Oh yeah, my dreams have been answered: here I sit in a wifi cafe, local beer in my hand while folk all around me enjoy a range of western delights from pancakes with bacon and maple syrup, to chocolate brownies and lattes, to hamburger and chips. It’s lunchtime, a great time to test the internet it seems as everyone is eating rather than surfing. Andy’s on the boat, I think, working on the engine. Or at least that’s where I left him. INDEPENDENCE is delightful!

I hitched a lift to land this morning on a passing dinghy and have meanwhile eaten a delicious breakfast of eggs benedict and a latte while watching a presentation on humpback whales, dropped off an enormous bag of sheets and towels at a laundry service, visited immigrattion, customs, and the harbour master for various paperwork necessities, had a couple of t-shirts custom screen-printed, and had a thorough immersion in Gmail and Facebook. Alas, the latter wasn’t quite as exciting as my dreams from mid-ocean, but I’m loving the concept.

We arrived in the Vava’u area of Tonga on Saturday after an easy 2 day sail – just in time to join in the annual Full Moon Party and spend the night howling and dancing. In truth, we were avoiding ‘regatta week’ because it sounded awful.. yet more potlucks, smalltalk, and overcrowded bays…. but changed our minds when we heard about the Party. You know the best thing about proper parties? Too loud for chitchat, perfect for grinning faces and good vibes. Plus, turns out there’s plenty of space here for everyone, and some.

Yes, life is good, and the Vava’u is sailing paradise. Loads of small islands (an archipelago?), a reliable wind, low swell, plenty of protection. On the way into town (we hadn’t seen a shop for 7 weeks and were keen for fresh food) we tacked and jibed our way around islands and up wide channels, me at the wheel, Andy on the sails… in truth my first real opportunity to learn sailing, enjoy it, and risk making mistakes. Crazy (after how many thousand miles?). But good.

All is well.

Blob tweet*:
Sep 14 _14.278S, 167.160W _ Very Bored Of Shit Weather At Sea

Diary entry:
Not a fun few days. But not the adrenalin rush of our first
encounters with bad weather either. First, boredom. Second, just wanting
to have it over and done with. I don’t even want to describe it, don’t
want to remember it. Perhaps that’s what keeps the long-time voyagers
going: a well-honed ability to forget how incredibly rubbish the bad
bits are.

Not that this was really bad, not scared for life or anything (though
when the lightning started I did do a mental check of all our emergency
gear). No, primarily: bored.

There is also a new element to this trip, considerations not just
physical, emotional and psychological, but also ethical. Rose Island.

Rose Island; Wildlife Sanctuary.
–

I interject; you need some background.

Rose Island. Directly en route between Suvarow and northern Tonga, and
the thing that entirely consumed my thoughts during those first three
days of the journey. A simple internet search, sent to us by email by a
good friend, will tell you:

“Rose Atoll, sometimes called Rose Island or Motu O Manu by people of
the nearby Manu’a Islands, is an oceanic atoll within the U.S. territory
of American Samoa. It is an uninhabited wildlife refuge. It is the
southernmost point in the United States.

“…Rose Atoll contains the largest populations of giant clams, nesting
seabirds and rare reef fish in all of American Samoa. The fish
population is unique from the rest of the region due to a high
concentration of carnivorous fish and low concentration of herbivorous
fish. Almost 270 different species of fish have been recorded in the
last 15 years. Tuna, mahi-mahi, billfish, barracuda and sharks reside
outside the lagoon. In deeper waters, tunicate and stalked crinoid have
been spotted by scuba expeditions. Sea mammals such as the endangered
humpback whale and the stenella genus of dolphin also use the waters.

“The atoll is a critical nesting habitat for the threatened green turtle
and the endangered hawksbill turtle. The turtles migrate between
American Samoa and other Pacific Island nations. Their nesting season is
between the months of August and February.

“Approximately 97% of American Samoa’s seabird population resides on
Rose Atoll. Each of the 12 bird species is federally protected.
Red-footed boobies and greater and lesser frigate birds nest in the buka
trees. Black noddies and white terns nest in the middle and lower
branches. The root system is used by the reef herons and red-tailed
tropic birds. Other birds can be found in the Pisonia forest, the only
one left in Samoa….”

In other words, Pacific Paradise.

We know of boats that have visited, and of boats with intentions to go.
We have whispered its name since we first pored over charts in Chile.
Indeed, it must be exactly the paradise that everyone here has been
seeking, and not discovering. We even heard of a boat that stayed there
for three weeks several years ago. Imagine! An atoll to yourself.
Suvarow without the summer camp. Is it possible?

Andy was naturally intrigued to visit. In search of solitude. At one
with nature. And far from other people.

I was also intrigued (who wouldn’t be?), but also conflicted. I kept
thinking of my lab in Antarctica, the Clean Air Sector Laboratory, the
only place with any kind of scientific’out of bounds’ for thousands of
miles. A place that my companions would generally ignore and avoid,
mainly because it was too much effort to walk the 2km to get there. But
occasionally, just occasionally, we’d discover a telling pee-hole in the
snow, or see footsteps beneath an instrument that measured snow
smoothness. And I’d rage

“WHY DO YOU HAVE TO PEE HERE, OF ALL PLACES, WHEN YOU HAVE THE ENTIRE
ANTARCTIC CONTINENT TO PEE ON. why here? because it’s the only place
you’ve been told not to go?”

A friend asked me, do you always respect Keep Out signs? I laughed- I do
if I write them.

If Rose was restricted for weird political reasons, I probably wouldn’t
have been so bothered. But it is designated as a Wildlife Sanctuary, and
goodness knows we’ve seen a lot of decimated wildlife on this trip so
far: lagoons full of ciguatera, dead reef, a sparsity of fish or
colourful coral… of course people want to see what every place would
look like if it weren’t for the people… but therein lies the problem.

We thankfully side-stepped the Rose Debate . A few days before our
departure some friends en route to Tonga sent us news that there was a
scientific research campaign occurring there, and that the entrance was
clearly barred by a large US ship. Andy was disappointed, I was relieved.

And then I became curious. What a great opportunity to find out about
local habitats from experts. And interesting to see how this kind of
remote campaign was organised. And how much would I enjoy talking to
scientists there, honestly, about this issue of visiting yachts… and,
well, everything.

I wrote an email to the chief scientist responsible for the region, not
really expecting a reply. Almost by return of mail however, she sent a
very friendly note clearly not authorising our visit, but saying she’d
contact those in charge. I liked the fact that all the people mentioned
were women. (Not that I was surprised, was it maybe just a refreshing
change to come across women in charge again?!)

The morning we were due to leave I checked email one more time. Another
scientist had written: the ship has left, the campaign was over, the
island was out of bounds.

“Please respect that the atoll is closed to visitation. A primary
reason for the closure is to ensure quarantine procedures are followed
including ship hull cleaning/ inspection, rodent, insect, plant, and
seed inspections and quarantines. One of our biggest challenges on our
island refuges is destructive introduced invasive species. Most of which
were unintentionally introduced.”

Spontaneously grinning, Andy told me to put the coordinates for Rose
Island into our GPS.

“No”
“Yes”
“No”
“Yes”
“No”
“Yes”
“No”
“Yes”
“I’m going for a swim”
“Good plan”

We swam in opposite directions, me with vigour. Ranting with each
stroke. By the time I returned, after a long sweep of the anchorage, I
was in full inside-voice torrade. “How can we convince the world’s
population to change its ways with regard to climate change if I can’t
even convince my own husband to not go to Rose Island?” “How can society
ever move in the direction of communal good over individual interest?”
“Why do cruisers have to go and visit the only [tiny] prohibited area
for thousands of miles when they have the entire Pacific to ruin?” etc
etc. The issue had escalated to huge moral proportions.

I climbed on board. In silence we prepared to leave. “You worried?”, he
asked me. “What about?”, I retorted. “About the passage, the journey,
the sailing?” “Ha! I have bigger things on my mind than mere sailing!”
“You do, like what?” “Like Rose Island.”

“We’re not going there”, he told me laughing, “I know you can’t go there”.

I love him. And felt awash with gratitude.

Thus was our course decided: anywhere but Rose Island. I opted for Niue,
the furthest south, and therefore furthest from Rose, but we both knew
the strong south-easterly waves and winds would make that a hard
passage. The Vava’u Group in Tonga was the next option, requiring a path
far to the south of Rose. Niuatoputapu, to the north of Vava’u, was now
third choice solely because Rose Island was directly en route.

We departed wonderful Suvarow, course set for Vava’u. Conditions were
not great, but not too bad. There were a few squalls and seas were quite
big, but we had left, and were sailing. It was good to be free again.

A big swell rose from the south east, consistent rolling waves about 3m
in height that kept knocking us off our course, sending us too far
north. After about six hours we gave up fighting and changed our
destination (we didn’t really care where we’d end up). New destination:
Niuatupotapu. Translation: Very Sacred Coconuts. Seemed as good a reason
as any to go there.

The squalls really hit on the second day. Torrential rain, strong gusts
of wind, lashing conditions, seas of 4-6m with occasional big breakers.
We were taking shifts, day and night, in full foul weather gear, sea
boots, thermals, woolly hat… and still soaked through. It lasted for
two full days, and by the end we were thoroughly exhausted, and keen for
land. Any land.

All this time Rose Island was always getting closer. Worse, when we set
a route south of it the winds sent us north. When we set a course to the
north, the winds sent us south. However hard we tried, we seemed to be
heading straight for it. No longer was it a paradise refuge, it was
rapidly becoming a collision risk.

diary entry cont’d..
We have changed our mind about Rose so many times that I truly didn’t
know what the outcome would be until right now- three full days into
this journey.

First, no question, we wanted to go.
Then we heard we couldn’t.
So I wrote and asked if we could.
And was told we couldn’t.
So we headed anywhere but there.
Except the winds pushed us exactly there. So much it became a concern
not to hit it.
And then the weather got stronger and we got tireder and the waves got
bigger and the rain got louder and we ripped a sail…

… and things got so bad that we started considering going there after
all, despite our best intentions not to, just to find brief shelter, and
rest, and fix the sail, and re-prepare, all under the protection of
‘force mayeur’.

And I was so tired and the weather was so wild that even though my brain
said –no, it’s not right-, my body said –please, just a few hours, just
one night-.

A far cry from the weeks of solitary paradise we had earlier dreamed of.

And so I caved, and said yes and plotted our course. And on the chart I
re-read the words WILDLIFE SANCTUARY; ACCESS PROHIBITED.

And not long after Andy said, we’re no going there, I can’t do it. This
isn’t Force Mayeur.

And we changed course for the umpteenth time. Tired, desperate for a
break, but not going to Rose.
–

He would go where my ethics wouldn’t allow. I would have gone where his
ethics didn’t allow. I couldn’t go to a wildlife sanctuary except under
Force Mayeur. He couldn’t call Force Mayeur unless we were endangering
our lives or the boat. Strictly speaking no-one need have known but
ourselves. But we are the ones¸ ultimately, who have to live with
ourselves.

And so at last, after three painful days of ethical wrangling, we passed
Rose Island, and we didn’t visit.

diary entry con’t
When the system of incessant squalls has seemingly passed, the
relief is tangible. We both collapse and I sleep a sleep heretofore
unknown to me in transit. Is this a second skill I’ve learnt en route?
First: to forget; second: to obtain oblivion.

I’m tired now. Two or three nights to go and I just want to be there,
anywhere, anywhere with land. In truth, I’d like that land to be New
Zealand and this be the end of the adventure. I want to stop. I want
some home comforts. And to see my friends. I want to sleep in a large
double bed that is comfortable and doesn’t need to be packed away. I
want a holiday from sailing and living on a boat. I’m done. Eight months
is enough.
__

It’s the fourth night and the squalls seem to have passed. We are now
sailing well, and quite fast, in steady winds and what feels like a firm
sea below. Strong and steady- much more like what I was expecting from
the weather reports.

Amusingly, I find myself dreaming of being in a friends house in NZ,
wifi’d up, new macbook in my lap, frothy latte by my side (from a cafe
conveniently next door), immersing myself completely in Facebook. For
days. Writing to old friends, tracking people down, reconnecting, maybe
even meeting again. My daydreams take me back to old friendships that
make Andy feel like a very new arrival in my life. People who were a
daily part of my life but I have now lost contact with.

I’m loving my Starbucks internet facebook employment and audibly laugh
as I scan the horizon for yet more no boats. How the hell did I get
here- ocean all around and days away from the Kingdom of Tonga, a place
I couldn’t even put on the map a year ago. I thought that once I had
habituated into this life I might never want to return.The catchments of
modern life would seem so fickle. We would choose to sail forever, in
love with the ocean and the albatrosses. I would feel a revulsion for
the old world and all its trappings.

But no. I crave Facebook and a cafe latte.
–

As it turns out, the last two nights of the passage were glorious. Clear
starry nights, strong and steady winds, a relatively flat sea, good
speed, and comfortable sailing motion. On the last day we even had a
Good Life moment: sat side- by- side in the cockpit watching Zephyrus
sail herself bang on course through trauma-less conditions, eating pizza
freshly made by Andy and drinking my latest batch of home-made ginger
beer while the Tongan flag I was creating indoors lacked only a final
cross and some loops for hoisting up in the morning.

With first light I saw a perfect volcano on the horizon and Andy was
woken to my whooping and cheering: “LAND AHOY!” It was a spectacular
view made only better, a few hours later, by the sight of mother and
calf humpback whales breaching in the entrance to Very Sacred Coconuts.

–
*georeferenced blobs appears on the smilingfootprints map

Today we leave Suvarow. We've been here almost three weeks. Well,
three weeks to the day, except that we arrived in late afternoon. I'll
not forget that,- after anchoring for a second time, and after a seven
day passage restricted to the boat, Andy dove into the bath-warm sea to
explore a nearby patch of coral in the light of the setting sun. In less
than five minutes he was back on the boat, wide eyed and heaving
breaths, "you don't have to go far to be a long way from home". It
became our catchphrase. And that's how we learnt that shark populations
in the lagoon quadruple at sunset: feeding time.

As the days melted into each other I became less afraid of sharks. I
don't think I was particularly afraid to start with, having been such a
sop as a kid that no-one would dare watch Jaws with me (or ET, after my
mother famously drowned in my tears while we watched Dumbo en famille)
but equally, sharks weren't something I went out of my way to get close
to. I have now discovered that they are beautiful animals, sleek,
inquisitive, intelligent, and not very interested in eating people.

What they are interested in, is the smell of blood, the frenzy of an
underworld fight, and injured fish. Three things that occur almost by
definition when spearfishing.

On one occasion we went for a 'drift dive' in the pass with two
families. This involved taking two dinghies to the lagoon entrance,
jumping in the water with snorkels, and drifting with the dinghy as the
current carried us towards the open sea. Our youngest companion, Adelie-
age 12, wore a full length wetsuit and looked unfortunately seal-like.
She held tightly onto the dinghy rope and stayed close to her mum while
her elder brother and Andy ducked and dived all around, and usually
below, us.

The pass to the lagoon is deep, several hundred feet in places, and a
perfect shark habitat. We saw black tips, white tips, and a couple of
grey sharks, about the same size as me. The greys come right up to you,
not looking for food, just inquisitive, checking out the new activity in
their territory. When they got close I waggled a wooden stick at them to
look ferocious and they turned around, but I don't think they were
really that bothered. It was breath-taking.

One great highlight of our time here has been Andy's discovery of
free-diving and spearfishing. Every day he stays down deeper, looks
calmer, and shoots faster. It has come to the stage that at the end of a
snorkeling trip he'll calmly say, "shall I catch us some dinner?" and
return with something delicious in far less time than it used to take me
to go to the local corner shop.

We returned to the pass with two brothers who, like Andy, have been
practicing their spearfishing skills here. (It's worth noting that
spearfishing only occurs under the strict guidance and authority of one
of the park wardens, and hunters only ever take what they can eat that
day.) The pass was new and scarier territory, due to the sharks. And
sharks there were.

The boys float on the surface, watching, preparing, loading their spear
guns. Stealth. It is very silent.

Smoothly and without fuss, one will duck dive downwards, kicking fast,
propelling himself to the deep where he stops. Sometimes he finds a
coral head and holds on, lying horizontally, motionless. Watching him, I
forget he is underwater. Sharks and fish swim all around as he waits for
the right moment. A couple of minutes later, that feels to me like half
an hour, he looks up, pushes off, and rapidly ascends before his lungful
of air is depleted entirely. That is Bret.

His brother Chad repeats a similar action. He swims down fast into a
cavernous area but orients himself vertically, head pointing up, doing
slow acrobatics as he turns circles for prey. Then returns upwards
again. I have James Bond music in my head.

Andy's method is different again. He swims downward at a shallower
angle, straight towards a fish or group of fish. He hunts in mid-swim.

Ka-thwang. The quiet but sharp noise of a spear gun being fired.
Violence has no noise underwater, so you have to look in it's direction
to see if the shot was successful. If so, you'll see the hunter swimming
to the surface fast, holding his gun, trailing a frantic flapping fish,
sometimes trying to hold the fish as well.

The other hunters are beside him in seconds. Pointing their guns in all
directions, protecting him. The sharks appear instantly, they must have
been close to us all this time. The chase is on. They're brave but not
stupid and when a spear gun is pointed at their head, sometimes with
contact, they try a different approach.

Spearfishing lore teaches the hunter to hug the fish: it reduces blood
and sends a clear message that this fish is not for sale. The owner is
keeping it. Easier said then done, both physically and psychologically.

Chad catches a huge red snapper. Andy catches a medium sized Jack and a
large Parrotfish. (I can't help but think it is an evolutionary flaw
that the Parrotfish is so beautiful, colourful, and distinctive, and
also delicious. The upside is that it's a reef fish so only accessible
by spearfishing, not trawling or lines.) Bret is brilliant at swimming
after sharks. A team effort. After any given catch, we move to a
different location. After the third catch we have enough to feed our
dinner party of six and the guns are left inside the boat. The boys just
go snorkeling now, enjoying how close they can get to fish, playing,
doing somersaults, and seeing how deep they can go. Andy sees a grouper
hiding under a rock and tries to tease him out with his knife. One of
the boys starts laughing, swallows the sea, and has to come up for air.

Spirits are high, but respectful. Life is good. Life is abundant. Life
is healthy. We visit Apii, one of the rangers out in a boat, and show
him the catch. He was going to come with us but has instead taken two
recent arrivals diving, with tanks. They are somewhere below us, showing
their location by a thin veil of bubbles on the surface. The boys can't
resist and instantly jump back in the water, free-diving to depths below
the tank divers and waving at them from beneath.

This is a good place to be. Refreshing. The land is beautiful, covered
in coconut palms; the reef is fascinating, home to lobsters and coconut
crabs; the ocean is full of fish. A place to enjoy nature, and
appreciate how it feels to be a part of it too.

As I write this Andy is strapping down and lashing up: we are preparing
to leave. Water jugs are full (thankyou to the rain at Suvarow!), the
engine has been checked, sails are being dried, boxes, books, bags,
mattresses, crockery, pans, computers, random stuff lying around the
cockpit… is all being put away. This anchorage has been safe and
still, the kind of place you forget that leaving a coffee cup out on the
counter was ever a problem.

It's 10am. I suspect we'll eat some breakfast (I baked bread in
preparation for the voyage), say goodbyes, and pull up the anchor
shortly after lunch. We'll have a few hours of bold sailing in the
afternoon and by sunset will have decided our course. We still don't
really know where we're going.

Niue was our first choice,- the smallest independent nation in the
world, rich in caves, caverns, whales, and amazing diving. But the winds
make it look very unlikely we'll get there: too strong and pushing too
far west. Another option is the Niua group of Tonga, right at the top.
An island called Niuatoputapu, about six days sailing away. But in that
direction the weather forecast suggests we might lose wind altogether.
The third option is the Vava'u group in Tonga, 700 miles away, and
somewhere we were always intending on visiting. Our last country before
New Zealand.

In short, we'll go where the wind blows, arrive somewhere in about a
week, and be in exactly the right place.. if only we'd known that all
along.

Welcome to Suvarow Summer Camp- your very own tropical island
paradise, complete with daily activities and fun for all the family.
Watch the palm trees glow iridescent at sunset, swim with
extraordinarily colourful fish in one of the Earth's last remaining
healthy coral reefs, get up close and personal with sharks the size of
yourself, learn to catch crabs, spear fish, make coconut pancakes, or
just hang out in one of the hammocks, find a spot of pristine beach to
read a book, or engage in quiet meditation. Whatever you are seeking,
you can find it here.

Suvarow Summer Camp. Welcoming to all and virtually free… to anyone
who can get there.

And what a gorgeous place it is. Tom Neale lived here on his own here
for six years, in two stints, between 1952 and 1963. He was a brave,
intrepid, resourceful, visionary, and very lucky man. If you're
interested in knowing more, read his book: An Island To Oneself (Ox Bow
Press), or download the full text from
http://www.janesoceania.com/suvarov_tom_neale/.

We've only been here one full day so far, and two nights. I just rowed
Andy ashore to join a crabbing expedition, the results of which will
hopefully form the centrepiece to this evening's pot-luck barbecue on
the beach. I chose not to go 'though I'm sure it will be really
interesting. I'm pre-menstrual and just the site of the twelve other
dinghies coming ashore with day packs and happy camper smiles was enough
to confirm the wisdom of my decision. Some days I should just avoid people.

Suvarow is a national park, and nominally uninhabited. Two park wardens,
this year in the form of James and Apii, are employed to spend six
months here each year, from June to November, specifically to cater to
the ever-growing yachting community. The most important aspect of these
jobs, from a Cook Island Government perspective, is to ensure that the
strict quarantine rules are respected, to inform visitors of no-go zones
due to nesting seasons or other such sensitivities, and to collect the
US$50 landing fee. But the job goes much further, and everyone I have so
far met who has been here, or who is here, has nothing but overflowingly
good things to say about our hosts.

Which is great. If a bit weird. Like – take away all the bad stuff or
difficult stuff or uncomfortable aspects of everywhere in the world, ie.
the people, and leave just the paradise. Then pay people to ensure that
paradise is sustained. I guess that's the point of all National Parks.

Of course, the lack of language barrier here also helps, especially for
North American visitors of which there currently seem to be a majority.
(The two predominant nationalities found cruising these waters are
without doubt French and American.) And I also wonder if the lack of
local people is, for some, an advantage… no longer is there a need
for cultural sensitivity or an understanding of local politics and
economics. Just playtime in paradise.

There are loads of kids here too. More than I've seen, collectively,
since leaving Chile. Somewhere between ten and fifteen but it's hard to
count as they're always moving and reappearing in unexpected places,
like other people's boats. On our first morning, while waiting for the
official customs and biosecurity visit, we spent a good hour watching a
family with four kids rigging up a new kind of swing off their spinnaker
pole and then successively jumping on, falling off, being pushed off
and, when sharks were observed, rapidly pulling each other back in.
"Suvarow TV", Andy said with a big smile.

It is, of course, no coincidence that so many kids are here right now. I
imagine that two weeks from now (the maximum stay is a fortnight) there
will once again be mostly adults visiting. Unlike most cruising boats
who generally seek out solitude and a sense of isolation, families
attract each other and kids love to play together. So these groups of
english-speaking kids, ranging between 3 and 15, have clearly started
meeting up progressively more often since they first met somewhere on
the route from Panama to here. And, if I was a parent, one of the places
I would certainly choose to rendezvous with other families would be
Suvarow. Great for the kids, great for the parents, everyone's a winner.

Thankfully we had some warning that we wouldn't be the only ones here.
Every morning on the radio net we could hear boats giving their position
and destination: Suvarow. And given that at any time there will be
between eight and eighteen boats visiting, each usually with a couple on
board and sometimes a brood of offspring, the resultant summer camp
feeling is just about the best solution I can imagine. The only island
you can anchor by is not large- on a twenty minute amble around its
perimeter shortly before sunset we met three other couples
circumnavigating in the other direction (maybe there's a direction you
need to go so as to not bump into each other?), as well as another four
people at 'shark bay' where you can see black tip and grey sharks
swimming very shallow, very close to the shore. So rather than pretend
to avoid each other, best to get to know each other and have a good time.

I hear the outboard of an inflatable dinghy approach the boat, and
Italian voices calling. "Hallo? Hallo? Andy askk that we brring him his
maskk and finss." So lyrical.

Oh. So you're going swimming? Crabbing doesn't happen on shore? We
thought it was coconut crabs in holes. "Yess, we go over therre. I don't
know wherre exactaly, but they say aboutt fourr hourrs. Is a pity you're
not well." I tell them I'm fine. "Oh, really? You wanna come?"

I do consider this for a nanomoment. Swimming is an entirely different
thing. In a lagoon you can have thirty people snorkeling and still feel
entirely alone with nature. And the lagoon here, by the way, is
enormous. Absolutely vast (between 6 and 8 miles across at all points).
Unfortunately we can't visit most of it due to nesting birds on the
beaches, and the fact that it's mostly too shallow for the reach of
Zephyrus, and too far for the reach of our rowboat… so once again the
only way to see these places is to go collectively. Which I can see they
currently are: about six dinghies are all zooming across the lagoon to
somewhere beyond my imagination.

No, I'll stay. I am, after all, still liable to be a grump and would
have to throw things together pretty quickly. I'm more in the mood for
moving very slowly, walking like an old woman, and generally giving
myself large doses of my own tea and sympathy.

The zodiacs whizz off into the distance.

Hang on. Has the entire population of the bay really just left the
island? I feel myself energising already. I have the island to myself?
For four glorious hours? Suvarow Island all to myself? That's pretty
amazing. Hell, to share it with only thirty or forty other people is
pretty amazing. It's an amazing place.

Time to pack. Bikini (although if it's really empty maybe I won't even
need that?), mask and snorkel, book, a spot of lunch, washing stuff.
Apparently there's a fresh water shower here that was rigged up by
yachties for the wardens earlier in the season . When visiting our boat
said wardens took one look at our 1 litre bottle with holes in the lid
and spontaneously offered us the complete use of their facilities. That
was after bursting out loud in laughter and saying with a chuckle,
"jeez, if we had to wash with that it would take us all day!" (Cook
Islanders are typically not petite folk.)

–
Andy returned from the crab hunt a happy man. It was on land after all,
but far away from the main island. From what I gather he spent most of
the day with the four-child family anchored near us, reaching elbow deep
into holes and underneath rocks, wrestling with enormous crabs while one
of the kids poked at it from the other side.

In total the group returned with eighteen crabs for dinner. Does this
not, um, effect the local crab population?, I ask one of the wardens as
gently as I can in the evening. The irony is not lost on us that,
indeed, had the wardens not taken people crabbing then no crabs would
have been caught today, or any other day. Yes, and no. They're keeping a
pretty good eye on crab population and sizes on the various islands, and
have restricted crabbing on most… and, let's face it, if it wasn't for
the pot luck dinners then the wardens would have very little diversity
to their diet beyond local fish, crabs, and coconuts.

I further discover that during the months that there are no wardens here
other Cook Islanders visit Suvarow to go fishing and pearl-diving. I
guess this is the kind of National Park where humans are part of the
dynamic ecosystem. This works as long as numbers remain small and
catches, sustainable.

My day was delightful, as planned. I lay in a hammock and read, bathed
in the salty azure sea, had a shower, and listened to fantastic
classical music being blared top volume by the remaining warden who
also, clearly, thought he was alone on the island. Later on I was
cautiously invited to join those remaining for a session on preparing
coconut pancakes. To start with, find coconuts that are already
sprouting, with three leaves on the sprout. Crack it open on a big spike
(I was not a natural), and pull out the foamy white stuff inside. This
is what the milk turns into before it grows into the next coconut tree.
And tastes surprisingly ok. From there, grate the coconut, add flour,
water, sugar, and deep fry. Everyone agreed they were delicious although
I have a suspicion this was as much related to the frying and sugar as
the one local ingredient.

Since that first day we have totally relaxed into being here. Twenty
miles outside Suvarow the shaft of our self-steering windvane sheared,
meaning that we had no reliable self-steering mechanism. (For those
following our story, this is the same shaft that bent en-route from Juan
Fernandez to Easter Island, and that we replaced and fitted in Easter
Island.) The miracle of email, radio, and friendship means that in a
very short time a new shaft has been found, bought, paid for, sent to
Bora Bora and, we understand, put on a yacht headed for Suvarow. We
should therefore have the bar in about a week and can in the mean-time
enjoy legitimately going nowhere.

I can't help but smile realising that we've managed to get stranded in
paradise. Most people find themselves waiting for spare parts in the
shit-hole industrial corners of any given country.. and we are waiting
for our part in a place that has no people, no post office, and not even
a telephone. That's a skill.

Andy has been out spear-fishing a couple of times. The first time, with
a bunch of others (all men), he not only spiked some fish but also got
an amazing underwater sighting of a 50- foot humpback whale and calf
(15-20 foot), inside the lagoon. And he saw a turtle. The second time,
on a snorkeling trip with just me and two others, he caught three fish
that we all enjoyed for dinner: one electric green parrot fish, one pink
parrot fish, and one grouper, or maybe it was a reef-cod. Today,
following another crabbing expedition, there is another pot-luck so I
am, yet again, preparing cous-cous salad. One of the wardens laughingly
told me that the real reason why people leave here is that they run out
of food for the pot-lucks. I can well believe it. (Could we possibly
take a box of crackers and tin of sardines?!)

Me? I've been less active. More of a passive enjoyer of nature. The
snorkeling here is better than anything I have yet seen: warm salty
clear clear water, big fish, not too big sharks, colourful coral housing
clusters of tiny wee miniscule fish, small moray eels, big eagle rays
and sting rays…. and all this aquatic life extending for miles and
miles. On land there are zillions of birds nesting high in trees, just
as many trees and bushes, and all over the ground creatures scuttling
and buzzing: crabs, lizards, beetles, bees. But nothing very dangerous.

Thank god this place is so far from everywhere; it's so small it
otherwise surely would have been trashed.

I also joined the crabbing trip today but half the group, myself
included, went litter-picking. And a surprising amount was collected
from large gas bottles and science buoys to plastic bottles, lids, and
light bulbs. One of the kids even found a message in a bottle! All the
debris has washed in from the ocean. All in close vicinity of hundreds
of nesting birds and large fluffy chicks high up in trees.

Who knows what we'll do over the next few days, I can't imagine there's
a risk of boredom. I've even started becoming sociable again. Or,
rather, discovered some really interesting and sympathetic people, and
that it's really 'ok' to spend time with other folk from boats. Upon
first arrival I found the mass of people a bit overwhelming but I have
since been enjoying time with new individuals, learning their stories,
sharing in laughter, probing the point of it all, and life in
general…. just like summer camp.

On one evening we had dinner on another boat. As a special treat they
had chilled some champagne (they were apparently given lots when they
left, and have a fridge as well as the necessary storage space). As the
cork popped an analogy rushed into my head. Champagne bursting out of
the bottle, frothy and happy, somehow related to the spirit of the bay.
The lid of must-sees and shouldn't-dos has been released. No more the
struggle of a language barrier, no more the sense that we should meet
locals and not cruisers, and embarrassment of other (to my judgmental
mind culturally-insensitive) cruisers, no more the fear of
misunderstandings or cultural faux-pas', no more the foreigner. Like it
or lump it, one beauty of an uninhabited island (aside from temporary
visitors) is a freedom to be ones-self, and a necessity to accept others
for exactly who they are.

The two wardens are paid specifically to cater to the yachting
community. And they're having a great time. They're eating well,
laughing lots, making new friends, showing us around the island, and
being incredible hosts. They are both warm, friendly, and great
conversationalists (and conservationists). They strike a healthy balance
between engaging us in work (re-building the pier, collecting rubbish,
building a shower or stove for their base), and teaching us new skills
(husking coconuts, catching crabs, spear-fishing). There is even talk of
going camping next week on one of the outlying atolls, and catching
lobster there at low-tide. They build big bonfires, play guitar, sing
songs, live large. They show us ways of living off the land that their
own families don't even practice any more. They don't seem to resent us
being here, indeed, there's an argument that the place is better looked
after because of its visitors; the main attraction of Suvarow being the
pristine environment.

I have been enjoying one-to-one conversations more than the group
activities. Especially with some of the women and kids. To my delight I
have met two other women here who cook less than their partners, one who
has never made bread, another who was the money earner for the family
for the last fifteen years, and three who are still struggling with the
gender work balance on board and sense of identity-loss. What a blessed
relief. I was developing such a fear of being asked for my favourite
bread recipe or how I organise 'my galley' that I had started avoided
women cruisers altogether.

Last night was especially fun. It was Dave and Rayanne's twelfth
anniversary (yes, it's true, I have come to the most remote place in the
whole frikkin' world and found someone else with almost exactly the same
name as me. But I'm being very grown up about it.) and somehow I
volunteered to baby-sit the kids for a few hours. I rowed over to ask
when they might like to come over for popcorn and a movie and about
thirty seconds later discovered two fearless kids, ages three and six,
sitting in my row-boat demanding an adventure. So we went a-visiting.

First we went to Silver Lining (a French/US family of four) and were fed
tea, juice, and figgy biscuits while the three year-old girl happily
explored all corners of the deck and rails in a way that would raise the
heart-rate of even the most relaxed land-lubbing parents. Then we went
to Liquid Courage (two american men, middle-aged) where I drank a beer
and the kids played with pins and stuffed toys but sadly we had arrived
a bit too early for chocolate cake. Next we rowed all the way across the
bay to Broken Compass (two twenty-something Californian guys, twins) who
have a gorgeous husky on board that was a bit too friendly and resulted
in both kids clambering high on my lap and shoulders and throwing bits
of dried fish at her in order to keep her away. The sun was setting, and
we could see sharks larger than the kids swimming around us, so the next
two visits were a bit shorter. First to a catamaran called Zenitude (an
older Italian couple) where the little girl got to bounce on the
trampoline – gently and for not too long- and then to Tutatis (Brazilian
couple in their forties) who asked us all about our adventures.

"Tell them what you saw this morning", I encouraged the boy (age 6). He
looks at me quizzically.
"I saw a star fish?"
"Well that is cool, but I was kind of thinking of the bigger thing."
"Um- I dove for a fish?"
"Even bigger"
"The whales?"
Yes. The whales. That morning they had seen two whales leaping and
slapping their tails for several minutes just outside the reef. Every
adult who was there told me it was the coolest thing that they'd seen
yet but for these kids I guess it was just one in a long list of every
day amazements.

The sun was dropping so we had to miss the remaining boats (British,
Danish, French, and American) but were invited to collect Andy and take
the kids for dinner back on Silver Lining where the teenage boys did
most of the babysitting while we drank wine and either laughed at them
or ignored them. Around 9pm we returned to Zephyrus to play with Rocky
the racoon, make the bed (in proof that there really wasn't a bedroom on
board where they could stay), and read them a passage from The Hobbit.
"That's REALLY different from the Bilbo Baggins story we have. In our
book he goes on adventures and meets dragons and everything." Ah, I
guess that would be the condensed version.

We return the kids home happy and sleepy. They had been in my care for
six hours and not a single peep of anxiety, squabble, or a whimper. And
I had never played with them before.

So. We are enjoying this bubble, eating well, making friends, learning
new skills, doing odd-jobs, discovering underwater treasures, and
generally being happy. A holiday within a holiday. Or a holiday within
an adventure.

[Aug 22] I feel a tremendous surge of optimism right now, like life is
beginning again and the future is a whole spectrum full of opportunity.
I feel young, energised, and excited.

What a brilliant night, complete with monsoonal rains, strong squalls,
bright stars, an almost full moon, and magical airs.

The booby died this evening, on deck. Were the surrounding storms a
response to his dying, or his death a response to the storms?

On my first shift the winds became so slight that our large genoa
flapped and flopped, seeking some consistent force of air. But behind us
I could see a heavy black ridge approaching, dark line in the sky. And
behind that: grey blank.

I watched the clouds progress upon us, in both awe and trepidation.
Perhaps it'll blow through and be nothing, my imagination over-zealous.
Steadily it gained on us, taking no hostages.

I call to Andy, are you still awake? He's not. I go inside, nudge him,
ask a little louder. Conditions are still eerily calm outside. And he's
definitely not awake. I think- I can do this on my own, it's nothing on
previous weather we've experienced. But we do still have the genoa up.
Now, right now, would be the time to take it down and change for a
smaller sail. Before the squall hits. But I can't do that on my own, or
won't, especially not at night-time.

I decide to wait, see it through. The ocean is relatively flat and wind
alone, I keep reminding myself, can't knock us over. Or not for long.

The black line is almost upon us. Directly above I still see stars and
puffy clouds. But that picture stops abruptly with what looks like an
enormous, expansive, manta ray flying above. Silent elegant gliding
motion with no apparrent propulsion. Or so it seems.

The manta is now directly overhead and still conditions are okay. The
wind speed has picked up a little, maybe a few spots of rain. But I am
wide awake with adrenalin racing through me.

I don't want to do this alone.
I do want to do this alone.
I don't want to do this alone.

Before I even know what I've done, I've called his name, loudly, twice.
But when he wakes and orientates himself I pretend he woke himself. "No,
no, nothing to worry about, there's just another system coming through
and I think it's about to pick up. Yeah, I'm fine, no need to get up
[subtext: but please stay awake, or wakeable]".

Slowly he rouses, stretches, pokes his head out of the hatch: nothing
too alarming going on yet. And then the rains start and the winds howl.
He's inside, hatches battened [I have him just where I want him], and
I'm outside, wet wet wet. We go through it together. I'm very glad he's
awake.

It takes about twenty minutes for the manta's front edge to be
definitely ahead of us. I can still see stars to my left, weirdly, but
we are definitely remaining under the manta's long cloak. There are no
signs of it ending.

Somewhat reluctantly Andy comes outside to change the sail. The rains
have temporarily eased and winds are once again manageable, but we can
see only grey clag to the horizon. The wind direction has shifted and at
a minimum we need to put the sail on the other side, which involves
first repositioning the pole. And if we're going to do all that it's
prudent to consider changing the sail at the same time.

But before all else, the bird. He's made himself quite at home on the
foredeck where there's about to be a lot of action. If he isn't first
hit by a dropping sail then he'll be knocked by a long pole or
accidentally tripped over and kicked.

He attacks when Andy encourages him to move. Boat hook action required,
and eventually he is nudged to a place of safety. Still he doesn't fly
away.

The genoa is dropped and removed, pole repositioned, jib hanked on, new
sail raised…. and the manta finally passes by. Stars reappear once
again and we crawl along at three knots.

Andy's now been with me for an hour and his watch would be about to
start. Anyway, he's wide awake and boiling hot from running around on
deck so he chooses to stay up. As I prepare to rest I see him through
the window talking to the bird, gently reaching out to touch it. No sign
of attack. Not long after I hear a gentle plop as the bird is reunited
with the sea.

It is sad.

Silence.

And slow, slow, progress.

I know Andy is considering the genoa again. Wisely, he decides to first
have a cup of tea. Thank god for British rituals. The kettle boils, I
make tea, we watch the stars and feel the boat lolling nowhere. He's
watching the speed on the GPS. I'm guessing the wager he's made: if it
doesn't reach five knots by the end of this cup, I'm changing the sail.

Slurp. Sip. Silence.

A puff. Or two. Four knots, four and a half. Three point two.

A stronger puff. A five! A five point five. A four point five. And the
tea is finished. The smaller sail stays.

Thank god for tea. An hour later a huge squall has come through and Andy
is soaked from head to toe, hand-steering the boat because the wind
direction keeps shifting, his feet ankle deep in rainwater in the cockpit.

From inside I hear the sail being pulled across to the starboard side
again, with no pole, and the wind on our side. We're screaming along.

I get up- are you okay? Can I help? I'm not sure, he says (unusually).
So I keep him company. In fact, I do nothing practical and say little,
but I stay present. The same as I wanted from him earlier. There is
comfort in companionship, and knowledge that we could act quickly if
required.

It wasn't required. After about fifteen minutes the worst passed and I
lie down again, leaving him to his shift. He wakes me at 3am, there's
been a momentary lull so he'll have some rest (and my shift is due to
start now anyway). He's been hand-steering all this time.

I take over. Ten minutes in, another squall. Rain, wind, crazy
directions, steer downwind, keep the boat with the wind, wearing a full
foul-weather jacket but still feeling wet.

It's great. I whoop. "You okay?" he calls. "Just great" I holler. It's
only wind, the sea is still quite flat, and wind can't knock me over.
Let's ride this baby! West, north-west, whoa, why's the wind over there
now? South-west, south. Full South and the wind's behind me, then it
comes back from the east and we're going west again. Long ago I learnt
to make that arrow work for me. It still points counterintuitively, to
my mind, so I just head for the tail.

I recall that first storm off the coast of Chile, a crash course in
steering downwind. We had no sails up, three looped 100m ropes (warps)
dragging behind, and still were making nine and ten knots surfing down
waves.

By comparison, this is child's play. I'm not scared, I'm even enjoying
myself. Bring on the clutch control, jump on that free-wheeling bicycle,
fly with the wind.

It's over before I'm exhausted, I still feel adrenalin pulsing through
me. By 4am we have remarkably pleasant conditions again. By 4.30 the
boat is steering herself, perfectly, bang on course. It's now 5.30 and I
see stars in all directions. I have been writing for a fair while and
not touched a thing.

The night made me alert. Arm hairs stand on end, eyes are wide open,
head clear and awake. Somewhere between adrenalin rushing through my
veins and the wind settling down I start daydreaming, vividly.

This is one of my favourite activities. I am fully alert, watching the
sky, the GPS, the sail, the compass, feeling the wind and the chill in
the air. My attention is not immediately needed for the present but it
could be any minute so reading a book or listening to a podcast are out
of the question. And anyway, they don't tally with my current state of
chemical composition.

I dream of futures, and presents, and sometimes the past. I talk with my
son as he leaves home to explore the world, and find that I am crying. I
spend years exploring the oceans and its people with Andy, on a small
boat. We make documentaries. I write stories. (Why? In search of
purpose? Justification? Or a genuine desire to share these wonders?) He
learns ancient survival skills and I learn to read the clouds and
constellations. Next I am deeply engrossed in my work again, always
climate change related. People and climate, influencing each other. I
discover that whenever my fantasy work takes over, as it has also in the
past, I lose my sense of today. I lose the magic of now. I have kids
again. This time they don't go to school, but learn from toads and
oceans. Clearly I've been influenced by an essay I read earlier today:
Small Silences by Edward Hoagland (Harper's Magazine July 2004, Best
American Science Writing 2005). My mind continues to leap and spiral,
and I feel effused with potential and joy, … glee? Hoagland writes,

"Some people scarcely know what to do with their bonus time – doubled
life spans plus round-the-clock availability of artificial light-
because nature doesn't deal in bonuses. The sun rises and sets when it
did a million years ago, with daylight altering by immemorial increments
as the planet rolls. It doesn't award you an extra hour if you have a
deadline. Can you make it? nature asks instead, if it says anything at
all. But secondly, and curiously, I think, it speaks in terms of glee.
Glee is like the froth on beer or cocoa. Not especially necessary or
Darwinian, it's not the carrot that balances the stick, because quieter
forms of contentment exist to reward efficiency. Glee is effervescence.
It's bubbles in the water – beyond efficiency- which your thirst doesn't
actually need.

Bubbles are physics, not biology, and glee, if the analogy is to carry
far, may be an artesian force more primordial than evolutionary. To me,
it's not a marker for genetic advantages such as earning more, but an
indicator that life – the thread of Creation, the relic current that has
lasted all this way- is ebullient."

"Now it is a strange thing, but things that are good to have and days
that are good to spend are soon told about, and not much to listen to;
while things that are uncomfortable, palpitating, and even gruesome, may
make a good tale, and take a deal of telling anyway. They stayed long in
that good house, fourteen days at least, and they found it hard to
leave. Bilbo would have gladly stopped there for ever and ever- even
supposing a wish would have taken him right back to his hobbit-hole
without trouble. Yet there is little to tell about their stay.

..His house was perfect, whether you liked food, or sleep, or work, or
story-telling, or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a
pleasant mixture of them all. Evil things did not come into that valley."

- The Hobbit, upon visiting the Last Homely House in the fair elvish
valley of Rivendell, where Elrond lives.

And so it is with me. Such a lovely journey, and so little to say. But
considering the pages I have spent on all things less good thus far, it
seems only right and proper to give the good times some paragraphs too.

Should I write of the soft warm air, and the sparkling glistening ocean,
endless blue with silver stars on every crest? Or the gentle motion of
the boat (when the sails are set right…) carrying us silently on
course at about five knots? The light blue sky scattered with
non-threatening puffs of white clouds, miles away, surely deserves a
mention as it this that sets the heart and mind at ease. Not only are
conditions good now, but a scout in all directions suggests they'll
stay. Unlike last night when heavy, ominous, fronts of black passed
across us followed by winds, waves, and rain that made the boat quite
hard to handle. But today is once again good. So good.

The boat, of course, still rolls and rocks so the schedule remains
gentle and careful. Daytime naps and book-reading interrupted by easily
digested food, a radio sched, and random chat. The movement carries us
up and down, side to side, forwards backwards. When exacerbated nausea
is avoided by enjoying the horizon and ignoring signals from the inner ear.

Our Canadian flag flaps, the wind vane flicks, the water purrs around
us, and the sun's heat encompasses us. This is the Pacific, and the
trade winds, of lore, and I relish every day that it lasts.

A booby lands on our boat (that's a sea bird).

He's looking right at me now. Long white, sharp, beak. Friendly eyes.
Where are his ears hidden in that soft down on his head? I'm so close I
can make out corrugations along his beak, for grabbing fish?, and what
look like nostrils just above.

His down is so soft I want to stroke him. Small brown feathers cover his
back, wings, and neck, and his belly is white. Now he hides his head
completely inside his back, under a wing, and rests.

First he landed on the edge of the solar panels but had comical ability
hanging on, sliding from side to side until he eventually slipped right
off – plop- onto our brown canvas sunshade. The same colour as him. As
birds go, he's reasonably large, like a big duck or a small goose, and
weighty, and was peculiarly ungainly on that loose cloth. He rolled
around there for a while, flattening himself (or herself?) against the
ever moving material but it was clearly not conducive to rest.

Briefly, and foolishly, a perch was next found on the flat face of the
solar panels. Here he had no grip at all and literally sloped right off
the side. I thought he'd have had enough at that point but he stayed
where he landed, on the deck, right next to a window. Which is why I am
now so close I can see individual wing feathers. He's fast asleep.

We're about 125 miles from Suvarow, the closest land that I know of
around here, so maybe this is a lucky pause for him, a chance to
re-energise out on the wide open sea.

Andy has dozed off in the cockpit. He wakes, stretches, and checks out
how our visitor is doing. Almost in synch, the bird raises his head,
shakes his feathers, and also stretches. He walks up to the front of the
boat, checks out the scenery, and settles down again for another sleep.
Do seabirds like he sleep on the wing? Or on the sea? They must do. And
where has he come from? We're going downwind, surely the easiest way to
fly, are we un-doing all his hard work getting here? No, I tell Andy,
I'm sure birds have some kind of inner sense of direction, inner
magnetism. But we're a ferro-cement boat, he retorts, we're screwing
with his homing device. O no. Before, I wanted to know more about fish.
Now I want to know more about birds. Must take more reference books on
the next trip.

[Next trip?!]

The kettle is slowly coming to the boil, even that is slow today. It's a
baking hot day but true to our heritage we still love an afternoon
cuppa. As I said, the days are good. We expect to arrive in Suvarow
sometime tomorrow. No hurry.

Great advances have been made in the War on Noise aboard Zephyrus in
recent weeks. This can mostly be attributed to the total invasion, and
subsequent evacuation, of the corner cupboard in the galley, previously
better known as the Cupboard of Plastic Doom.

This last stronghold of anarchy has always been home to unwanteds and
undesirables, indeed its cavernous nature and difficult access
specifically attracted such retrobates. Before long, the governing
parties nominally in charge of this no-go zone rebranded it 'Tupperware
Cupboard' in the vague hope that this might instil a sense of order and
pride amongst residents. All who lived within, however, could see the
facade, further acknowledged by the fact that said Governors never dared
visit the region beyond a cursory look through the access door (that
sits high above all the residents even in the rockiest of seas), always
accompanied by a look of resignation and defeat.

Inside The Void, as it is known to locals, plastic tubs of all sizes
rolled and slid amongst glass jars (some with ancestry amongst purveyors
of fine jams no less), numerous thermos flasks (each with a single
defect), mixing bowls of various materials and sizes, rusting sieves, a
set of four multi-coloured plastic espresso cups, with saucers, and a
wide array of lids who lost their pots many moons ago.

To add insult to injury, The Void is the last remaining 'indoor' space
that oceanic salt water can still access. The Governors were well aware
of the situation but only ever took cosmetic action: the corners into
the cockpit have been re-sealed three times since the boat's refit but
only ever from the outside, testament indeed to the Governors dismissal
and fear of entering The Void itself. The entry of seawater was also the
reason why this region was designated fit only for plastic unwanteds in
the first place: all items of greater value to the Governors being
given, of course, homes in the dry. The resultant sticky salt layer that
coats all Void residents is the reason for their derogatory nickname,
'The Crusties'.

Something must have changed amongst the Governance as, one fateful day
in late July, a full call to order and inspection was implemented,
without prior notice. All inhabitants were force-marched out of their
homes, scrubbed with fresh water, and lined up in a parade. Those
parties deemed 'space-wasters and noise-makers' were broken, donated, or
sent to a Polynesian landfill site. All glass jars fit this description
barring those deemed useful as future paint pots. These were instantly
re-labelled and re-housed amongst the hardware department, a department
already so over-crowded that there is zero possibility of any objects
rolling around or clinking as the boat rocks and lollops. Lids without
bases, however, had no such possibility for re-branding and survival.

Unbeknownst to the Crusties, a similar scrub-out had occurred the day
before in 'Herb and Spice Land', just upstairs from Plastic Doom but
much more accessible to any chef. Due to its accessibility and pride of
place, popular celebrities were often found in this area despite their
official home being in the bilge or under a bed. The Governors pretended
to scold them but a particular blind eye was turned to night snack
celebrities such as honey, marmite, and peanut butter. However, their
illegitimate presence in what was a designated 'dry zone' rapidly led to
a particularly unpleasant and tenacious mixture of salt, honey,
linseeds, and dried active yeast coating several surfaces and vessels
within this space. Once discovered, the Governors decided to introduce a
New Order in the region and immediately passed the Munchies Bill that
allowed special priveleges to 'sweet delights' on the grounds that
'opening the bilge during nightshift disturbs sleeping patterns and is
dangerous'.

Outrage by less popular items still relegated to the bilge (soy sauce,
pickles, mustard, and pesto to name a few), chiefly led by Nutella,
mango jam, and Vegemite who assumed they would be nightshift desirables,
resulted in the term 'sweet delights' being changed to 'items essential
to nightshift contentment', thus allowing for inclusion of marmite, Ritz
crackers, and the changing whims of the Governance. The Bill was
immediately passed by Health and Safety, with no questions asked, and
remains in force today.

The combined effect of Herb and Spice Zone being cleansed, and the
passing of the [amended] Munchies Bill, led to creation of specific new
homes for all night-shift celebrities who had previously only had
squatters rights in this region. Power took to their heads and they
demanded not only legitimate homes in this area, but the prime
positions, subsequently rehousing previous favourites such as fruit
teas, a box of wasabi, and a huge tin of Argentine 'mate' tea that, the
Governors had to admit, were rarely accessed these days. That Order had
been created in the days when Voyaging was but a theory, and items
naively stowed according to a system of food-type (teas, herbs, spices,
condiments…) rather than food popularity. The new system would make
little sense to an outside observer (peanut butter next to ginger paste
and vanilla essence) but is somewhat intuitive to its primary users.

The reorganisation of Herb and Spice Land gave the Governors, especially
she in charge of the action, a disproportionate sense of achievement and
satisfaction. But there was one remaining discomfort: the actions
occurred in the tranquility and stability of a calm bay. So thorough had
the evacuations been that this area was now comfortably uncluttered,
tidy even, as one might hope for a cupboard on land. A boat moves,
however, and it was clear that just one day sailing would instantly send
all the newly arranged articles soaring first to one end of the
cupboard, and then the other.

Which was when, coincidentally, the Crusties were invaded, washed, and
marched to parole.

Rather than return the select few deemed 'keepers' to their cavernous
hole, all Crusties were relocated, much to their dismay. Thermos flasks,
metal bowls, and a steel coffee pot were sent to the engine-side of Herb
and Spice Land, which regularly overheated and melted any foodstuffs in
this region. They were primarily chosen as space holders rather than
objects of desire but enjoy their new promotion and warmth greatly. All
remaining plastic items have been squeezed into other holes (mostly
between the spirit bottles), where there is less potential for creating
clatter.

Today the only remaining official inhabitant of the former Cupboard of
Plastic Doom is one large plastic mixing bowl that fits nowhere else,
has a rubberised base, and sits on a no-slip mat. Already new retrobates
have started arriving, however, such as a plastic jar that used to
contain nuts, and a large sieve. They all understand that they can stay
indefinitely, as long as they remain quiet, and all enjoy the solitude
and expansiveness not available anywhere else on the boat.

And at night? The boat is quiet. No more the sound of plastic and glass
flying around and clanging into each other. No more the swooshing from
side to side of collective objects moving as one across a painted wooden
floor. At night, on their off-watch, the Governors sleep, undisturbed by
the sounds of entropy from within and beyond. The only interruptions to
their rest now are due to the start of crazy multi-coloured dreams, but
that's another story….

It is for a taste of this dream that voyagers go through hell and high
waters. [An apt metaphor.] We are sailing just off downwind, pulled by
the genoa, our lightest and largest sail, poled out to ensure it catches
the maximum volume of air. Ocean surrounds in all directions. We are
far, far, away from all commercial traffic. In this huge expanse of
ocean, only a handful of yachts are traveling from Bora Bora to Suvarow,
all going in the same direction so risk of collision is minimal. Puffs
of cotton candy cumulus indicate fair weather, backed up by forecasts
that predict optimal sailing conditions.

I don't believe it's possible, physically, to reach this place without
having been tested by drama. Except, perhaps, crew or passengers who can
choose to join for just one leg of a journey. I am happy for them; it
would be like only ever seeing New York in spring, or enjoyment of a
piece of music with no knowledge of the process and pains behind its
composition.

The soundtrack of the soothing sea is a lullaby, the side-to-side rock,
a hammock in paradise. We were right to leave: this passage is the
destination we've been seeking.

During the last two days before leaving Bora Bora, we were joined by yet
more boats we had met before. Nicolas and Marie-Laure from La Tortue
(la-tortue.fr) who we first met in Tahiti in the final stages of a
massive refit of their gorgeous concrete boat, arrived full of smiles.
Built by his parents in the '70s, Nico spent the first ten years of his
life living and travelling aboard la Tortue, mostly in the Carribbean.
He has now taken ownership from his father, who is based in Tahiti, and
has spent the last year making the boat ready for sea. His ever-patient
girlfriend, Marie-Laure, left her engineering position in France and
arrived six months after Nico, with no sailing experience but ready to
leave immediately. Six monthe later, she was still covered in epoxy and
paint. Their story felt very familiar! So, we have always loved seeing
them not only because they're great fun people, but also in celebration
of wonderful sailing rewards earmed after a hard slog refit. They were
also our snorkelling guides in both Huahine and Taha'a, introducing me
to a world of beauty I would otherwise never have explored.

In addition, Jaimes and Nicole sailed in: our great French friends who
we left Chile in tandem with. It was this couple that we waited out a
storm off Chiloe, and departed at the exact same hour into the Great
Pacific Ocean. Such a scary and exciting moment! They arrived at Juan
Fernandez three days before us, having had the sense and experience to
initially head only west, far off the coast of Chile, and then motor for
thirty hours across the 'calm before the storm'. Us? We set our GPS on a
direct line for Robinson Crusoe Island and I had an ecological fit when
Andy started the engine. "What's the point? Why are we doing this? Do
you want to motor to New Zealand?! This journey, for me at least, is
about not burning fuel…" . How I regret that today.

Thus, for a day we drifted on a mirror and then got pummeled by a storm.
We arrived at Juan Fernandez bedraggled and beaten, welcomed by Jaimes'
laughter, a lobster dinner, and not a word mentioned of our naive
navigational choices.

Pupyca, their boat, had the good fortune to leave Juan Fernandez the day
before the tsunami hit. We left the day after. We met them again, this
time after a fortnight passage that was emotionally rather than
physically draining, in Easter Island, a place we once again were forced
to flee due to an approaching storm. We next met in the Gambier Islands
(we had made a detour to visit Pitcairn), but with time only to share a
sense of achievement and delight before they headed north. to the
Tuamotos. The last time they saw us we were still exhausted, and had a
rat on board.

Ask them, and us, and anyone else in this area, of their experience in
French Polynesia, and you'll get a different answer every time. They
will tell you of remote desert atolls with barely a soul around, and
spearfishing every day for dinner. For three months. Others will tell
you of the weeks and months they were waylaid in Tahiti due to necessary
maintenance of their boat, or waiting for a part or passenger to arrive.
Yet others will tell of diving with manta rays and swimming with sharks.
We haven't caught a single fish or seen a manta, but we have stories of
mountains, waterfalls, and Polynesian dancing. For every thing you see,
there are as many that you miss. The trick is to not regret the things
you didn't, but enjoy their stories vicariously and so double your
experience.

Many of our friends currently in Bora Bora are planning on visiting
Maupiti this week, when conditions are right for entry. That's the
island we passed last night and is meant to be a picture paradise.
Jaimes' main goal for this journey was to spend time in the Tuamotos and
Maupiti, and we missed out on both. He shakes his head in perplexion.
But, we had an amazing time in Pitcairn, sailed into a full eclipse, and
will have more time to explore Tonga. There is no 'right way'.

Our last night on Bora Bora was perfect. Sitting at the yacht club,
sharing a barbecue pot-luck with three other couples who were also
preparing to leave the next day, background music provided by a group of
locals jamming on ukuleles on the pier. Everyone had brought food but
Ellie's creations outshone the lot: prawn and pineapple skewers, tender
pieces of pork, and large slabs of Argentine steak from her freezer.
Just when I had almost reached Nirvana, she produced the most incredible
fresh apple cake, the apples from her garden in Norway last season,
served with Tahitian-vanilla cream! As our bodies digested, Fergus
played us a ballad on the accordion and John shared his songs,
self-accompanied by guitar that he hasn't been able to play for four
months due to an accident to his finger. Sounded pretty amazing to me.
The night drifted late with stories, songs, music, and poetry, and the
last thing we did was agree to repeat the experience in Tonga. Between
here and there, however, we each have chosen a different route.

Jon and Jennifer (www.sv-grace.blogspot.com) are taking the most
southerly route, via Rarotonga, the capital of the Cook Islands. Jan and
Ellie (sv-jenny.no) are headed for Palmerston Atoll, an island inhabited
by only three families, each with the surname: Palmer. Pylades
(www.pylades.net) are heading straight for Niue, the smallest
independent state in the world, possibly via Palmerston. And we are
headed further north within the Cooks, to Suvarow, an island occupied
for only eight months of the year, by a couple of park rangers, and
visited only by yachts.
(http://www.ogleearth.com/2010/07/tales_of_the_so.html,
http://www.janesoceania.com/suvarov_tom_neale/)

It's not possible to visit everywhere, see everything, and also take
things suitably slowly, so I look forward to hearing their stories. We
all set off within a few hours of each other, but will likely arrive in
Tonga several days apart. In the mean-time, we check in each morning on
the freshly- baked 'apple tart net' using HF radio to provide positions,
conditions, and greetings. While the ocean feels vast, and we enjoy
feeling wonderfully isolated, there is also a sense of security in
hearing friendly voices once a day.

Sunset in Bora Bora. Can't beat that as an opening entry. To our
starboard side an accordion is serenading the harbour with Irish
shanties. To the front a parrot on a South African boat is whistling his
own tune, apparently holding a conversation with Andy who has just put
down his guitar. To port, a deep orange sun is rapidly falling towards
the horizon. Dusk happens quickly near the equator.

The day has been gentle. In the morning we decided to not move somewhere
else, as we intended, but rather to spend the next couple of days
preparing ourselves and the boat for sea. The former requires rest,
laughter, and provisioning. The latter an array of odd jobs. So it was
that in the morning Andy wrote some overdue emails while I washed our
latest bag of stinking clothes, and the dishes. We had pizza for lunch,
made on a base of wholemeal chappattis originally prepared for a curry
two nights ago. In the afternoon I hitched a lift to town on a friend's
zodiac and Andy stayed behind to work on the sails,- our jib needs
patching. A couple of hours later, when I returned, he was happily
reading his book, the same cup of tea by his right elbow, where I placed
it before leaving. And so, we relax.

- (later)-
For the first couple of days in a place I always wonder what we're doing
there, how long we'll stay, and where we're going next. In other words,
point-seeking. Not long after, maybe two or three days in, time and
purpose start to dissolve and we return to the very pleasant, and
present, state of existence.

Today is a particularly slow day. We spent last night on a seriously
beautiful and comfortable boat called Jenny (sv-jenny.no), our hosts Jan
and Ellie. On first entry the boat feels grand, but an inviting and warm
grand, like my grandmothers Kensington flat. The things I notice?
Crystal glasses and a drinks cabinet, even on a monohull that will by
necessity keel. They work by virtue of an almost invisible shelf, half
way up each glass or bottle, with made- to- measure holes for each
article. A large and welcoming sofa with three sides and soft suede-like
blue covers that I found myself stroking all evening. A very large
square galley, the corner cupboard a fridge, so deep you have to reach
into it, and restaurant-size four burner stove, so heavy that pots stay
on it, horizontally, just through it's gimbled mount – no need for extra
brackets or hoops when the boat leans over. The bedroom has two
entrances, one for each side of the bed. Very civilised. One access
corridor to the bedroom houses a pantry and washing machine, the other a
clean and home-like toilet, complete with large shiny mirror, wooden
toilet seat, taps that gush fresh water, and space around the sink for
potions and lotions. In addition to the king size double bedroom,
galley, and spacious living room, the boat has two guest rooms, each
with two bunks and en-suite bathroom. And he made it all himself.

Jan and Ellie are Norwegian and used to both work in the oil industry.
For ten years, while their daughter was a teenager, Jan designed and
built the boat, almost all by hand and everything to a very high
standard of finish. Her hull has three layers,- wood, fibreglass, and
kevlar, so she's also incredibly strong, and has lovely lines. That
means she's nice to look at.

Of course, the occupants of a boat, especially if they are also its
designers, are what provide the essence, and we've had some great times
with this couple since arriving in Bora Bora. These include a lobster
dinner on board Jenny, an afternoon snorkeling with sting rays, and last
night: movie night. Phantom of the Opera in full surround sound, spread
out on the suede sofa, the central table ladened with more bread and
fine cheese than even I could finish. And bottles of red wine. Which
explains why today is slow.

At the other end of the spectrum, or a possible spectrum, is a boat
called Little Qwin (www.littleqwin.blogspot.com
<http://www.littleqwin.blogspot.com>), currently anchored in the same
bay as Zephyrus and Jenny, and home to Alexandrej and Angeliqa.

The boat is Swedish flagged, he is from the Ukraine, she from northern
Russia. He from the Black Sea, she from the White Sea. Living on a boat
the same size as Zephyrus (but much fuller) for the last eleven years.
Exploring the world. He first set off from the Ukraine on a bicycle but
when he reached Portugal realised he needed to sail in order to keep
exploring. She joined him in the Canary Islands. They worked there for
several years, saving some money and making the small wooden boat safe
for passage. They crossed the Atlantic and returned again to work. Then
they crossed again, worked their way up the east coast of South America
before spending several years in Panama, on both sides. Amateur
archaeologists, they discovered an ancient city. They hitchhiked up
rivers to visit native people and explore theories of past
civilisations. On the west side of Panama she worked as a Russian –
Spanish translator while he worked on the boat and sometimes took
Russian tourists on charter trips. They renovated the boat and set off
again, west, into the Pacific. They found two more cities, unknown to
current researchers, and sent videos and samples of fine spanish
porcelain to the Smithsonian in New York. They crossed to the northern
Marquesan islands in French Polynesia and once again found signs of past
civilisation thanks to notes by Thor Heyderdal (who lived there with his
wife before the first world war and many years before his more famous
Kontiki voyage on a raft from Peru).

From place to place Alex and Angeliqa hunt, gather, and create. On a
day-to-day basis they live virtually for free, she finding ways to
preserve everything that he brings home, from carrots and eggs to sheep.
One day she wanted a crocodile bag so he brought her a crocodile.
Ofcourse this meant finding the place, meeting the people, learning the
how and the where of catching and hunting, each entailing their own
adventures.

She has three black pearls from Bora Bora, each with a different
history. A jeweller offered to drill holes through them for her, as a
gift, but she refused: she wants to make the objects herself. She gave
me a gift of a beautiful necklace made from the spines of a sea urchin.
She had of course collected the urchin, eaten the meat, cleaned and
prepared the needles, made the jewelry.

Andy has been helping them with some engine trouble and he returns every
time with a new story. One day every surface of the boat was covered in
corn kernels that Angeliqa had sorted, soaked, fried, and was now drying
after discovering weovils in the container. (When we found weovils in
our flour we attempted to sieve them out but finally just threw the lot
overboard and bought a new bag.) Another time she was covered in blue
paint, busy making a Kiribati flag, the back of her hand a mixing
palette. There is always work to do.

He's mad on ideas. Some that resonate with me, others that sound plain
bonkers, but the twinkle in his eye is so catching that for a moment,
just a tiny glimpse of a breath, I'll believe anything he says. Then she
gently nudges his leg or his arm, "Alexy", and tries to remind him to
come back to this world that we know. They live by Christian faith, and
their lives are proof enough that it works. Most of the boats around
here spend in a month what they haven't yet spent in six, ourselves
included, even when we're not stocking up.

Looking at video footage of them exploring jungles, living with native
tribes, discovering cities, and hunting meat, I believe again that it is
still possible to explore, and that travel has a valid purpose in
itself. That the world is not only full of mystery and beauty, but is
also an incredibly funny and weird place to be born into, and we should
enjoy it.

There are many boats here, each with their own delights.

Fergus and Kay from County Clare, Ireland, are circumnavigating the
world in another gorgeous self-made boat, Pylades (www.pylades.net
<http://www.pylades.net>). Fergus is an architect and his eye for detail
is apparent throughout, from shape and structure to colours and
textures. Solid wood doors and central table, a comfortable and
sheltered cockpit so it's possible to watch the world all night without
getting soaked, belting out new songs and practicing poetry. The first
night that I visited them I returned to Zephyrus on a mission to dig out
the song books and serenade the stars. Like Ukrainian Alex, he's also
got a philosophy that he's capturing in a book, his ideas also
associated with religion and religions, but Fergus' from an atheistic
perspective, Alex's definitely god-driven. Both have eyes that laugh and
tell stories.

We have also met again with John and Jennifer from Iles de Grace
(www.sv-grace.blogspot.com ) who gave me my first opportunity to sail in
a catamaran (so horizontal!), anchor in four feet of water, and snorkel
in a surround-sound sea of fish, sparkling like multi-coloured raindrops
all around me. Climbing onto the dinghy to warm up, I wondered how it
would feel to be a fish, instantly transported into the above-water
realm, observing for the first time land, birds, and in this case a
beautiful soaring mountain.

It's true, Bora Bora has gorgeous scenery, an azure blue lagoon,
fantastic snorkeling and diving opportunities, and a great climb to the
peak. We did that one a few days ago. I was asleep, then I was in a
forest, then I was scrambling up a rock face on all fours, ascending and
descending on fairly dodgy ropes, and sweating profusely. I finally woke
up and found myself on top of a mountain, rain lashing down, hungry for
the soggy cheese and tomato sandwiches in my backpack. It made me happy
and nostalgic; instantly transported to a more familiar walking
experience for me than the humidity of the tropics. The black cloud
passed as fast as it had arrived and suddenly I was on top of Bora Bora,
French Polynesia, magnificent views all around, hot sun, looking down on
tiny specks that were boats and houses, amazed that my legs had carried
me all the way up there without too many complaints. And equally amazed
that one of the smaller dots that was a boat that was way down there was
the place we call ours.

Before I ramble further, I have a correction to make to a previous post,
the one entitled 'The busiest islands in french polynesia'. The false
information wasn't deliberate, just a sign of our lack of information
sources beyond the imagination. And maybe a lack of need for facts.

A sting ray looks like a ray like you might have seen a picture of in
school, and nothing like my previous description. It has wide flappy
grey wings, a soft grey back, a long hard tail, and a flat head with
eyes very far on each side. Behind each eye is a quite large hole
through which it breathes, and under the tail is a shorter spike that is
its sting. It is not spotted, and it does not in any way look like a
penguin, a platypus, a leopard, or a squashed bell pepper. That is a
spotted eagle ray. I only discovered this while swimming amongst about
twenty of the flat grey stinging variety, whereupon I also realised that
I have been scared of entirely the wrong species.

The grey rays look benign and gentle, and act pretty nonchalantly, but
they can bite and sting, if provoked. Still, that was hard to believe
when surrounded by them in thigh-deep water. Floating ghosts. The eagle
rays somehow look more like a biting stinging thing, but apparrantly
they don't, maybe it's just that they look more three-dimensional to me,
and so more like an animal I might encounter on land, that bites or
stings. They are definitely the coolest looking creatures anyway and
always exciting to bump into on a swim.

So, I have seen sting rays, and eagle rays. And fish and fish and fish.
The coral here goes on for such distances that I can easily swim for an
hour without getting bored. And swim I have to, rather than float, as
the water has a refreshing chill to it that becomes cold after about
twenty minutes of floating (in a bikini). By all other standards, I
guess this would be called warm water!

Snorkelling is an opportunity to discover a new world. Floating in the
outer space of warm sea today, I mused if it was a bit like cannabis:
takes a few tries to get into it, but when you do, you see the world in
a whole different light. Upon further contemplation, I think underwater
life is more amazing, and unbelievable, and more refreshing. In fact,
I'm really getting into it.

I can entirely understand why this is such a popular tourist
destination. It's accessible, stunning, has opportunities for a wide
range of fun outdoor activities, beautiful sunsets, and gentle warm
evening air. Prior to arrival I was concerned about the degree of
tourist development, and upon arrival was quite shocked by the number of
yachts as well as hotels…. but neither of these need to ruin the
experience. Indeed, they are part of the experience. Which is why,
perhaps, I started this piece by talking about some of the people we've
met here. And I'm not the only one: John Glaudeman's told me that his
latest blog (www.sv-grace.blogspot.com) also focuses on the various
sailing types he's stumbled into here. The people I have met, in this
case mainly other yachties as opposed to locals, are part of what is
memorable about this place.

Tomorrow we leave French Polynesia. We will have been here for four
months, have visited six islands and their lagoons, and relaxed into the
warm and gentle pace of cruising life in the tropics. We arrived
harrassed by weather and boat, exhausted, and full of drama. We leave in
an almost dream-like, tranquil, haze. I wish I could bottle this state
of being, to dab it on in smaller measures in the future. To remember
what it feels like to have no firm plans except to reach New Zealand
safely, to plan activities on a day-by-day basis, and always arrange to
meet people either just before, at, or after, sunset.

But, it's time to go. There are definitely other paradises we could
visit here (Maupiti and Maupihaa being the most obvious) but, like Mary
Poppins, the winds are changing, our noses are wriggling, and the sails
are ready to flap. Even I am ready to sail, keen to sail even! I still
have much to learn in that department. The early experiences of this
journey are now thankfully in the rose-tinted past, and once again I
find I want to learn how to make this boat move without getting scared.
Let's hope the winds are a bit gentler with me this time around.

Downwind sailing, when it's good, feels like sitting on a magic carpet,
traveling without friction. Or being perched on a pretend cloud that's
being pulled across a stage, effortlessly.

We had a great day sailing today, sailing within the safety of the
lagoon that surrounds the twin isles of Taha'a in the north, and Raiatea
in the south. Broadly speaking, the lagoon is the shape of a figure
eight, with the islands being two lumps of land in the middle, and ocean
all around the outside. A painter might create the eight with a thick
stroke of turquoise if trying to replicate the water itself, or
alternatively shimmering pinks and yellows to represent the life within.
Here is where the corals are, and within them, the multitude of fish. On
a short swim earlier today I heard chirping above the water while
watching a flock of hundreds of small yellow fish. It took a moment to
convince myself that they weren't in fact canaries.

Our sailing journey took us from the south-east to the north-west of
Taha'a, anticlockwise . The wind was coming from east-south-east so was
behind us or to our side the whole way. It was relatively, strong, about
25 knots, and steady, so the sails remained full and we glided all the
way. We glid.

As we came around the top right corner, the silhouette of Bora Bora
appeared, majestic. I gasped, I gasped again, I pointed and stared. Andy
told me to concentrate as I was also meant to be steering. It has the
most fantastic profile – low and lumpy at the edges but with a huge,
steep-sided, mountain soaring out of the middle. No wonder it's a
'must-see'.

Until that moment, when it came into view, I had little interest in
visiting the place. First, everyone goes there. Second, it is overfull
with hotels and yachts and apparently also overpriced, even by French
Polynesian standards. Third, which really should come before the first,
four years ago we met some people who had been to Bora Bora, and said
the double words in such a loud, British, and pompous manner that I've
been put off the place ever since. Somehow I thought that if I ever went
there I might instantly become 'one of them'.

So, Bora Bora was off the list. We would be rebels and just sail
straight to Suwarov from here. "What?!" people would exclaim in
disbelief," you were so close and didn't pay a visit? That's criminal."
Exactly, I would say. Up there with visiting Easter Island and not
seeing a Moai.

But now that I've seen it, albeit from afar, I have had a taste, and
I've become curious (and I actually did want to see a Moai, we just got
blown out to sea earlier than expected). Now I want to get closer to
Bora Bora, to go inside the infamous azure lagoon, and maybe even climb
the mountain. There is a reason why this is the last place cruisers go
before leaving French Polynesia, and why it has been so exploited by
tourism.

—
I've been thinking a lot lately about Travel. Partly for the obvious
reason that I am currently travelling, and it is the mind's nature to
seek purpose in any given situation. But more usefully, the thoughts
have been catalysed by a wonderful book by Alain de Botton called 'The
Art of Travel' (published by Vintage International). I encourage
everyone, even those most attached to their sofas, to read it.

The first challenge of the book is pretty obvious: to ask oneself why we
travel, rather than to where we wish to travel. Testing my new found
insight, I ask Andy (market research stats n=1) "why do you travel?"
Ever the philosopher, he takes a long time before deciding, "because
that's what I do." Pushed further on the issue, he quotes a traveler
asked where was his favourite place. Answer – the next place.

Revelatory.

But I stick to it. Contemplation on why and how we travel might
illuminate why I am now interested in visiting Bora Bora where I wasn't
before, and thereby also help me to identify what kind of travel I will
enjoy in the future. Further, only a visit to Bora Bora itself can then
identify whether my change of heart was wise, or whether, in retrospect,
I would have been better off avoiding it on grounds of the many aspects
it possessed that I knew I wouldn't enjoy, and so support such thinking
for future explorations.

Contrary to expectation, De Botton's book validates and vindicates the
conscious self who deliberately chooses to stay at home. It also
challenges the world-traveler to be mindful of his or her actions and
identify a reason, goal, or method, so as to not waste the experience
entirely.

I agreed with almost all that de Botton had to say. From the joy of
anticipation of travel, to discovery of foreign delights, to the value
of seeing your own familiar surroundings with the fresh eyes of a
visitor. The book concludes with two chapters focussed on art, making
the points that (1) great works of art can be extremely useful in
changing our perception of a place, and (2) the practice of art,
irrespective of the artists natural ability, is a critical method for
enhancing our appreciation of a place. Quoting John Ruskin:

<i> I believe that the sight is a more important thing than the drawing,
and I would rather teach drawing that my pupils may learn to love
nature, than teach the looking at nature that they may learn to draw.</i>

John Ruskin isn't the only famous wise man whom de Botton consults.
Indeed, one of the joys of the books is being introduced to his chosen
guides. For each guide, de Botton chooses a location to investigate a
particular philosophy, rather than the norm of choosing a location
first, almost arbitrarily, and then seeing what might be learnt there.

So, we go to London and Barbados with J.K Huysmans, exploring
Anticipation; to a service station, an airport, a plane, and on a train
journey with Charles Baudelaire and Edward Hopper exploring the nature
of travelling itself; to Amsterdam with Gustav Flaubert exploring the
Exotic; and with Alexander von Humboldt we explore Curiosity while the
author visits Madrid. We go to the Lake District with William Wordsworth
to learn about Country and City, and to the Sinai desert to explore the
sublime with Edmund Burke and Job. Vincent Van Gogh teaches us about
Eye-Opening Art in Provence, John Ruskin helps us with Possessing Beauty
in all of the above mentioned places and finally, Xavier de Maistre
helps us to look at our habits afresh while the author wanders around
his home district of Hammersmith in London.

By the end of the book, the reader has not only explored the world, but
also reasons for exploring the world. Or not. Indeed, one of the most
enlightening and blindingly obvious points made early on is that
wherever we go, we take ourselves with us. Thus, the holiday will never
exactly replicate the travel brochure photos, the ones which,
blissfully, don't contain a trace of the lives we might want to take a
break from. This factor alone is often the culprit for holidays never
being quite as perfect as they are hoped to be.

I pondered that while snorkeling today: video and photos of tropical
fish and underwater adventure never have the sound track of your own
breathing echoing around your head. Even underwater I can't escape from
myself.

For me, the book was a timely arrival. This year of travel feels
enriching and relaxing on a good day, but also self-indulgent. I do
sometimes wonder what the point is. Or, if there doesn't need to be a
point, then if perhaps I could be making better use of my time otherhow.
For others at least, if not for myself. Put that way sounds very
patronising.

It got me thinking not only about why we travel, but also how. And how
to 'get the most out of' an experience. For this, I guess the first
thing to do, is identify the why of a journey, in order to choose an
appropriate how.

The whys for this trip are very different for Andy and I. And so,
therefore, are the hows. For Andy, many of the whys and hows revolve
around fulfilling a dream. The dream: to sail across the Pacific. The
necessary hows: buy a boat, learn to sail, learn maintenance, [get
married], acknowledge size of task ahead, learn to sail more, give boat
complete overhaul, start sailing [with new scared wife], become a good
skipper, learn to sail solo [enforced by incompetence of wife], learn
from the sea and the swell and the skies and the sails …… the
journey never ends.

For me, that's harder. The Why was more Why Not? Once the seed was sewn,
what offer could better that? If I didn't go, I would always wonder…
even if the experience was terrible it would be worth doing. In
retrospect I didn't really mean that to be tested.

There was also another important Why. To test a way of living. To travel
but to tread lightly. Not in a jumbo-jet. Not within a time limitation.
Not as a diversion from some other 'home', but as a daily reality. To
explore the viability of visiting new places around the world without
burning carbon. To see if I was actually up to practicing what I preach.

For all of these, the How can be answered by sailing long distances,
especially sailing with a partner.

So, the Whys and Hows have been assessed, what about the experience
itself, the What?

It seems to me that to make the most of an experience or place, you have
to engage with it on some level. Physical, mental, emotional, spiritual.
De Botton recommends Art as a means for engagement. Physical could be
climbing, skiing, surfing, hiking… or even just taking off your
sandals and walking bare-foot in the hot sand. Mental could be
furthering scientific understanding, learning the local language,
studying local religion, culture, or history. Emotional, for me, is an
important one. To engage emotionally means giving something of yourself,
making friends, forming an attachment to a place that triggers an
emotional response: happy, sad, or maybe just thoughtful. And spiritual-
well, that's beyond words. India calls many home, others yearn for
Africa; for me, my heart leapt when I reached Antarctica, and those
feelings only grew with time. No amount of time in Pacific 'paradise'
will, for me, replace the emotions I feel when I think of icebergs or
ice sheets, glaciers, sastrugi, and cold expansive white space. Others
dream of Oceans. That is perhaps the best reason to set to sea.

Having assessed the Whys, Hows, and Whats, I realised it was time to put
our trip under the microscope. The conclusions drawn after looking
through Andy's microscope are pretty positive. Boat still floating, crew
happy, half an ocean already crossed and signs are encouraging for
completing the other half in good spirits. New skills learnt, new people
met, great interactions with new cultures and languages, dreams lived.

To look through my microscope, I needed to delve further into our
environmental impact. An activity which, I must admit, I was confident
would result in an overall sense of self-satisfaction aka: smugness. I
was pretty sure we had a very low, almost non-existent, impact.

To help me, I consulted another great book that I hope to finish on this
journey: <i>Sustainable Energy – without the hot air</i>, by David JC
Mackay (published by UIT Cambridge). It's good, really good. Simple,
factual, helpful, and easily navigable.

Here's what I came up with:

Wherever possible we sail, as opposed to motoring, although we do have
an engine. For Andy, this is both a philosophy and an aesthetic. The
engine also encourages our ethical attempts by being loud, hot, smelly,
and generally unpleasant when run, and really unpleasant to try and
sleep through. Further, Zephyrus is equipped with an oversized and
inefficient Isuzu C221 67 horsepower truck engine so could definitely
have motored more miles on substantially less fuel. That, however, is
not the point since our main source of propulsion has been provided by
wind rather than diesel. Thus, even with an inefficient engine I was
confident of smugnosity.

Our electricity meets are generally met by three 60W solar panels but in
three locations when we found ourselves in consistently overcast places
for extended periods of time (Chiloe, Gambiers, Baie de Phaeton), we ran
the engine for a few hours to keep the batteries healthy. We have no
fridge, freezer, washing machine, or water-maker so electricity is only
really needed for running navigation and communication instruments and
charging laptops (and occasionally power tools).

Our cooking stove runs on alcohol. For colder climates, such as Chile
and New Zealand, we also have a diesel heater. We have no outboard motor
(requiring petrol), but rather row a dinghy or swim to shore. Thus
diesel, wind, sun, and alcohol are the only energy sources we use to
sustain, and propel, our lives.

The odometer on our GPS, installed new in December, currently reads 6335
nautical miles. About 500 of those were enjoyed exploring the Puerto
Montt area. Thus, since leaving the coast of Chile we have traveled
about 5835 nautical miles in six months. In that time we have burnt 338
litres (89 US gallons, 74 imperial gallons) of diesel.

What does that mean?

Thanks to the first couple of chapters in MacKay's book, and the
appendix, I can tell you that 338L of diesel, at 10.7 KWh/L, means
3616.6 KWh of energy. That is the same energy as you'd get in 7000 cans
of baked beans or 170 250g packs of butter, not that that really helps
much with anything.

Of more interest to me is how much impact we have had on the atmosphere.
Diesel emissions produce 250g of Carbon Dioxide per kWh of chemical
energy… so we have produced 904kg of Carbon Dioxide.

We have also burnt about 60L (47kg) of ethanol which, if we assume pure
combustion and ignore the contaminants, will have produced about 90kg of
Carbon Dioxide.

All told, our ohsorightonlowimpactlife has already produced over a ton
of carbon dioxide equivalent emissions.

One ton of carbon dioxide in the air that wasn't there before.

Since the day we left Chile, i.e. the day we started having our lowest
impact.

If I focus the lens on the magnifying glass further, I should also
confess to one return trans-Atlantic flight last year, which would
instantly add another three tons to our collective number (triple that
if you want to account for the higher-impact effects of flying), and an
entirely unmeasured amount of electricity used in the renovation of
Zephyrus including continual use of welding and power tools, production
of materials and paints, and diesel burnt in the car we used for errands
around town. Plus, of course, all the energy used in production and
transport of the various cans and staple dry foods we stacked our
cupboards with prior to the journey.

Zooming out again, according to MacKay's 2009 statistics, the average
Briton emits the equivalent of about 11 tons of Carbon Dioxide each
year. Double this figure for North Americans and Australians (Canada:
22, USA: 24, Australia: 25 tons CO2e/y per person).

While considering possibly-safe trajectories that require global
emissions to fall by 70% or 85% by 2050, MacKay states:
<i>If we subscribe to the idea of "contraction and convergence", which
means that all countries aim eventually to have equal per-capita
emissions, then …. we should get down to … roughly 1 ton per year
per person by 2050. This is such a deep cut, I suggest the best way to
think about it is no more fossil fuels."</i>

One ton per year per person is exactly what Andy and I have been
producing during these last six months. So, while this emission rate is
eleven times less than the average Briton, and twenty-five times less
than the average Australian, it is still only what we 'should' be doing.
It's not better than right.

I was pretty disappointed, a bit ashamed, and also surprised, at these
results. I have heard numbers like these bandied around for years, and
bandied them myself, but never really understood, on a practical
day-to-day level, what they mean. This lifestyle that involves no car or
plane travel, no electricity from a grid, and no movie theatres,
cinemas, or other late night city excursions, and which I thought might
reasonably last for 6 – 12 months, is actually the per capita emission
goal that we should be aiming for not only as individuals, but as
societies, globally.

So.

The most important thing I learnt from this exercise? To do the maths
before assuming smugness.

Having not entirely satisfied my environmental goals, I flipped through
my diary to see if I had any other goals prior or during this trip that
I could feel good about. The only clear ones written on February 18^th :

<i>Skills I'd like to have by Isla de Pascua (Easter Island): reefing in
and out, changing the jib and making it go up and down, working Otto the
wind vane, using a sextant.</i>

I regret to say that these all remain on the list of 'skills I would
like to have'.

The only longer term goal I can find recorded: not getting flustered in
times of urgency.

That, indeed, would make this whole trip invaluable to the rest of my life!

I guess one of the most important things I am getting out of this is
Time, both to reflect on our life and to carry out necessary daily
activities. Time to not only read about emissions but do my own
calculations, time to read about travel and incorporate those ideas into
our activities. Time to write, and think, and play.

More practically, I use time to learn to cook (in the absence of
take-aways), wash clothes by hand (in the absence of washing machines),
and collect water from rain (in the absence of a tap). Time to make or
fix things instead of buying new. Time to row instead of using an
outboard motor. Time to sail rather than fly, walk rather than drive.

I've just realised something… for many activities we're using time
instead of oil.

Perhaps more sustainable lifestyles are possible, but rather than
rushing around looking for them, all we have to do is slow down!

–
It's now a few days after starting this piece and Andy and I are ready
to go to Bora Bora. To see that mountain, swim in that water, tick that
box, and test the travel theory. For the last five days we have been
attached to a mooring buoy at the Taravana Yacht Club on the south-west
side of Taha'a. It's a fun spot, the first social location we have found
that specifically caters for boats.

On Tuesday night there was a magnificent buffet of Polynesian food
followed by a dance show put on by a local family… kids between eight
and eighteen dancing and twirling fire to the best of their ability
while parents, uncles, and aunts provided music with voice, guitar, and
drums. Little kids shrieked happily as they ran across the beach stage
and lots of 'volunteers' were dragged out to join in the show. We
continued to dance and laugh all night, meeting and mingling with locals
and other yachties alike.

Two days later there was a bring-your-own barbeque, and a more tranquil
opportunity to chat with folk who live here. This morning we were
accompanied on a stroll by a local teenager and his dog, and this
afternoon he and some other kids paid us a visit on Zephyrus.

There's a good vibe here. We're both smiling. It isn't hard work, in
fact, it's not work at all. It's not a must-see or a check-box, it's the
enjoyment of daily life. This 'it' is the travel we seek: people,
interaction, fun, experience, good times.

The wind picked up this morning and lumpy weather is predicted for the
next three days. We've decided to stay and enjoy the people and place
here rather than get bashed around in an unknown anchorage beside one of
the most famous pacific islands in the world. Bora Bora can wait.
However beautiful it is, it can't beat the warmth that greets us here.