14 July, 2006

Marquesas to the stern

 

 

Anaho Bay_________

 

I have already written about my lost dink and the recovery, Herb’s spear loss and recovery, I said a little something about our friend Mike and his amazing catamaran, “the Good News”—he has airconditioning, ice cubes, world-wide internet, air compressor—it is a floating house, but with more electronics.  Since anchoring in Anaho we’ve spent a fair bit of time there.  He is a good friend with lots of hospitality. 

But all of this doesn’t say a thing about Anaho Bay, which, in itself, is as fine a bay as I’ve every anchored in.

It is beautifully mushroom-shaped with a shallow reef fringing its perimeter.  Every morning I wake up, throw on the fins and snorkel and jump over and swim with sea creatures right under the boat.  We’ve seen sea turtles and I saw a manta ray over six feet across.

There are some houses around the bay, but no village.  There is a trail up and over the ridge behind the bay that finds a village after an hour of hiking in the next bay to the west.  We’ve gone there a couple of times for bread and eggs.

A strange thing is that Anaho is empty except for friends: There is me and Brian and Herb, then Mike on the Good News and Hugh, a new friend on Bean Nuir.  In a bay like this, so close to Taiohae it is amazing there is no one here.

 

When Herb and I came the idea was to only stay for a couple of days until Brian showed up and then we’d leave for Tahiti.  But that was over a week ago.  Once we arrived, we realized that Anaho was what we had been looking for all along.  This was the S. Pacific; this was island life.  Why leave??  So we didn’t.

 

As we became better friends with Hugh and his family he taught us about some out of the way islands that aren’t on the “milk run” of the S Pac.  Hugh wasn’t going to Tahiti, but was staying north, first visiting a little island called Caroline Island.  It is currently uninhabited; it is five-hundred miles from anywhere; it has boo-coos of reef fish and crystal clear water.  Perfect diving.  And no one—I mean no one—ever goes there.  Maybe a couple of boats a year!

 

Herb and I decided Tahiti would have to wait just a bit longer.  Brian could not be swayed.  The lure of the internet cafes was too much for him.    Herb and I are more interested in diving and beach bonfires roasting our daily catch.

So after a week and a half…or so…it is hard to say how long… we part with Brian and follow Hugh the 600 miles to Caroline Island. 

 

 

Caroline Island____________

 

 

The winds were perfect: brisk and dead after.  I set my sails wing-on-wing and left them for five days.  I didn’t feel well this trip at all.  It was a bit rolly, but not so bad.  Again, rather perfect conditions, made 120 – 148 miles every day, all very easily sailed.

However, on arriving to Caroline, Hugh is the first to reach the lagoon entrance.  It is a blind pass, which means that it is a cul-de-sac of sorts, a dead end—but it would be a safe anchorage and easy access to the island.

But the first word was disparaging: It was only 30-50 feet wide.  Hugh strong suggested that I not try and enter under sail.   This was sad, but I had known that this was a possibility.  The pass was a question mark.

Hugh made it safely through and then Herbert—both, of course, under motor power.  I thought, perhaps I could check the leeward side of the island for any protected shelves off the reef.  It was a long shot, and a poor thought at that, but, why not?  The entrance did look terrifying: breaking waves everywhere you could see—it was hard to even make out the pass.  So it wasn’t hard to swallow Hugh’s advice.  So I set off around the island for a bit of exploring if nothing else.

 

Fate was not yet finished with the situation however.  Herbert believed I could make it or perhaps if I waited to high tide, he thought.  I said I’d consider it, but I already was mostly… mostly set on turning south for Tahiti, another 500 miles.

The sail around the island was beautiful but afforded no safe harbor.  The morning was still young and Hugh now even agreed with Herbert that indeed I could sail in the pass, but the real trick would be leaving again.  It would be almost impossible  The wind is nearly always easterly this time of year and the pass faces dead into the east.  To this Herbert countered that if I was willing to take the risk of sailing in, then he would risk towing me out (which still would be a risk to me).  The problem here is that Bamboo only has a ten-horse Yanmar—not much power for a dangerous spot.

 

What to do?

It was a tough tough call.  I went back and forth.  The prudent sailor. . .  “There are old sailors and there are bold sailors but there are no old bold sailors.”  But I wanted this experience.  I knew the S. Pac wouldn’t offer me this opportunity again for months, an isolated pristine island, that is.  Was I willing to let it pass. . . for prudence?

I felt I could sail in.  Herb could tow me out.  It shouldn’t be a problem, but somehow ther was this lurking fear.  I knew, somehow, that I could really fuck this up.  With the tide up, it was much trickier to see the edges of the reef. . . and it was so so narrow.  What was more, coming in under a jib alone, I wouldn’t be able to slow down effectively and there was no room to spare—none.  I’d have to shoot the pass like a roller-coaster ride, blow the jib to de-power and then drop anchor while still making good way, no room to even turn-to-wind.

Indeed it was a dodgy manuevre.  But my friend’s were egging me on and somehow I couldn’t refuse the challenge, the risk—I could feel the fear coursing through my blood and I couldn’t back away from it.

 

“Okay,” I said, “Hugh, talk me in.”  Hugh had climbed up his mast and sat perched on his spreaders with his handheld VHF.  He could see the reef perfectly.

I dropped the mainsail and prepared the anchor and jib sheets.  I took some deep breaths.  I headed for the breakers and the pass I knew lurked behind.

 

I know that my initial approach frightened the boys.  To them it appeared as though I was making a v-line right for the reef.  In reality all I was doing was trying to get myself in a bit closer to help my visibility.

Once just wide of the reef I again turned up and paralleled the reef until Hugh gave the word that I was lined up with the pass.  It was still invisible to me.  All I could see were breakers everywhere.  I knew there were none (or few) breakers in the pass, so I figured that it was an illusion.

And sure enough I hear Hugh on the VHF,  “Okay, Jonah, that’s it.  Turn downwind and jibe the jib over to a port tack.”  My heart was racing.  I was ready do anything Hugh said.  I was at the brink of panic.  I still couldn’t make out the reef to starboard, where the reef to port was auspiciously marked by a rusted hulk of a wreck.

But there it was.

Out of nowhere, all of a sudden there is a path—the waters parted—there it was!  A pass.  No breakers (never mind the swell).  But it had the feeling of a luge.  Once entering there was no turning back—all downhill and I was turning, falling into the hole.

I stuck with what I knew.  I jibed the jib, set it.  I could see well the port-side reef and I stuck to it.  Hugh was still talking; he kept me sane: “a bit to port, “ he’d say or, “take in that jib.”  Actually, that was the only thing I ignored.  I was trying to slow down and I let the jib fly.  I think he thought I had roller furling or something.

When I though I was still in the pass I look up and I am already closing on Herb and Hugh.

“Alright, it’s time to drop.  You’ve got to drop, Jonah. . .now!”

I was still racing along.  How?  Shouldn’t I turn head-to-wind?  I didn’t care to think about it.  Hugh was flight control.  He says drop, I drop.

I ran forward and dropped. It was so shallow it was on the bottom instantly.  It drug as I let out the scope and then I felt it snag and bite.   I set the chain and it went taught and swung the boat nicely around to starboard. 

I jumped up and doused the jib, laid it on deck.  Ran to the tiller and turned it hard to port to help the boat around.          And then I took a deep breathe!

 

There I was.

I heard Herb Cheering!  I was anchored perfectly in front of him.  I let out a loud howl.  I wailed it out.   My hands must have been shaking with the energy that was pulsing through my body.  I can’t remember the last time I was so pumped—so full!  I could rage, I could crush a diamond in my bare hand.

And there I was.  I was in.

I got applause and “A job well done” from Hugh and Rashni (his wife).

 

 

 

 

Ciguatera________

 

The second morning after arriving to Caroline Island, we all woke up with spear poles in our hands.  The morning was bright and warm and below us swarmed fish that have never known man.

The coral pass we anchored in was extremely narrow and is perhaps the only access to the lagoon so it is teaming with life.  I had never seen anything like this.  Schools with dozens of glowing fish: bonefish, parrotfish, jacks, butterflies of yellow, yellow and black, white and black, black; napoleons, rays, groper, snapper, tubefish, sea turtles, blacktip reef sharks, and I have seen my first moray eel.and so many others that I just don’t know, but marvel at.

Hugh shot first and took a big jack—unfortunately plenty big enough to fill us all.  I was bummed because I wanted to shoot my first fish.  I’d have to wait.  We took it ashore and started a fire to grill it for lunch.

A feast was had.  I brought rice; Herb brought some juice and the fish cooked up nicely.  There was so much food that I couldn’t hold back and didn’t have to.  I had waited for this moment anxiously: finally sitting on a beach grilling fresh caught fish.  I could do this forever.  We relished the afternoon.

 

We all turned in somewhat early which is rather common these days.  But as I rowed up to the boat I noticed some discomfort in my belly.  “Perhaps” I ate a bit much, “ I thought.  But soon it was clear it was a bit more to it than that.  I got that ‘tingly skin” feeling and my stomach was slowly knotting itself up tight.

I didn’t sleep to well.  I got up to use the bucket about every hour.  At least I wasn’t throwing up.  By the morning my legs became very sore and I felt like I had run a marathon.

I concluded that the fish we ate had Ciguatera, a disease that some reef fish have in certain parts of the S. Pacific.  Someone had said that Caroline was safe, but apparently that has changed.

Ciguatera is a strange disease that affects people differently.  Supposedly it can build up in your system and can be mild or serious depending on the case.  Since the first night I have been sore and tired. The second day I had some tingling in my feet and hands.  The forth day I had itchy skin.  There are occasional headaches and alcohol seems to intensify the symptoms.

All of us who ate were effected but in slightly different ways.  Herb never had diarrhea and didn’t feel really bad until the second day when I was already starting to recover a bit.

 

Anyway, that’s life.  We’re all lucky that it wasn’t any worse than it has been.  It can be terrible sometimes.  It was simply bad luck.  Eating fresh fish is risky, especially when there aren’t any locals to tell you if it is safe or not.  (We had info from another boat that it was safe.) 

 Live and learn, live to risk another day.

 

 

Tahiti­­__________

 

 

 

Finally made Tahiti.  I haven’t seen a city like this (Papeete) since leaving La Paz.  There are grocery stores, stop lights, round abouts—the big city life, in short.  This is quite a change.

The sail was strange—wind in all the unusual places.  Still a little lingering Ciguatera.  But the weather was grand until the last night out—a little squall.

More to come.

 

 

 

 

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