Liz, go!” one of the guys calls.

  I paddle hard and get under it, grab my rail, and lock into backside three-wheel drive, bracing myself for disaster—but to my surprise, I make the drop and launch out the end.

  That wasn’t so bad!

  Soon my fears have diffused and I paddle confidently across the lineup during a lull to greet the others with the customary local handshake.

  “Liz,” calls another guy I know. “You have a pa‘a ihu ... caca nez.” He signals to me with a grin, putting a finger to his nose to demonstrate where my booger is.

  I quickly wipe it away and burst into embarrassed laughter. None of the other guys I’d greeted had bothered to tell me. I learned then, and again, that Teahupo‘o always keeps you humble.

  Trust the King

  Sunrise in the Teahupo‘o marina two weeks later finds me in a downward dog pose, staring at the grass growing out from the cracks in the rotting wooden planks of the dock. I’ve made progress in the lineup, especially thanks to a local waterman who has helped me catch waves during my recent sessions. After yoga, I make a cup of tea and scan the reef. The swell is the biggest yet, and I can see Raimana’s boat tied to the buoy near the wave with half a dozen smaller boats trailing behind like baby ducks.

  I load up and head over, but I’m deterred by a funky morning bump and the thickest crowd I’ve seen yet, so I attach my dinghy to the row of boats and lay back under my pareo, thinking about my most memorable big-wave sessions in other places: the heavy wipeouts and long hold-downs, scratching for the horizon when a set appears, duck-diving through the face of the first wave with open eyes wondering what’s behind it. And patiently searching for the right wave, because there’s nothing like the sensation of skittering down a water mountain. I both love and fear big waves, but Teahupo‘o is on a scale of its own.

  The crowd has thinned and the conditions are glassing off. The sets look frightening, but Raimana’s presence makes me feel safer. A handful of guys paddle back to their boats, so I decide to go out and try to catch at least one wave. The sun breaks through the clouds as I make it to the lineup with the five remaining surfers. I luck into a small wave to warm up, and turn to see Raimana dropping into a beauty on his stand-up paddleboard. He pulls into the gaping tube and flies out near me in the channel.

  When we arrive back at the lineup, he calls me over and directs me to sit just deeper than him. “You ready? Relax, take deep breaths, it’s okay.”

  I feel surprisingly calm already. Soon a set rises out of the deep blue. The line of water stacks on itself and someone paddles for it. When the second wave approaches Raimana calls out, “Heeeeeeeeeeep! Hold off, guys! This is you, Liz. Paddle, go, paddle hard! Toward the reef!” I dig my arms into the water, totally committed. I get in easily. Drop. Roar. And in another instant, I go launching out the now-familiar exit ramp.

  “Good,” he says as I paddle back out with an uncontainable smile. “Now come here again. Sit here. I’m gonna push you this time. A bigger one.”

  What have I gotten myself into?

  “Let’s move out and a little deeper. Yes ... a little more ... a little more ... Okay, here.”

  I can’t imagine how we are going to catch a wave sitting here, but I’m certainly not going to argue.

  “Don’t worry, babe, you’ll get in early,” he coos.

  This is a rare moment with Raimana’s attention, the small crowd, and the beautiful conditions. I have to embrace my chance.

  I’m poised, every cell in my body tingling with anticipation. Finally, it comes ... The sight of it takes my breath away. A beast of a set sucks the water off the reef and stands up before us.

  “Okay, now, this one! Hey boys, hey, it’s Liz. Okay, girl, turn around, paddle past me to the inside. The inside! Now go, go, go!”

  There’s no backing out, and no time for fear. I have to make this drop or the wipeout will be horrendous ... I put my trust in Raimana, put my head down, and paddle like hell.

  He follows closely behind me, and when the mass of water starts to pitch, I feel his hand press firmly against the flat of my foot. With a strong shove he launches me into the wave. I could never have caught it on my 6'4" without his push. I rise to my feet and go cascading down the slope of water, gripping my rail for dear life. I barely make the drop, then accelerate across the enormous blue wall. One false move could mean the worst wipeout of my life. The wave releases me and I skitter into the safety zone, giddy and grateful to have escaped without punishment. I wasn’t quite in the tube, but the size, the rush, the vision, and encouragement ... I’m hooked!

  There’s a Hole in the Bucket, Dear Liza

  Between the excitement of surfing Teahupo‘o and my crew of new friends here, I’m in denial—the time left on my visa is ticking down, and there is water in the bilge again. I keep coming up with reasons to explain why the automatic bilge pump is cycling from time to time: It’s been raining? Maybe there is a leak in the sink foot pump? The toilet pump? The water tank? I finally shine my light back into the spot under the engine and see a dribble of water coming from the same area that had been leaking before. I want to cry and vomit and stomp my feet, but instead I sit down with a large bag of cookies and munch on them slowly until they’re all gone.

  The leak is indeed still leaking. I must have been so busy with the filmer and surfing, and so sure that it couldn’t possibly be the same problem, that I didn’t even acknowledge the occasional sound of the pump. I motor a few miles west and tie off to a mooring that belongs to a dynamic French couple with a lagoon-front home just across the way. I met Georges and Marika when I arrived in the area, and sure hope they meant it when they said to come back if ever I needed anything. I need a home base while I sort out what to do next. They welcome my return to their petite paradise by the sea, spilling over with fun, creativity, and aquatic toys.

  Over dinner together, Georges recommends a knowledgeable boat guy, who comes out to have a look a few days later. Pulling off the doors to the engine in preparation for his arrival, I’m surprised to find the head of a nut lying in the engine pan. I shine my flashlight around and see that one of the port motor mounts is cracked again. I can’t comprehend it since I’d replaced both mounts in Panamá City. But I unbolt them completely, and when the expert arrives we use a halyard to lift the engine up enough to have better access to the leaky area. He reaches back to touch the wet fiberglass; it
squishes softly under his fingers.

  “Osmosis,” he says. “It looks bad. I’ll write you a letter to give to the immigration officials. They should give you an extension to stay until your boat is fixed.”

  The thought of being back in the boatyard gives me chills. Not only does the idea of grinding fiberglass turn my stomach, I can’t afford to haul out again. Part of me wished for a way to stay a little longer in Polynesia, but this is not how I had imagined it.

  Luckily Georges and Marika know the owner of a machine shop and when the man comes over for dinner one evening, he agrees to solder my broken mount back together. In the meantime, I’m lucky to be broken down here: My hosts often throw barbecues and prepare decadent meals, help me improve my terrible French, and welcome me to use their Internet, do laundry, and hang out.

  I help with dishes, lawn mowing, sweeping, laundry—anything to feel like I’m earning my keep. As surfers start pouring in for the World Championship Tour contest at Teahupo‘o, I pitch in to help Marika cook, serve, and clean up meals for the surfers staying with them. In between, I get to surf, eat Marika’s mouthwatering chocolate cake, watch the contest from the channel, spy on pro surfers during backyard workouts, and attend tailgate concerts by local friends under the full moon.

  But the trials continue. A fifty-knot squall nearly heaves Swell onto the reef right in front of the house, a two-wave hold-down at Teahupo‘o leaves me with a week’s worth of drowning nightmares, a car jack explodes in my face while I’m trying to install the new motor mount, and Swell’s mooring comes unscrewed one day while I’m doing laundry ashore. Luckily Mick Fanning and Taylor Knox rush to save her with Georges’ Jet Ski before she drifts onto the reef. Then, to top it all off: five hideous days with dengue fever. If challenges are the door to personal growth, I’m on the path to sainthood, but sweet Jesus, can’t it just be easy every once in a while?

  Ah Rats!

  There’s no way around it. Once I’m feeling better, I head back to the boatyard to address the leak. As soon as I haul Swell, I fly back to the States to sign a contract and get to work on a photo book, which I hope will raise some much-needed funds for the repair.

  During my time back, I spread the word that Swell’s leak isn’t fixed. My friend Richard of Latitude 38 sailing magazine publishes a small blurb about my latest predicament, asking readers for donations to help with repairs. I’m overwhelmed by the response. In less than a month I receive almost $2,000 from perfect strangers, accompanied by supportive notes and gratitude for my blog. It encourages me to know that I am fixing Swell not only for me, but to keep others dreaming too. After a wonderful visit with Barry in Santa Barbara, he also decides to pitch in.

  Back aboard Swell, the new wave of support makes the work seems less lonely. But then: Hmmm, what’s all this? Someone’s been nibbling on my handline, and who got into the cacao powder? What are all these little turds?

  Apparently, there’s another reason to feel less lonely. It looks like Swell gained some new occupants while I was away. I find little black rat poops everywhere. There is not a nook or cranny that hasn’t been nibbled or pooped on. Everything must be hauled out of every locker, drawer, and cupboard, washed or scrubbed, and put back in place. I hitchhike into town to find some rat traps. Leptospirosis, a potentially fatal disease transmitted by rat urine, is not to be taken lightly. I have to be careful not to scratch my eye or pick my nose while cleaning out the mad mess.

  Those first few nights, I lie under the stars on my pool mat in the cockpit, listening to the rat tinker around in Swell’s belly. I wake each morning to empty traps and new poop trails. That sneaky bastard keeps stealing the bait. Despite the rodent battle going on inside the cabin, I tell the secretary that I want to hire the fiberglass specialist, Sylvain, to help me figure out how to fix the leak. I still have no clue how the water is getting in, since from the outside of the hull, the fiberglass appears to be completely intact. She informs me that Sylvain is leaving on his own boat for an extended voyage, but that a new guy named Laurent will come around this afternoon to have a look.

  A short wiry Frenchman in his fifties with a pointy face and Einstein hair shows up after lunch. I do my best to explain the problem and how we tried to fix it, but he hardly listens, then replies too fast for me to understand. But I do get it when he says he is busy for another month so it would be better to find someone else. And I owe him 5,500 francs for his hour of assessment.

  For the next few days, I mope and mull over what to do. Meanwhile, that clever rat licks all the peanut butter off the trap and even finds his way into my prized bag of Trader Joe’s trail mix that I’d hung in the middle of the cabin to keep out of his reach. My dislike for my new crewmate has turned into loathing. Both the rat and the leak are outsmarting me; I’m feeling like such a chump.

  That evening around midnight I’m barely asleep when I hear, Whap! I leap up like an Amazon warrior, ready for battle. There he is, dead on the trap: The snap bar has squared him in the head. The cashew that I’d tied to the trap with thread worked. A mix of triumph, pity, and nausea churns in me. “Sorry little dude. We weren’t meant to live together.” The next morning, I send him out to sea on a plywood raft with a little prayer, clean the last of the poops, and put away that dreadful trap.

  Around midday I’m outside under Swell, looking for the hose, when Sylvain stops by to say bonjour. I don’t want to unload on him, but I explain that I still haven’t figured out what to do.

  “I propose you zis,” he says. “I weel help you find zee source of zee leak, and afder Laurent can do zee reparacion.”

  “Really?” I feel my face light up like a Christmas tree.

  “Take sat (h)ose, turn za pressure up, and bring eet over eer.”

  I pass him the pressurized hose, then he instructs me to go up into the cabin, pull off the engine cover, and look at the cursed spot under the engine.

  “Okay!” he shouts. “Eere it come.” He directs the high-pressure water into the propeller shaft tube below. Water shoots out from under the engine like a geyser.

  “Oui! Yes! That’s it!” I call. It hasn’t been ten minutes and Sylvain has figured it out.

  He smiles, and wasting no time, explains what to do next. “Zee leak is coming from somewhere inside zee shaft tube. Zee best way to start eez grind down zee area near zee cutlass bearing to see if zere is somesing unusual because zis eez the easiest place to access. If zee problem is not ere, it weel be a much, much bigger job,” he warns.

  I take a deep breath. “Merci, Sylvain. Merci beaucoup,” I say, bowing sincerely.

  That afternoon I don my grinding gear and get to work. I touch the spinning disc to the hull where the prop shaft comes out, and grind it down until I hit the bronze tube underneath. Amazingly, as Sylvain suspected, there is a hole in it. It looks like it has been made intentionally, maybe to use a set screw to hold the cutlass bearing in place. I grind the other side down and find the same thing. I drag Sylvain over to have a look.

  He explains that I have two options. Either I properly patch these two places with fiberglass and hope that takes care of it. Or I take out the whole tube and replace it, which means dropping out the rudder and removing the prop shaft again, lifting out the engine, and basically doing demolition on the entire aft keel area to remove the tube.

  My mouth goes dry. “I’ll try the easier option first. Merci encore, Sylvain.” (Thanks again.)

  And then ... What’s this? New rat poops? No ... it can’t be. They’re everywhere again! It turns out my rat was plural! And just as I go to put the stairs back over the engine, I spot another surprise. The motor mounts! They’re broken again after less than ten hours of use!?

  Back to the Blue(s)

  After I’ve ground, chiseled, sanded, heat-gunned, and cleaned the holes in the shaft tube as best as possible, Laurent helps me glass over them. Meanwhile five more rats are trapped! I slap a coat of bottom paint on the hull, the tractor rumbles, and Taputu and the other yard workers lower Swell b
ack into the sea.

  “Maita‘i?” (All good?) Taputu calls, referring to the leak. I remove the stairs, shine my light, and see no evidence of moisture.

  “Maita‘i!” I confirm. We use ropes to guide Swell over to the dock since the boatyard mechanic is coming to troubleshoot and install the new motor mounts that afternoon.

  The next morning, I open the floorboard that covers the bilge, and to my horror, I see six inches of water shimmering below. My mind goes numb. I slowly pull off the stairs and point the light on the infamous location of the leak, filled with dread. Sure enough, salt water trickles in—and it trickles from my tear ducts, too. How can it be? No! Swell is still leaking. I curl up under the fan to cry.

  Whispers whirl through the boatyard about my news. People pat my back or tip a nod of quiet mourning. Plan B requires removing and replacing the entire four-foot-long bronze shaft tube that is fiberglassed directly into the structure of the hull. I can’t bear the thought of hauling her right back out. Christmas is little more than a week away, and my brother is coming to visit.

  That afternoon, the owner of the yard, who rarely converses with clients, stops me as I climb onto the dock. My eyes are swollen. I feel fragile and forlorn. He takes me by the shoulders. “Take a brrreak, make a tour of zee islands, forrrget about zis for a while. I’ll clear your visa with immigration and you can beegeen again after zee New Year, d’accord? (okay?)”

  “Oui, merci,” I sniffle.

  Big Bro and the Lost Chain

  James appears at the airport with heaps of goodies—including a mid-sized jib—in a rolling bag so big, I hope the rest of the family will topple out when he opens it. He’s beaming; I dive into his sincere blue eyes and hug him tightly.

  Back aboard Swell, I apologize for the mess. I had just hosted a spontaneous guest over the previous weekend—Jesse, the submarine pilot from my time with McKenzie. When Jesse and I left the marina, the engine had made a terrible grinding noise. Turns out the mechanic had poorly aligned the engine after installing the new motor mounts. We had to sail back to the slip upwind and spend the rest of his visit working out the engine alignment. So much for Jesse’s weekend getaway, but we discovered and fixed the reason for the repetitive broken motor mounts!