Ship’s Log Week Twenty Nine
Current Location - Neiafu, Tonga - 18°38'51.64"S, 173°59'1.25"W
French Polynesia - Astonishing Atolls - Tuamotus
‘Many yachts have been wrecked in the Tuamotus. Currents in this part of the ocean are notoriously unpredictable and varied’. (Heikel, R. and O’Grady, A., 2022, Imray)
Tuamotus were depicted on our coffee stained and much perused chart of the area, as amorphous, blue shapes, boundaried by a thin, smudge of yellow green, denoting a perilously thin line of land and an outer dark line representing barrier reef, sometimes taking in more than one lagoon.
Where there had once, over a million years ago, been a volcano now, for the most part, Tuamotus sat on the outskirts of an azure blue, clear lagoon of calm water, teeming with marine life, darting around and in between live coral of tree-like proportions.
Gerald plotted a course that took in five anchorages for Walrus off four Tuamotus. As we were to find out, each had a unique feel and the people of the motu their own ways of interpreting and living the French Polynesian life.
The inhabitants of the Tuamotus, for the most part, lived on the ring of islets made up of dead white, crunchy-under-foot, coral forming a barrier between the still waters of the lagoon and the crashing, pounding swell of the deep cobalt blue Pacific ocean. In many cases, it seemed there was a small gap between the Pacific shore of the islets and the formidable barrier and cliff edge formed by the outer ring of coral, resulting in dramatic crashing and cascading of waves over coral at a distance of a hundred or so metres from the Tuamotu shoreline. A sound, I’m guessing that had become so familiar to the inhabitants that it no longer registered, and for visitors, was a constant source of amazement and wonder.
When sailing to a destination Skipper Dicky and Walrus’ crew checked all available information - weather forecasts via Predict wind and the internet, charts and pilots to aid navigation, minimise risk and better prepare for arrival, For me a key focus was identifying opportunities for provisioning. Each of us brought our background, skills, knowledge and hard graft to the task.
In the Tuamotus the challenge and excitement lay in the navigation of ‘the pass’ by which tidal water flowed in and out of the lagoon, in the first instance, and once in the lagoons, avoidance of ‘bommies’, tree-like mounds of coral, lying just below the surface, close enough to cause damage to a boat’s hull and only visible to the human eye, with sunlight behind and when wearing polarised sunglasses to minimise the glare of the stunning, azure waters.
The pass, boundaried by barrier reef (the motu) on either side, acted like a funnel for the tidal flow. Depending on the width of the gap between one part of the coral reef and the other, the depth of the sea bed and the strength of tide, the funnel effect and associated currents could be strong and unnavigable without risk, evidenced by one unfortunate wrecked yacht’s demise at the entrance to a pass visited by bike during our stay. At slack tide, at the point of turn between high and low tide, when currents were at a minimum, most passes were navigable with care.
Makemo - Boulangerie Boulevard and beyond
As Walrus neared Makemo we were particularly vigilant having paid heed to the advice of WARC and warnings of those who had sailed these waters before us.
What about the depth - is there really sufficient depth for a boat with Walrus draft (1.8 metres) to get through? Is there a bouyed channel to guide us through the south east pass? Are there leading lights or poles (one shorter, the further taller- when lined up visually they provided a guide for safe passage through an area of navigational challenge)? Are we anchoring or mooring on a buoy? What about the tide - is it high or low on arrival? More to the point when is slack tide?
Even with the advantage of GPS and the chart plotter, after four days at sea, sighting of land was almost a competitive sport, with cries of… ‘I can see it’… ‘Really…. Where?’ … ‘Pass the binoculars..’, ‘No… surely not… just a cloud’… ‘Yes, got it, definitely’. There’s no doubt that Skipper Dicky was the winner in this case, spying the low-lying but distinct silhouette of palm trees on the horizon, a sign of land ahead.
We approached the south eastern pass into Makemo’s lagoon with some trepidation, having checked and re-checked the timing of ‘slack tide’ and arrived a little early, in eager anticipation and to avoid missing the window for navigating our first pass.
Skipper Dicky at the helm, we lowered sails and motored close to take a look, in my mind, much in the way of the horses taking part in the Grand National cantering up to the first fence. Outside the entrance to Makemo’s pass the waves were thrashing and crashing in multiple directions in an unfriendly and tumultuous fashion, in contrast with the beautiful calm of the palm-fringed islands either side and the lagoon beyond. Much like the Grand National jockeys, we circled at a distance waiting for our moment and starter’s orders.
At the off, a moment when the outer thrashing waves were a degree or two calmer and we could see the channel through the pass, Skipper Dicky turned Walrus firmly in the direction of the leading poles. Keeping engine revs up to maintain steerage, he pushed Walrus forward as her bow made attempts to lurch sideways in response to the onslaught of a swirling 6 knots of current, and the veritable cauldron of bubbling, boiling seawater. Walrus made her way steadily, with a firm hand on the helm to keep her on track, between patches of uncannily calm surface water, rippling waves on one side and the crashing of larger waves on the other, to the lagoon ahead.
Ominously close were the rocks showing just above the water to Walrus’ starboard, marked by a yellow isolated danger bouy. There was no room for error as we followed the narrow bouyed channel beyond the pass to the home strait, into the lagoon and, with relief spotted the masts of half a dozen yachts anchored not far away. As we learned later, this was to be our most exciting ‘pass’ navigation.
After the dramatic landscape of the Marquesas and a wonderful sail, I confess to a certain initial ambivalence towards the Tuamotus, which in hindsight was predicated on my own pre-disposition to hilly, undulating, green landscapes, a complete contrast to the flat, low-lying, barely-there islets of Makemo that on first sight, were, to my mind somewhat underwhelming.
I considered what it would be like to live on an atoll with the ever present crashing ocean on one side and just a few metres away on the other a beautiful, but potentially sinister reminder that the land that once was, a tall majestic volcano, had vanished forever, as would the motu itself in the future. I wondered how an ever-present sense of geological impermanence might affect the lives of inhabitants?
Gerald, ever the pragmatist, helpfully reminded me that these atolls would be unlikely to disappear anytime soon, maybe in a couple of million years they might have subsided into the sea, and by then it’s anybody’s guess what would have become of the human race. Simultaneously, I had a flashback to a passing image I’d spotted on the internet, showing a future version of East Kent with our much-missed home town of Sandwich underwater. I swiftly quashed any further thoughts of geological catastrophe, for the time being. With a quietly, hummed-to-myself rendition of the theme tune to Life of Brian: ‘Always look on the bright side of life… dee-dum…’.
We anchored in crystal clear azure water with fish swimming around and under Walrus within minutes of our arrival. A dinghy ride ashore to explore revealed a mixed picture of life on an atoll.
Municipal buildings, a sports hall, post office, bank and covered craft market, at the end of a long jetty, used to dock supply vessels, were neat, tidy, well maintained, of interesting design and, I surmise, the result of outside investment, probably from French grants allocated by way of compensation for nuclear testing in the Tuamotus.
These buildings and those of the three churches and school were a stark contrast to the dilapidation and general unkemptness of the domestic homes that lined the few streets of the only town. For the most part houses were unfinished with half made, half fallen down corrugated iron roofs, a melee of potential building materials piled or scattered in the surrounding area. Unlike the Marquesas, where there was evidence of community pride and responsibility for open spaces, with well maintained gardens, it seemed, in the main, the people of Makemo were content to spend time sitting, talking and playing music in the street. Initial impressions suggested an air of lassitude, which added to my sense of the isolated bleakness of a place founded on dead coral.
There were notable exceptions, having established there was one restaurant on the island, and given the depleted state of our stores, we enquired in the shop next door about opening hours. I duly stood ready to be first in line to claim a table for three at the allotted hour of 5.30pm, while Skipper Dicky and Gerald returned to Walrus to close hatches, in the face of rapidly increasing dark clouds overhead.
At 5.45pm I tried the handle of the restaurant door, it turned and I entered, calling out ‘Hallooo…. Bon Jour…’ to an empty room looking like a set from a 70’s sitcom (think Fawlty Towers - I know, I’m showing my age). Yellow artex ceiling, fake gold light fittings (wouldn’t have looked out of place on the stall at a Sunday morning Kent car boot sale) and a large screen TV with wires ripped out of the wall and trailing to the floor.
More promising, a table laid for three, perhaps evidence that word from our supermarket enquiries had been passed on to the mysterious and as yet absent restauranteur. I tried calling again to no avail and settled down to re-read my emails. Forty-five minutes later Skipper Dicky and Gerald re-appeared, still no sign of any life. When Skipper Dicky needs a beer determination kicks in; he headed down the corridor at the side of the bar, peering behind a mysterious red curtain (in lieu of a door to the loos) and onwards through a door at the end of a corridor.
Reassuringly, after a few minutes Gerald and I heard voices and Dicky returned with the restauranteur-barman-chef-waiter-and-takeaway-manager - it was a one-man-show. Our restauranteur, whose life journey was illustrated in the distinct French Polynesian style of tattoo over both arms, thin as a rake, I assume from using vast amounts of energy doing the work of several people, approached with a friendly smile and an air of no- nonsense, let’s get cracking.. He spoke broken English, demonstrated there was no wine by opening a fridge with bare shelves, before noting the order for beer and offering a choice of two dishes - steak and frites or poison cru, Chinese-style.
Despite long delays between appearances our restauranteur delivered delicious food and the requisite number of beers. The addition of the company of two sailors, also anchored in the bay, made for a fun evening, at the end of which, when we emptied out our purses and wallets, embarrassingly, we had insufficient cash to pay for.
Once again, the generosity and trusting nature of French Polynesians towards visiting strangers took our breath away, and gave us pause to reflect on western ways and the culture we’d left behind in England and Ireland. Having made assumptions or, perhaps presumptions that a ‘card machine’ would take care of matters, we were humbled by our hosts magnanimous response… ‘no worries… pay the rest tomorrow when you come ashore for baguettes’.
Next question - where could we find baguettes and what time should we call by to pay the money owed? Baguettes were to be found at the bakery around the corner from 5.30am and it was guaranteed they’d be sold out by 7.00am - came the swift reply. Our host would be up and ready to take payment at this time too.
Skipper Dicky and I duly headed for shore soon after 6.00am, not only did we secure ourselves four fresh baguettes and pay our friendly restauranteur, having visited the one and only cash machine, but we were privileged to see another side, the early-morning-side of Makemo.
Up and down the long, straight Main Street, the atoll’s inhabitants tricycled on their way to or from collecting baguettes from the bakery… with cheery smiles they greeted all who passed with an enthusiastic, ‘Ioarana’ (pronounced.. ‘yaw rana’ and meaning, ‘Good Day’). Boulangerie Boulevard, as I renamed the Main Street, had come to life.
The Savage Sea
Gerald had one last mission in mind before our brief visit to Makemo came to an end. Fascination with ‘the pass’ determined that he and Skipper Dicky take another look at the swirling waters, this time from the bows of Walrus tiny rubber dinghy. Dicky should have guessed the dinghy ride might be other than straight-forward when Gerald casually suggested a life jacket might be wise.
Half an hour went by, no sign of Gerald, Dicky and Walrus dinghy… an hour went by and I was just beginning to think through ‘sooo.. what happens next?’ Do I call World ARC? Do I send out a Mayday? When the distant purring sound of Walrus ancient 2 stroke engine came into earshot. Dicky and Gerald arrived looking a little shaken.
Over a recovery-tea and biscuits, they told the tale of riding the turbulent waters of the pass with only three small strips of inflatable rubber to keep them afloat. Having reached the pass and realised the current and swell were more than they’d bargained for Gerald turned the dinghy in the direction of Walrus. But as Dicky recounted, the land to the side and view of Walrus slowly receded as the 2 stroke engine struggled to make headway against the elements.
For a moment, things looked distinctly dodgy and visions of being washed out into the Pacific Ocean swell became all too close for comfort.
As you may recall from previous updates, Walrus dinghy engine was far from reliable - crossing fingers, while holding on tightly to the throttle (or so I imagine), Gerald revved up the engine to a level never achieved before and, like the best of happy ending stories, the engine struggled, Dicky and Gerald were buffeted around, and then Walrus dinghy pulled through at the last minute.
The heroes returned - think the Chariots of Fire theme tune or maybe, to continue the horse theme, the majestic black HSBC stallions, galloping through rivers, sending up spray as they forge their way to distant twinkly lights, you get the picture; a triumphant homecoming.
Enough adrenaline for one day, the pass had lived up to its reputation… and we’d had a stark reminder of the sea’s savage side.
Fakarava - Walrus amongst the sharks
If Makemo had done little to ignite enthusiasm for the flat, white landscape of the Tuamotus, then Walrus’ two anchorages, first in the south and then, after a glorious day’s sail from one end of the lagoon to the other, in north Fakarava turned the tide.
Fakarava’s clear picture-postcard-perfect azure water, submerged islands of pink, green coral visible below the surface, deep blue sky, sparkling sunshine, pretty, palm-thatched houses and a children’s picture book church and school, painted white with turquoise shutters and red roof invited us to take timeout. An invitation we willingly accepted. If there was anywhere to experience first hand the stunning beauty and extraordinary diversity of the natural world of the South Pacific Ocean, it seemed here in the waters of the lagoon of Fakarava was as good a place as any.
Fakarava is known worldwide amongst diving circles for the wall of sharks that frequent the coral cliff on the outer edge of the southern pass.
Exploring the inhabited part of southern Fakarava, walking through palm trees along a well-worn path, past a dozen houses on stilts with verandahs overlooking the lagoon, towards a bridge between islets, we watched the beautiful waters of the lagoon swirl and rush around the dead coral shoreline into and out of the Pacific. Even here in the shallows the treacherous nature of the currents was evident, paddling or swimming did not appeal despite the heat of the day. I passed a small church and looked inside, the interior was simple, with altar and cross, flags hanging from the rafters and three stunning, vibrant flower arrangements, reflective of the bright colours of the ocean and sky and the craftsmanship of residents.
The following evening we returned, making our way in Walrus dinghy through half a dozen or so black tipped sharks’ fins circling the waters around our landing point, a rickety walkway leading to a wooden platform built out over the lagoon. I focused on supper ashore, to distract from the theme tune of Jaws, images of bitten limbs and terrifying beach scenes playing on my mind as I scrambled from the dinghy.
Skipper Dicky and I settled in with a bottle of wine and a beer, seated at a long trestle table laid with colourful pvc table cloth, and several small, simple, carefully crafted flower arrangements, while Gerald headed out for a spot of pre-dinner free diving and face on face shark spotting.
We enjoyed the early evening light, a 360 view taking in the lagoon side of the pass round to Walrus anchorage and the sort of marine life spotting in the crystal clear waters beneath and surrounding us that would make the grade for a Jacques Cousteau documentary. A beautiful irridescent blue, green, turquoise fish the size and shape of a shoe box lurked around the pillars holding up the restaurant, shoals of silvery grey fish with yellow tails and smaller stripey fish that I recognised from ‘Finding Nemo’ darted in and around the coral and the ever-present sharks continuously glided silently by.
Gerald returned with tales of swimming amongst a multitude of fish, including sharks, some as long as three metres. We admired his fearlessness as he recounted chasing a shark to get a closer look and capture footage for Walrus Around the World vlog. Gerald assured us that the black tip reef sharks were not predatory and there was no risk in swimming amongst them.
Supper was locally caught BBQ fish and chicken with salads, served buffet style to locals, visitors to the island, who had come for the diving and yachties (in the minority), like ourselves - about twenty people in total. We were seated not far from the edge of the platform on stilts and during dinner I became aware of intermittent thrashing and swirling of lagoon waters to the side of us. When the locals finished chewing on their chicken wings they threw the bones over the edge of the platform. The sharks below became frenzied with the excitement of an easy to come by meal and the competition between them to snap up leftovers was ferocious.
The restaurant’s resident pet dog, was a small, friendly Frisson Bise type. Having seen the way the sharks attacked the chicken bones as they hit the water, I wondered how this little dog had avoided the same fate. I’m guessing he’d been taught early on to keep out of the water. The sharks dinner time display did nothing to convince Dicky or I of their benign intent.
Gerald meanwhile remained fascinated and signed up for the early morning ‘wall of sharks’ dive. Suffice to say, he returned alive having been surrounded by sharks riding the current on the face of the coral cliff at the entrance to the Fakarava pass, a place unique in attracting sharks to gather in such numbers in one place. Walrus first DJI camera now rests amongst the sharks, and with it the footage of Gerald’s experiences. Definitely better to have Gerald return without the camera than the other way round.
Fakarava - memorable moments
On 24th April 2025 Caroline (my daughter-in-law) gave birth to a baby girl weighing 8lbs, her name, Marlowe Lauren Bodenham. Roland became a father and I, a grandmother. The FaceTime call whilst sitting on Walrus deck in Fakarava’s lagoon, seeing Marlowe for the first time in the moments after her birth, will stay with me for ever. The miracle of human life and technology, a truly magic moment. Congratulations Caroline and Roland. Welcome to this amazing world, baby Marlowe.
The Tuamotus and Society Islands, of which Tahiti is the administrative centre are famed for black pearls. Fakarava had a number of black pearl farms, so it seemed fitting that I mark Marlowe’s birth with the purchase of a black pearl necklace to be gifted on her 18th birthday. Accompanying the gift, photos of her English granny in the small jewellery shop on Fakarava Main Street, with doors leading out to a verandah over the lagoon and a particularly large shark swimming by.
The World ARC yachting community has provided Walrus crew with many wonderful, fun and memorable experiences. Walrus’ restricted size in comparison with that of the catamarans and larger monohulls has meant we have been the recipients of hospitality, for which we have been grateful.
While anchored in northern Fakarava, as the sun lowered in the sky, creating one of the most deep red, orange rich sunsets I’ve had the good fortune to see, we spent an entertaining evening with Peter and Elizabeth and crew, Dave, on their 48ft catamaran, Watersprite.
Elizabeth’s words of wisdom about aspects of provisioning that I was still at the early stages of getting to grips with; how to make yoghurt with the remains of the previous pot, how to provision when the fortnightly supply ship comes in, where to find information about the sort of food items available in far flung places (No Foreign Land app) and other nutritous nuggets were welcomely received.
A tour of Watersprite’s galley engendered more than a little kitchen-envy. There was a work surface to die for, compared with Walrus couple of feet, on top of the opening to the fridge, and cupboards everywhere, including several capacious spaces in the galley floor. Plenty of room for a bread-maker, food processor and the Crown Jewels, in galley terms, a freezer, beer cooler and washing machine.
Peter and Elizabeth’s advanced provisioning status was evidenced the next morning when they ably demonstrated, in suitably regal style, the art of transporting baguettes from boulangerie, via dinghy to galley.
Skipper Dicky and I had been ashore to purchase the daily baguettes, the return journey had resulted in bent loaves (I have tried a number of strategies for getting down a ladder and onto a dinghy without bending baguettes and failed every time). Worse still, on this occasion, as I climbed onto Walrus’ bobbing up and down stern, the end of the baguette bag dipped in the seawater swilling around in the bottom of the dinghy. The result - two bent baguettes, one of which was now only two thirds edible.
Meanwhile, Peter and Elizabeth motored past, two beautifully upright baguettes held carefully on Elizabeth’s lap. Peter docked Watersprite’s dinghy on the catamaran’s ample aft platform with an elegant swoosh and the daily baguettes were landed, fully in tact. ‘That’s the way to do it’, as Punch once said to Judy (although I’ve got a feeling Punch has been put to rest and no longer says anything to Judy or anyone else).
We stayed anchored for a number of days in Fakarava’s lagoon. Getting into the holiday (vacation) way of life - despite the heat of the day Skipper Dicky and I set out to explore the motu’s far reaches on foot. We walked on a road built on white coral, keeping to the shade whenever possible. The road, bordering the lagoon, with its vista of yachts at anchor, azure blue inlets, with Angel fish, amongst others, swimming in the shallows between volcanic rocks, led from the small town square to an equally small airport several miles away.
Our goal, to discover the purpose and origins of a tall stepped building, one of few visible on the horizon. The building could have been an ancient temple, it had the look of a structure designed to impress with its symmetry and height. It’s position, close to the Pacific Ocean side of the motu, stark white against the clear blue sky and deep blue ocean, with mown grass around, and partially rusted metal ladder transcending the steps to the summit. At the top, a bell tower and on one side an inscription which set out the date and function - built in 1957 to protect sailors from coming aground on the coral reef. The structure was neither ancient nor a temple but rather a former light-house, with a bell for tolling in times of fog or other inclement weather detrimental to the visibility of passing mariners. Looks can be deceptive.
Our return journey to the dinghy dock was memorable in itself. We walked to the small airport, fortuitously arriving just as half a dozen or so trucks, small minibuses and the like arrived to drop off and pick up visiting tourists and family members arriving or departing on the daily flight. We took our chance and asked two Polynesian women for a lift back to town. It seemed they were in party-mode, talking continuously in Polynesian, shrieking with laughter, in between swigging beer and answering the phone (while driving). A suitably colourful end to Walrus’ sojourn anchored off the shores of Fakarava.
Journey to Rangiroa… dinghy disaster
In 1775 Captain James Cook’s second circumnavigation aboard HMS Resolution, took in the South Pacific Ocean when he made a detour to Tahiti and surrounding islands to replenish his supplies.
With little in the way of the navigational tools, accurate charts, chart plotters, Satnav, updated weather forecasts, that we have come to take for granted, sailors relied on keeping a careful lookout at all times, listening for the crashing of waves on the seashore and watching for evidence of bird life to determine the proximity of land.
Life on board was harsh and risky at the best of times, in and around the atolls of French Polynesia with their low-lying, coral reefs sailors would have been on high alert for weeks on end. Desperate to renew supplies but afraid to risk their lives. The dangers associated with landfall, sailing into shallow waters or obstacles just below the surface were life-threatening hazards to be avoided at all costs.
We on the other hand were fortunate in having information at our fingertips tips from World ARC fleet members ahead of us and a chart plotter with most of the Tuamotus charted. And, of course, Skipper Dicky’s expert navigational skills.
Some things don’t change, between Fakarava and our next destination, Rangiroa, we had a taste of the extraordinary experience of being haunted for mile after mile by the eery sight and sound of waves crashing high against the coral barrier surrounding an invisible and uninhabited motu dominating the horizon. It reminded me of walking along the Cobb at Lyme Regis (famous for the opening scenes in ‘A French Lieutenant’s Woman) with waves thundering against the rocks and white spray crashing high above our heads as seawater and harbour wall met with force.
I imagined the trepidation of the sailors who travelled these parts of the Pacific Ocean, often desperate for food and fresh water but at the same time in fear of being dashed onto treacherous shores.
Walrus had her own challenge en route to Rangiroa, yet another dinghy disaster. This time the dinghy in question was the robust, new dinghy generously lent to us by friends Colin and Diane. We sailed overnight to Rangiroa, with the sound of crashing waves accompanying Walrus for most of the journey. The night was clear and the sailing good.
Walrus does not have fitted davit’s (strong metal struts, usually set aft of the boat, from which to hang an inflated dinghy, ready for lowering into the water when a yacht anchors) instead Walrus’ dinghy was towed between anchorages on the end of a painter (strong mooring rope) tied on securely with a bowline knot. On this occasion, there was no issue with the knot - it was a good strong secure bowline.
At each watch we checked the dinghy, sails and deck. It was Skipper Dicky on the dawn watch, who raised the alarm - no dinghy… just a chafed and severed painter. The aft additional and never-used anchor with its metal frame that was forever working loose from its fixings and squeaking annoyingly, had slipped. From the remaining frayed end it seemed the anchor fitting had sawed away at the dinghy’s painter and some time in the early morning the rope ends had parted and with that the beautiful, borrowed dinghy had drifted away.
We were, by now sailing parallel to Rangiroa. The wind was blowing us towards the shoreline, we were sailing along a lee shore, with all the associated risks of being blown on to the reef. It was likely that the dinghy had been blown on to the shore on the uninhabited, barely above water part of the motu.
With the Pacific Ocean beating against the coral shoreline there was no turning back, the best we could do was to ask those arriving in the anchorage after us if they had had sight of the dinghy. I was, at first hopeful, bouyed by recollections of Walrus’ small original dinghy being found by the crew of One D, bobbing 2.5 miles out in the Pacific Ocean. Our luck had run out on this occasion.
As the days went by the chances of finding the dinghy diminished. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, I have spent many watches since, mulling ‘if only we tied on a second painter’, there is no turning back time. My biggest regret; letting Colin and Diane down, two of the most magnanimous people I have had the pleasure to meet. And I hope lifelong friends, despite our miles apart (Canada and England).
Onwards and upwards
Walrus’ anchorage in Rangiroa was a stone’s throw from a beautiful hotel with thatched bungalows overlooking the lagoon. We took an evening off and enjoyed the luxury of sitting in lounge chairs on a bar, built on stilts, with sections of glass floor to view the passing marine life, while lingering over a bottle of wine. We stayed a day or two, long enough to enjoy a cycle ride along the flat roads, crossing bridges over small rivers of azure seawater travelling from the sea into the lagoon and out again, spend time watching other boats come in and out of the pass from the scenic watering hole of Josephine’s bar.
Walrus’ departure through Rangiroa’s southern ‘pass’ was remarkable on two counts - as we sailed past Josephine’s bar and onward towards the open ocean two large dolphins swam alongside, dipping and diving through the water as though to wish us well on our travels. Then within yards we experienced the largest ‘fishy, splish, splash, splosh’, as I had come to name them.
The water in front of Walrus came alive with splashes, here, there and everywhere within an area of maybe 20 metres in diameter. As if poised in readiness a flock, 700 or more, black birds with white faces descended, diving and darting to and from the water.
Occasionally we caught a silvery glimpse of a fish, jumping to avoid a predator, maybe the dolphins that had just swum past Walrus were on the prowl. The frenzied activity of marine and bird life continued for several minutes filling the air with flurries of watery spume and feathery flapping.
The fish splashes ended as soon as they had started, perhaps all the fishes in the shoal had been eaten, the dolphins had had their fill or maybe the bolder fish had scattered and swum deep to ensure survival, whatever the cause, within an instance the air cleared of black birds, as they took up their former position, bobbing along sedately in a raft of black and white faces.
Tranquility returned to the sea’s surface and Walrus continued on her way as though nothing had happened.
Makatea
Walrus final destination in the Tuamotus, a 60 mile sail away, was Makatea, the highest atoll in the world. A motu like no other we had visited and remarkable for the lack of central lagoon, instead Makatea rose out of the sea exposing pale limestone cliffs with verdant greenery atop. We had timed our sail from Rangiroa to coincide with slack tide at the pass, leaving the motu late afternoon, sailing overnight with arrival in daylight at Makatea.
No need to plan for Walrus’ approach on a slack tide but rather the challenge as we neared the motu was to find one of four mooring buoys, bobbing just above the surface of the sea.
In common with other Tuamotus, Makatea was surrounded by a deep, deep cliff-like barrier reef under the ocean. Without the sanctuary of an inner lagoon, this motu presented a risk to visiting boats seeking to anchor, both due to the excessive depth of the sea bed and the exposed nature of the shoreline.
Walrus crew had, by this time, a further constraint, the remaining dinghy was both small and without a motor. We were reliant on rowing to shore on a none too gentle swell that rolled into and around the remnants of a once active harbour. We needed to find a mooring for Walrus as close to a safe stretch of shore as possible.
We were in luck, Skipper Dicky edged Walrus towards, an orange mooring bouy, suitably close to the shore and nearby another visiting yacht, Kaizel. Gerald caught the mooring bouy tether with Walrus’ boat hook in one purposeful swoop and secured the thick shell encrusted, rope to Walrus’ starboard bow cleat. We tugged hard and were assured of Walrus’ attachment to a stationary concrete block many metres below.
We took a moment to survey our surroundings and have a cup of tea. Some are attracted to the architecture of concrete, urban, brutalist skylines, I’m not one of those. With this in mind, my heart sank a little at the sight of the land ahead and I lowered my expectations of our visit. Three or four greying concrete pillars, broken-off at the top at varying heights stood starkly in a row, reaching two thirds of the way across the area of shoreline at the base of high cliffs. On the right, a long concrete jetty reaching out into the sea; to the left a fallen boulder of aging concrete, creating a small area of sheltered water by way of a harbour between the boulder and land, reached through a narrow passage of water funnelled between giant chunks of industrial dereliction. This was the abandoned port of Temoa.
If ever there was a lesson learned from this chapter of our voyage… it was, ‘don’t judge a book by its’ cover’. My initial reaction to Makatea was to be challenged over the next few hours. A call to the adjacent yacht led to an invitation to join a tour of Makatea with the mayor of the island, Julian Mai. Julian proved himself a wonderful guide to the atoll’s history and a man with a mission to re-ignite the glory days of Makatea’s past with a new vision.
We left Walrus and the architectural graveyard far below us. As Julian drove through dense rainforest, up a steep unmade track leading away from the harbour, he painted a picture of the port in its’ mid-twentieth century heyday. The harbour had been a bustling hive of activity, supported by the innovative design of a harbour arm that extended well beyond the shoreline to allow the continuous loading of Makatea’s unique asset, phosphate - not extracted from ‘guano’ (bird poo) but rather mined during the period between 1917 - 1964 from hand dug pits, 2.5 metres wide and 15-23 metres deep.
Julian stopped in a clearing and we wandered through gently swaying grass and willow-herb littered with large rusting iron railway trucks, a barn with sagging corrugated roof and a range of large machines which had seen better days, resting forlornly amongst the vegetation. The tale of Makatea’s past continued, with evident pride and a certain wistfulness for the glory days when the atoll’s population was at its’ peak and phosphate production had occupied every working minute of the two thousand, five hundred inhabitants’ lives.
We learned that production stopped overnight when the French Government’s testing of nuclear weapons in the Tuamotus started and the phosphate was no longer deemed useful or safe. This had a predictably devastating impact on the economy of the atoll with resulting depletion of the population, now down to one hundred and sixty-eight, with just six children attending the once 280 strong school.
The most poignant moment on the tour of the atoll, took place in a small clearing in the rainforest. As we explored the now derelict bakery, gingerly, parting vines to peer through a rusty door hanging on it’s hinges here and a hole in a wall where there was once a window, Julian sat on the tailgate of his truck, took out a ukelele and sang of times gone by and this once thriving hub of the community. He drew us into his world with his beaming smile, bare chest and rotund tummy, exuding sincerity, warmth and genuine open-heartedness. It was impossible not to be touched by his singing and the telling of the tragedy of the atoll’s tale of desertion by those who had once prospered from its’ riches.
We visited a cave with stalactites, hanging from the ceiling in dangling cones, bulbous stalagmites sitting on the floor of the cave and a small lagoon of icy cold fresh water for those brave enough for a swim, and then headed to the village.
Lunch, served in Julian’s home, was a delicious array of local dishes, including various fish parts, crab claws, goat curry and rice. As the meal ended Julian shared his vision of Makatea’s future - a destination for climbers. His son had produced a promotional film showing two young women expertly scaling Makatea’s limestone cliffs. Or, a re-igniting of phosphate mining… Julian was in discussion with the Australian Government about the potential for investment and support. His commitment to the dwindling population and the atoll was inspiring. I recommend a visit to anyone who is passing through the Tuamotus.
We left the island with a tow behind our neighbouring yacht’s, very much more advanced dinghy, holding on to the tube of our beleaguered dinghy, ankle deep in seawater and barely able to ride the swell surging into Makatea’s ghost port.
Our stay ended abruptly, when, Skipper Dicky was woken at 2.00am by the screeching of metal on metal, the troublesome aft anchor had come loose and was rubbing noisily against its frame. Looking around, sleepily to find the source of the irritating sound Dicky did a double-take, yacht Kaisel was steadily but surely moving closer to Walrus in the swell of the night-time waves. At only 10 feet away there was a real risk of the two yachts colliding.
Once roused, we set to, dropped the mooring rope and headed for Tahiti, six hours earlier than planned. A call to Kaisel’s skipper over VHF radio some hours later, established that Kaisel had been attached to a mooring bouy that wasn’t stable. The crew had heard the yacht’s anchor alarm but were not aware of their proximity to Walrus. Phew… a narrow escape all round.
Tahiti - Ted joins Walrus’ crew
One hundred and seven miles west of Makatea, Tahiti combined the geology of the Marquesas, with their majestic greenery- covered, volcanic hills and the Tuamotus with a ring of coral barrier reef creating the barrier between land and the Pacific Ocean. Walrus had sailed half the distance from St Lucia to Australia and, in doing so, she had completed a quarter of her circumnavigation of the Globe.
We approached marina Tainea motoring through an azure blue channel between the land and the coral reef surrounding the island. It was more than three months since Walrus had been berthed in a marina and we were looking forward to, first and foremost, having a shower, with running hot water, secondly easy access to a fully stocked supermarket and, of course, a beer or glass of wine ashore. Pictures of the Carrefour cheese counter had been circuiting the Whatsapp Crew Chat for several days, we had high expectations.
We moored stern too and enjoyed the novelty of being able to step ashore without getting into a dinghy and all that that entailed. Such is the abundance of marine life in French Polynesia that even the short walk along the pontoon to dry land was an underwater documentary in the making. Coral grew in abundance on ropes and walls, shoals of stripey fish darted here and there, catching the light as they neared the surface. A wonderful start to our time in Tahiti.
Ted arrived that first evening laden with spares for Walrus and all sorts of other items that we had missed from home, including more tea bags, you can never have enough. He took up residence in the saloon, Walrus having only two cabins, one fore and aft. Space for personal items, including clothing is limited to two small lockers, I had cleared the muesli and dried fruit and nuts out of one locker and fishing gear out of another to provide Ted with his storage.
Ted and Skipper Dicky met when they were six years old, they learned to sail together. Ted has spent a quarter of his life at sea, working as the engineer on tug boats for a number of years, delivering yachts and more latterly, he has enjoyed more than seventy cruises in various parts of the globe. He’s used to life in a confined space and very familiar with life on the ocean wave and brought with him, as we were to find out, a wealth of salty sea sayings to aid Walrus on her way.
Our week in Tahiti flew by with opportunities to stock up on the range of food that we are used to having easy access to on an as-and-when basis in the West; evenings spent with World ARC friends in the marina’s restaurants and the inevitable daytime hunt for spare parts. There was a list of ‘fixing Walrus’ tasks… first and foremost of these was fixing the temperamental and never-to-be-taken-for-granted-again water-maker. Also high on the list, fixing the shower.
It’s possible to cope with most things; often it’s only when an end is in sight that eager anticipation of a change of circumstances allows a moment or two of the ‘phew… can’t cope with this a moment longer’ feeling to creep in. We had, by now, managed to keep relatively smell-free and, sort of clean, using up to six cups of water a day and a face flannel. The novelty of camping style living that this level of super efficient water usage required, was wearing thin by the time we reached Tahiti’s shore.
Gerald has a determination and persistence in his approach to fixing things on Walrus which is somewhere between dogged determination and super human with a dose of single-mindedness mixed in for good measure. Most would have given up with the seemingly never-ending permutations of grim and grotty shower filter blockages and convoluted hose cleaning required to get us back to a remotely functioning shower arrangement. Gerald was a superstar and ploughed on. We are now, some weeks later, a cleaner crew.
We allowed ourselves a day off on a Tahitian Bank Holiday and planned an outing letting Chat GPT set an itinerary exploring the island. We started our day with a visit to Point Venus Lighthouse, designed by Robert Louis Stevenson’s father, Thomas Stevenson and built in 1867. The lighthouse, the first in the South Pacific, was of elegant design and had over the course of its history kept many European explorers, including Louis Antoine Bougainville and Samuel Wallis, safe.
Alongside the lighthouse on the grass and moored along the shore were the traditional vessels that the indigenous people of the Pacific Ocean’s islands, from Hawaii to French Polynesia and down to New Zealand had used to keep connected centuries before Europeans came to this part of the world. The boats, known as ‘pirogues’ or, in times gone by, ‘proas’ had a narrow canoe-like hull, with a stabilising smaller chamber, of similar shape to the main body of the vessel, attached by two curved arms. Tahitians love of this vessel continued and we saw many young people striking out with a single paddle in pirogues that probably differed little from those of their forebears.
As we toured the perimeter of the island, an easy drive in a day, it was a privilege to experience first hand, the culture of Tahiti, which seemed to encapsulate all our experiences of French Polynesia to date. Tahitians enjoying time off were choosing to spend time outdoors with family, often in public places, taking timeout, talking, laughing and eating together, sometimes while sitting or standing in water. Not a bad idea given the sweltering, humid, sweat-inducing heat of the day (and night, too).
My enduring memory of our Bank Holiday outing was the snapshot cameo of a Tahitian couple, walking downhill towards a beach together, she with bright pink patterned dress, swinging a handmade basket containing picnic lunch and he strolling beside her playing a ukulele and singing, both sported a not untypical Polynesian rotund belly. The joy-in-the-moment and love for each other that this couple exuded was a tonic and seemed to capture something of the spontaneity, warmth and open-heartedness of French Polynesia that we had experienced since our arrival in the Marquesas.
Society Islands… Tahiti to Bora Bora
We left Tahiti for an all-too-brief two day stay anchored off the beautiful island of Moorea. Somewhat similar geographically to Tahiti but less populated, Moorea’s steep, wooded slopes, with patches of exposed volcanic rock rose steeply above the deep blue sea below. Inlets, reached through gaps in the surrounding coral barrier reef, provided a safe and sheltered anchorage for Walrus, as they had for Captain Cook all those centuries ago.
At times on this epic journey I’ve reflected on the wisdom of committing to a year and a half of basic camping-style, living, while providing three meals a day from a tiny fridge, at the same time as being tossed up, down, and all around; having broken nights while taking turns on watch; and experiencing the shared stress of ‘unserviceabilities’ (as Skipper Dicky calls it… ) things breaking down, in other words. Sometimes thoughts about practical challenges dominate, I guess there’s a physical immediacy to the impact of, for example, pushing one’s feet hard against the opposite wall to prevent being ricocheted around the heads whilst mid-pee, that understandably takes over.
On the other hand, in the words of poet W.H. Davies ‘What is this life if full of care. We have no time to stop and stare’, Leisure (1911). The opportunities to soak up the unspoiled, wonders of nature from Walrus’ deck was a huge privilege which more than compensated. The two anchorages in Moorea were stunning, the half a dozen yachts anchored providing a fitting backdrop and, in the early evening light of sunset creating golden-hued scenes that will stay with me. We took time to stop and stare, read and enjoy the surroundings, going shore briefly for a walk along the shore and up a steep track to a tucked away cafe for ice cream and a view to die for. I found myself lost for wards to describe the myriad shades of blues and greens for the Pacific Ocean and landfall.
The World ARC schedule beckoned and we moved on after our brief, ten day visit to the Society Islands of Tahiti and Moorea. As we had discovered, there’s always more of the world to circumnavigate and the adventure continued with an exciting overnight sail to Bora Bora.
En route, we had the option of taking a long route around the northerly perimeter of two islands, or navigating a path between them at night, Skipper Dicky chose the latter. Walrus set off early morning under sail with the familiar sail plan of main and foresail and, as I handed over the watch to Skipper Dicky at 1.00am, Walrus sails were lowered and she motored for the next few hours, for good reason.
Ahead of Walrus, in the dark of the night, the outline of two islands, seemingly joined together with a distant speck of red and green lights, marking the start of a narrow, winding channel between them, invisible from a distance. One of Skipper Dicky’s greatest pleasures is guiding Walrus through navigationally challenging seas at night. The sense of exhilaration afterwards when Walrus had successfully completed the passage through the narrow ten-mile stretch between the islands ample reward, alongside the celebratory beer on arrival.
Bora Bora and beyond
As we motored through the coral reef and headed for the mooring bouys outside Bora Bora Yacht Club, World ARC fellow yachties from Imi Ola, whizzed across in their super-dinghy to help with attaching Walrus to the nearest mooring bouy to the yacht club. Already it felt like a homecoming. Meeting up again with the World ARC fleet after a long passage or cruising period was always joyful, with hugs and tales of sailing disasters and triumphs occupying many an hour in the yacht club bar.
Our time in Bora Bora was absorbed by catching up on the practicalities of life. Laundry and provisioning (the nearest supermarket was a mile walk away and had a limited selection of foodstuff), supplemented by purchases of fresh fruit from stalls at the side of the road; fulfilling immigration regulations (a convoluted affair involving trips to the local gendarmerie and reams of paperwork); preparing Walrus for the next Leg of the World ARC and, importantly, catching up with other boats’ crew at World ARC events.
There are definitely worse ways to spend retirement. Just the name, Bora Bora Yacht Club, conjures up images of James Bond sipping a martini (shaken not stirred) in the light of the setting sun… Glorious. What’s not to like, as an ex-colleague used to say.
Our all too short stay in Bora Bora came to an end with the start of Leg 5. Walrus was assigned to the second of two groups of World ARC yachts and as such the next Leg started on Friday 16th May and was scheduled to take place over the course of a seven day sail to the small island of Niue, where a 48-72hr stay had been planned, followed by a 5 day sail to Vavua, Tonga, the end point.
At the start of the Leg we had a light wind directly aft, pretty much ideal conditions for Walrus parasailor. Over the course of the next day or two the wind dropped and, at times changed direction so that at one point, Walrus was making 1.8 knots and the wind was showing as coming, first from the north, then the east and finally the south, then back again. An impossible situation. Walrus’ parasailor wrapped around the forestay several times, after which a small tear appeared along the foot of the sail. This was not the only challenge, Walrus water-maker, apparently fixed while moored in Tahiti, stopped working.
The lack of wind and the additional watermaker challenge, were starting to wear on crew morale, who had by this time, tired of the seemingly endless and by now, flat calm Pacific Ocean.
Ted came up with one of his salty sayings; if a silver coin is tossed into the ocean and a wish for wind is made, then wind will follow. I duly tossed a 1910 silver East Caribbean coin into the sea with a request for ‘15 knots on the beam’. We agreed that it might take some time for the small silver coin to reach the bottom of the 3 mile deep Pacific.
Twenty-four hours later no change. Perhaps a more direct plea to Neptune was needed. I called on Ted’s expertise, and a further coin was tossed, with a polite request to Neptune for 15 knots. Less than a day later, thirty knots, and we were battling with a weather system, tossing around in swell coming from two directions. Lesson learned; give Neptune more time to respond, before calling on him again.
The weather was not playing ball. Warnings of strong changeable winds abounded. Uncertainty spread across the fleet and WhatsApp Crew Chat reflected the varying responses to an increasingly challenging weather outlook. Some headed south to the Cook Islands, others headed north to American Samoa.
Initially, the decision on Walrus was to keep the option of visiting Niue open, while heading further North than originally planned, to avoid the worst of the weather system. As the wind strength increased and the wind direction changed to a more north-easterly direction, it became apparent that the mooring bouys in Niue would be closed, for safety reasons, by the time we reached the island.
And then engine trouble struck, Walrus’ engine was leaking water. If you were watching us on the Yellow Brick, as the wind died down approaching Tonga, there was one night when Walrus drifted without direction, with no wind to fill her sails and no engine to drive her forward. The World ARC team, several friends and family contacted us at this point to check on our well-being, we were touched and heartened. This adventure has proved challenging and the night Walrus went backwards rather than forwards towards her destination, was definitely a low point.
Gerald and Ted worked on the engine and, by the time we reached the final few miles of estuary leading to Vavua, had resolved that Walrus engine could safely be run for the time it would take to motor to our place of arrival, Neiafu, in Tonga.
We arrived to the very welcome sight of friends Diane and Colin’s yacht, Fruition. As ever they offered a warn welcome and we gratefully rafted alongside and climbed aboard for a cold beer and glass of wine. A great end to a challenging passage.