Chapter 3: Tahiti and the Societies

 

Six Days Without Wind

The breeze had been but a land effect, for the farther from land we traveled, the more the precious zephyr diminished. Well off-shore we found no wind whatsoever; not so much as a whisper. But at least the erstwhile breeze had suggested better conditions to come, and because the disturbed weather had waylaid us in the Marquesas for two additional months beyond our planned itinerary, we were now more than eager to move on.

Marquesan fuel reserves had been critically low, and Suka's tanks were now nearly so. Nevertheless, I figured that should the wind remain on holiday, we had only enough propellant to see us across the 430 mile gap to the Tuamotus. So rather than turn back to await genuine wind, we started the engine and chugged slowly ahead.

The ensuing five days of oppressive dead-calms proved far more trying than any we had experienced in the doldrums. We lived two lives: an enervating, fiery one by day, and a blissful, heavenly one by night.

Each morning, as that monstrous solar orb peaked over the horizon and began hurling its fiery lances, we would reluctantly start the engine and begin motoring ahead. The sea was mirror flat, so the intense radiation seared us as much from below as it did from above. Moreover, the absence of any wind, and the high humidity, only intensified the oven-like conditions. By mid forenoon Suka's decks were so hot that we could not step on them barefoot. This heat conducted belowdecks, where the engine was helping roast the cabin.

We could do little but lie torpid in the cockpit beneath the small awning. Drifting like the Kon Tiki, the ship sat motionless upon oily seas, her sails hanging flaccid. But at least a 1-1/2 knot current carried us thankfully in a favorable direction.

At dusk the tormenting sun would slowly, almost reluctantly slip below the planar horizon. As the stars began showing themselves I would compile the evening round of celestial navigation shots, then I would go below, spread my work on the salon table, and reduce the data in order to calculate our position. The seas were so calm that a pencil lying on the table would remain perfectly still. Work finished, I would join Jenny in the cockpit, and together we would revel in the coolness of eventide, where Suka stood so oddly still that we felt as if we were moored in a protected marina.

Passage of Patience

Why did we not motor during the night? Because the nights were so unspeakably glorious that we dared not taint them. The stars Sirius, Canopus and Archenar dominated the heavens. Accompanying these were the Pleiades and the beauty Capella. And in all its effulgence the Milky Way scintillated the heavens in a grand sweep that met with the Megallanic clouds. The Big Dipper hung low in the northern sky, and in the wee hours of the night, before the rising of the waning moon, the Southern Cross climbed over the horizon. Bathing in the quietude of the sea, I reflected on a Robert Service poem:

 

The sixth day brought distant clouds, and that afternoon a thunderstorm passed overhead and blasted us with its cold, cloud-dumped winds. Gleefully we made sail, but too much. Over-canvassed, Suka heeled far over and sped away. Then after reefing the canvas we enjoyed an exhilarating sail across almost millpond-flat seas. An hour later the air was calm again, and mercifully cooler.

We wondered if the doldrums could have dipped this far south, for the conditions were strongly suggestive. But the period of calm ended with finality later that afternoon, when a steady wind sprung to life and whisked us on our exuberant way. It felt wonderful to be moving again; our "Passage of Patience" as Jenny termed it, was now one of engendered hope.

Tuamotu Archipelago

Mid afternoon we sighted land where land ought not have been. A tiny smudge appeared on the distant horizon. Taking turns peering intently through the binoculars, we thought we could see the tops of a group of strange trees, like coconut trees with their fronds ripped away - no doubt the result of the hurricane. Either we had found an uncharted atoll, or we were not where we thought we were. Clearly, this was not the best area of the vast Pacific in which to be lost. And when we had begun worrying in earnest the "coconut trees" steamed off over the horizon. We had been seeing the gantry of a large ship, whose hull lay concealed beneath the earth's curvature. At last, then, after having sailed more than 3,500 miles we had sighted our first ship at sea.

We sailed toward the atoll Ahe (Ah'-hey) throughout most of the night, and when my calculations indicated we were within 20 miles of it, we hove to and awaited daylight. Then at first light we resumed sailing ahead. Eventually we sighted land, or rather a long line of coconut trees presumably growing on land. These trees appeared genuine this time, and our ebullience at having found the atoll as calculated was equally so.

Dark mammatus formed ominously overhead, and soon lashed out with a ferocious squall. Undaunted, Suka pounded her way gleefully through a flurry of spray, while flying only a deep reefed mainsail and a staysail. The blow proved short-lived, though, and soon diminished to a 20 knot wind steady on the starboard quarter.

We closed the almost featureless coast and paralleled it for several miles, reasonably certain this was Ahe. But it wasn't until several hours later that we verified the fact by coastwise navigating. Eventually we rounded the atoll into its lee and reached the entrance to the lagoon.

Aborted Entry into the Ahe Lagoon

Entering the pass of an atoll at slack water is the standard procedure, but because today's low tide was not to occur until well after dark, we decided to try entering. Motoring cautiously into the pass, we soon found the sea bed, and watched it quickly shoal. The water was staggeringly clear in colors of cobalt blues and aquamarines. Mountainous surf thundered onto the reefs to ether side, while the sea bottom began rushing past underneath, meaning that an unexpectedly powerful in-going tide was sucking the ketch into the lagoon. Fearing that Suka might be hurled onto a coral head, I brought her around and gunned the engine. Under full power she managed to counter the inrush of current, if only just. Then by making sail, we barely clawed our way out of the fearful maws of the pass.

Standing off, awaiting slack water would have been suicidal, as the night was moonless, the unseen reefs numerous, and the seas fraught with strong and unpredictable currents. And our vessel was not equipped with radar. There was nothing for it, then, but to resume our course toward Tahiti. But directly ahead lay 45 miles of open water leading to a gap between two atolls at the western edge of the archipelago. Across this region we continued most of the night, cautiously carrying but little sail.

We had know way of knowing the current's set (direction) or its drift (speed). My computations indicated that, in a worst-case scenario, a set of 190 degrees magnetic and a drift of 3-1/2 knots, added vectorially to our heading and indicated speed of a conservative two knots, would have put us on the reef of Arutua at 2 a.m. Conversely, with a set of 10 degrees and the same aforementioned drift, we would be moving backward at a rate of 1-1/2 knots, only to crash stern-to on the reef of Ahe well before midnight. Sailing in this aptly named "Dangerous Archipelago" at night felt like playing Russian roulette with two chambers loaded.

A Near Miss

At 3:00 a.m we dropped sail. Then at the first hint of daylight I shot a round of stars, working the occasional hole in the clouds through which a familiar star would present itself briefly. Then belowdecks I reduced the data, only to find that the navigational computer could make no sense of my sextant altitudes. Unaccountably, I had erred somewhere. As I sat trying to account for the discrepancy Jenny called from the cockpit. There, in the ever-revealing morning light, stood land. What I had mistaken as our southern horizon was actually an atoll. We were shocked to think that the 4-knot current could have carried us a mere half a degree farther south, and dashed us headlong into Arutua. The shorelines of the proverbial seven seas are littered with the tangled remains of sat-nav-less vessels, and Suka had nearly joined the ranks. As she was uninsured, I determined to buy a sat-nav at the first opportunity.

Tahiti

A spanking breeze carried us onward. Leaving the Tuamotus astern, in another 36 hours we reached Tahitian waters.

Tahiti is the most famous of all South Pacific islands, but today it lay obscured in moiling thick clouds, so we couldn't see much of it. And as we were rounding its northern seaboard, racing the setting sun in an attempt to reach the Papeete harbor before the onset of total darkness, a tremendous, bombarding rainstorm reduced the visibility to a scant few hundred feet. Thwarted, we could only heave-to.

Darkness fell, and with it came an unexpected blessing: a flashing light emanating from Point Venus, on the island's north-west shore. The beacon pierced the gloom and provided us with a point from which to navigate. So we motored across calm waters in the island's lee, holding about two miles off-shore while making our way toward the harbor entrance.

Abreast the harbor we decided to stand-off for the night, for the sake of safety. I shut down the engine, and before long we smelled an alarming stench of something burning, pervading the cabin. Anxiously we tracked the acrid trail and found the ignition switch aglow and emitting a thin ribbon of smoke. Apparently it had been subjected (indirectly) to salt spray for too many months, until it had eventually shorted itself. I yanked its hot wires free, and disconnected them at their other ends from the starter solenoid. Then I unbolted the nefarious switch from its panel and gave it a fast-ball farewell out over the briny deep. Thereafter we started the engine by simply reaching into the engine compartment with a hefty screwdriver and shunting the solenoid terminals.

We spent the night drifting - the sleeper sleeping while the watchkeeper merely snoozing, kitchen timer in lap to signal the end of the 15-minute resting period. Four times each hour we arose and peered outside. By midnight the clouds had lifted, exposing Papeete's glittering lights. Oh how they beckoned the eager, wayfaring mariner!

Papeete Harbor

At daylight we recouped the six miles the current had swept us away in the night, then entered Tahiti's principle harbor. There we found perhaps 50 yachts of all descriptions laying stern-to to the quay.

Once inside the port, I maneuvered Suka's bowsprit to the wharf so Jenny could hop ashore. She then walked to the harbor offices to determine what instructions the officials would have for us. She returned with the directive that we were to stern-tie anywhere along the quay, and then to report to the offices afoot.

Med-mooring, as it is called, was a docking procedure unfamiliar to us. So when we selected a suitable site between two yachts, and when someone began shouting instructions, they found appreciative ears. Perpendicular to our intended berthing, we dropped the anchor well out. Then while I stood on the afterdeck paying out 200 feet of line, Jenny used the dingy to pull ashore and make the line's end fast to a bollard. Back aboard, she paid out bower chain while I winched us aft and into position. Then she snubbed the cable and we attached three additional lines ashore, which stabilized Suka laterally.

We had arrived!

Clearing-in with the officials proved a reasonably humane procedure, as the offices of immigration, quarantine, customs, and the assistant to the Port Captain were all housed in the same small building, standing at the waterfront. In turn, we visited each of them.

Papeete was a dizzying whirl of high-speed automobile traffic, of busy French professionals tromping the sidewalks, of gaudily clad tourists poking into the tawdry shops, and of bronzed islanders standing by the wayside letting it all happen. Window shopping was our excuse to search out a fast-foods restaurant, where we then gorged on hamburgers, milk shakes and ice cream. And after collecting a small pile of mail at the post office, we window-shopped onward in search of more ice cream.

Three days after our arrival in Papeete, another cyclone ravaged the Tuamotus, this time by Orama (a Tahitian word meaning vision). Villages on Ahe and Arutua, and on several other atolls were destroyed. Fate's irony was not lost on Jenny and I, for had we called in at Ahe we probably would have encountered this monster.

Three Weeks in Papeete

We lingered three blissful weeks in Papeete, taking-in the sights, absorbing the bustling culture, and generally compensating for our four-month absence from the civilized world.

Cyclone Reva

One of our San Diego friends who had seen us off, flew from California for a visit. An avid outdoorsman, Joe worked as a land surveyor, and he and I had been fellow instructors at the Colorado Outward Bound School. But his subsequent Tahitian visit did not fulfill any dreams of lounging in the Elysian Fields of tropical paradise, for three days after his arrival the radio came alive with warnings of yet another approaching cyclone: Reva, "the thrasher."

During the austral summers and autumns, virulent cyclones, also known as hurricanes or typhoons, occur with some regularity in the Southern Pacific. The cyclone belt - the area of potential cyclonic activity - normally lies safely to the west of the Society Islands. Thus, severe storms rarely occur in French Polynesia. In fact, in the whole of recorded history, prior to this season the Tuamotus had experienced only three cyclones. The "Great Cyclone" of 1903 devastated the atolls, and in 1905 and 1906 storms of lesser intensity swept the area. Furthermore, prior to this season, the Marquesas Islands had an even better record: zero cyclones. Clearly, the cruising class of 82-83 had not chosen the best year to roam the South Pacific.

In Memoriam: Ike and Debbie Thompson

Meanwhile in Tahiti our sky grew ominous, and the wind began churning the Papeete harbor. With Joe's help, Jenny and I retrieved Suka's a-proviso shore lines, then weighed and nervously moved well out into the protected harbor. We lowered the forty-five pound CQR into forty feet of water, and paid out the three hundred and fifty feet of three-eighths-inch anchor chain to its bitter end. Most of the fifty yachts were likewise moving away from the quay, such that the harbor became severely congested. Swinging room was critically restricted.

Moving west, Reva passed by Tahiti well to the north. We endured two days of twenty to forty knot winds. However, a small number of yachts were lying in calm conditions at the nearby Maeva Beach and Beachcomber anchorages, now protected in the island's lee. All looked well for us, but radio reports relayed the news that the Leeward Islands, Huahine, Raiatea and Bora Bora, were being hammered.

Then unpredictably the storm changed course, reversing its direction and now bearing hard upon Tahiti.

The cyclone smashed all of Tahiti's anchorages with 80 knot winds laced with one hundred knot gusts. Papeete's harbor was churned into a seething ground-blizzard of raging, white spume, and with each gust Suka lay far over and strained at her unbudging bower. One by one, members of the flotilla dragged their anchors, but the five powerful harbor tugs scurried about saving the vessels, towing them to windward, and securing them to shoreside bollards.

When one of the largest yachts in the harbor, Verdura, suddenly lost her anchor, her bow spun around and she headed downwind, out of control and directly for a nearby freighter secured to the windward wharf. But at the last moment a tug adroitly sped to her rescue and pushed Verdura's bow away, narrowly averting her demise.

Suka's anchor held fast. Her crew cowered belowdecks peering out the ports and hatch, and witnessing the devastation ashore. The hideous tempest was stripping buildings of their siding and roofs. Bursts of airborne sheet metal, glass, and miscellaneous debris were occasionally hurling far out into the harbor.

The sinister eye had missed us by a mere seventy-five miles to the north.

After seven hours of unparalleled excitement, the tempest eased. Then late in the afternoon it died, leaving the yachts lying motionless in a deafening quiescence beneath an unimaginably spectacular sunset. The monstrosity Reva, meanwhile, was headed back for another strafing run at the hapless Tuamotus.

Two days previously, a pair of yachts - the crews of which were friends we had met at Nuku Hiva - were in the Tuamotus.

Jack, Rithva, and son Benjamin aboard their American ketch Kulkuri were anchored in Ahe's expansive lagoon when the warning came of the impending cyclone Reva. Needless to report, a low-lying atoll offers scant protection against a hurricane. The primary reason is that a cyclone's eye is an area of extremely low barometric pressure where the mean sea level can rise fifteen feet, causing an inundation of even the atoll's highest point of land. Anchored in 25 foot seas within a lagoon could prove disastrous. As such, Jack insisted they depart for the open sea. But Rithva was terrified to put to sea, and refused to go. Jack offered that if Rithva wanted to stay, she could row ashore in the dinghy; for adamantly, he was leaving. They departed together and sailed east - out of harm's way.

Secret Sharer

The Americans aboard Secret Sharer met with less favorable circumstances. Bound for Tahiti, Larry and Mollie were sailing through the Tuamotus when they received radio warnings of cyclone Reva. As did Kulkuri, they headed east. A day later, Reva began veering well away to the west, so Larry turned about, and steered back through the Tuamotu Archipelago. Then in a bizarre twist of fate, Reva turned abruptly as mentioned, grazed Tahiti, and headed back toward the Tuamotus. Ensnared in an ever increasing tail wind, Larry assumed that Secret Sharer was experiencing a strengthening gale - an assumption based on the fact that the American weather stations were broadcasting (incorrectly) that Reva was headed south-west, this a full 10 hours after the hurricane had abruptly reversed its course.

In a 1981 issue of Cruising World Magazine, Bernard Moitessier wrote, "Never run before the wind [when encountering a hurricane], for to do so will carry you directly into the storm's center and fury." A cyclone's winds spiral into the center, so Larry and Mollie were unknowingly rushing headlong toward a potentially deadly rendezvous with the enormous dragon Reva.

Via ham radio Larry and Mollie eventually learned of the cyclone's reversal, and its true position and heading. With acumen, Don McClead, a fellow yachtsman, recommended that Larry set his storm sails, run the engine at full rpm, and steer with the wind as far forward on the port beam as was possible. And this they did, while sustaining a tremendous battering, fighting the raging storm throughout the long night. Spitfire sheets and a jib car exploded. Secret Sharer's prop over-revved each time it lifted free of the water. Time and again the fuel line cavitated, and desperately Larry bled the lines. And all the while the sat-nav beeped the desperate warning that the cutter was being driven slowly but inexorably toward Aratua's ever nearing reef. At dawn the yacht was but a scant few miles from disaster. And then miraculously the winds began mitigating, and Secret Sharer barely managed to sail off.

Atol-Toll, by Ray Jardine

Moorea

Several days later, with Reva blowing itself out a thousand miles to the south-west, Joe, Jenny, and I left the residents of Papeete to repair their ravaged city, and motored the 15 miles to Tahiti's little sister isle: Moorea.

As we approached one of the openings in Moorea's fringing reef, the entrance to Cook's Bay, Perkins gasped and died. A light breeze wafted directly on-shore, and the brig suddenly found herself dead in the water and drifting slowly toward the hostile, surf-trounced coral. Straightway we hoisted full sail, and began slowly gathering sea room. Then leaving Jenny at the helm I set to work in the engine compartment. Joe watched over my shoulder with the analysis that a mechanic's job seemed about as complicated "as brain surgery." In contrast, from my perspective the chunk of metal was not as abstruse: I found that the engine was fuel-starved. In twenty minutes of testing, I traced the problem to a small glob of silicone (from the inspection plate's seal) steadfastly lodged in the fuel tank's pick-up tube. I cleared this, bled the air from the lines, and re-started the engine. With Perkins once again droning away dutifully, we entered the pass and anchored in four fathoms close to the river's mouth.

Moorea soon became our favorite haunt. Except for the blatantly high prices, the island featured all the right ingredients: few cars, quietude, spectacular scenery, interesting inland hiking, unblemished weather, friendly islanders, illustrious snorkeling, miles of beautiful sand beaches, and vivacious, bronze-skinned native girls who often frequented the beaches showing scant regard to the western notion of beach-apparel propriety.

Joe returned to California, while Jenny and I remained in Cook's Bay another two weeks. Then Jenny's parents traveled to the island, taking a bungalow at a hotel near our anchorage.

A deepening low pressure cell began materializing south of the Marquesas. For four days it meandered in our direction, gaining strength, until maturing into French Polynesia's 1982 cyclone number eight: Veena. It steamrolled over the northern Tuamotus, which had hosted seven such unwanted guests this year, and in the process it obliterated what little had remained of civilization there. Then it steered for Tahiti.

Cyclone Veena

Suka's VHF radio had come alive with warnings, while for two days we experienced winds gusting to 40 knots as the sky gathered those awful hurricane-type clouds.

Jenny's folks were understandably lost in the tourist's enamor with the island, and they were wholly unsuspecting of the potential gravity of the impending storm. As evidence, they casually invited us to join them the following day on the hotel's scheduled boat trip and picnic. I reminded them that the forecasters were predicting the cyclone to strike the island the following day, to which they replied that if we wouldn't accompany them, then they would go without us.

During that long night of April 29 the wind strengthened in earnest. Nineteen other yachts were anchored in Cook's Bay, the crews of which were generally experienced "hurricaners" like ourselves. Jenny and I had stripped Suka topsides, and had storm-readied her. We had set the anchor directly in line with the river, where the effluvial sediment would provide the best holding. Also, we had paid-out the chain to its bitter end.

Even so, our location was not perfect. The water was a problematic 40 feet deep, and the bay stood wide open to the west; meaning that should the cyclone pass us to the west, huge seas would roll into the bay and churn the anchorage into a seething maelstrom. Still, not one yacht put to sea.

The skipper, threatened with an impending hurricane while in port, is faced with a difficult decision as whether to remain aboard in hopes of being able to solve the inevitable problems that might arise, or whether to snug the boat down and then to seek personal safety ashore. As we were soon to learn, should the storm rage in earnest then one's efforts at solving any problems will not be to much avail, and the sailors will find themselves aboard simply for the thrill of the ride. (Next time, Jenny and I will discreetly slip ashore.)

Anchored nearby Suka was a 30-foot wooden sloop named Solano. Her owner had flown back to the states a week earlier, and had left her in the care of the crew of a nearby yacht. Some care! She had been neither well anchored nor storm-readied. In the increasingly tempestuous night, Solano drug anchor and furrowed past us to port. Then her anchor grabbed hold, and she stopped a ways to our quarter. Now she lay a little too close for comfort, but I was loathe to re-anchor Suka in the black of night and in such strong winds. I reasoned that if the wind increased, then Solano would drag clear - a misjudgment that nearly cost us dearly.

The Hurricane Slams Cook's Bay

Vicious gale force winds increased throughout the interminable night, until the full-fledged typhoon began shrieking and wailing through Suka's rigging. The air became laden in blown spume so dense that the single object visible beyond our lifelines was our nearby neighbor's masthead light. Then at 4:00 a.m, in total darkness, the cyclone struck with unimaginable fury. A terrific gust trounced Suka broadside, slamming her onto her beam end. From our perspective, the ports resembled goldfish bowls, and I am certain the crosstree of the mast hit the water. I was catapulted out of the windward berth and landed feet-first on the base of the opposite settee. Books, charts, and everything physically unrestrained went with me. The settee cushions followed suit. Lockers flew open and disgorged their contents, and the massive fresh water tanks beneath the cabin sole shifted with a dreadful, groaning "ca-chunk!" Suka righted herself, but moments later she was hit again. Over she went - but this time on the opposite side. Now, the port-side cushions flew out of place, the larboard cupboard doors and drawers fell away and emptied themselves. When Suka re-righted, her cabin was in extreme disarray.

The knockdowns suggested that our anchor had dragged, so once again I donned a snorkeling face-mask, and for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, I stepped out the companionway. Armed with a 200,000-candlepower beam, I could see no farther forward than the main mast. Visibility aft was better, though, as utterly dismayed I saw that the wind had recently shifted direction, and that Suka now lay directly in line with the unoccupied Solano. We later learned that during both hideous gusts the entire fleet had drug backwards some 20 feet, en masse, excepting Solano whose anchor had previously caught something solid. A mere 30 feet astern, this boat now kicked and thrashed to her bower like an overgrown mustang. And Suka was behaving likewise. Solano's man-overboard strobe had inverted and activated, and in the void of blackness its flashing light seemed to warn us "keep away, keep away" Watching it in dread, I pondered what we would do should subsequent gusts drive us back another 30 feet.

We had fastened our inflatable dinghy astern with multiple painters affixed to its every appendage, such that we might abandon ship if necessary. This plan now seemed ludicrous. The dinghy, even though laden with its comparatively heavy floorboards, was flapping astern like a corpulent flag. Had we somehow boarded the ill-behaved boat, and had we then somehow remained upright, the tempest would have undoubtedly driven us straightway out to sea, regardless of how unrelenting we might have paddled. And as we went, the increasing fetch would have brought mountainous waves. Swimming ashore was not an attractive option either. The tempest was blowing from the direction of shore, which stood some 200 yards distant. Although the fetch was not great, the waves were rampaging, and near the water's surface the blast of spray was so concentrated that I doubt if a swimmer could have found air to breathe. Scuba gear would have been the only hope.

A belated dawn was beginning to show itself as Jenny and I wrestled with the dinghy, removing its floorboards, deflating it, hauling it aboard, and cramming it through the companionway and onto the chaos belowdecks. The wind had subsided somewhat, but was yet well over a hundred knots, as estimated in comparison with the winds of Reva.

Wearing the face mask as though underwater, I crawled forward. Taking the brunt of the needle-like, piercing spray I inspected the half-dozen anti-snub nylon ropes we had affixed to the anchor chain. These were absorbing the loads, drawing taut and stretching torturously with each powerful gust. Even wearing the mask I was working half blind, but I could see that a few snubbers were beginning to chafe through. Nevertheless, I was incapable of adjusting anything. The ketch's motion was so severe, and the chain yanked at the snubbers with such violence, that to put a hand anywhere near the rode would have resulted in instant injury.

Back in the cockpit, I tried motoring Suka away from Solano by gunning Perkins full throttle, but her 50 horsepower engine eased the strain on the ground tackle not one perceptible iota. The unfathomable power of the storm had rendered us essentially helpless, and we were aboard merely as passengers on an exciting ride.

"One hand for the boat, the other for yourself" quips the nautical saying. But in the throes of a hurricane my admonition was "both hands and feet for the boat, and while you are at it, throw a half-nelson around the steering pedestal." Even ordinarily simple tasks required Herculean effort. For example, wrestling a wildly gyrating 35-pound Danforth anchor to the bow and shackling it to its warp, required half an hour of struggling.

Happiness was the wind mitigating to 90 knots, and allowing us to remove our face masks. The views were beginning to expand, first to some of our neighboring yachts, which had withstood the blow, and then occasionally to shore, where the village of Pao Pao lay pitifully in shambles.

As the morning progressed, the storm gradually subsided, and for the first time in ten hours we no longer questioned our survival. Then by early afternoon the wind lessened to an estimated sixty knots, and the storm began to sputter. Between gusts we were now able to power forward and laterally away from Solano, and after two hours of struggling, finally motored away far enough to drop the kedge. Using this, we winched Suka away from the wooden yacht, in case the storm should re-intensify.

During the blow, a bilingual yachtsman named Stefan had been broadcasting hourly VHF radio weather updates, in English as translated from the government broadcasts in French. He reported that Veena's eye had passed some 50 miles east of Tahiti, and that Tahiti's airport had registered a minimum barometric reading of only 980 millibars.

The late afternoon was one of brief periods of near calm, interspersed with disconcerting miniature tornadoes that struck hard and yanked the slackened yacht's cable with startling jolts. Then by late evening the storm had left us in peace.

Aftermath

Veena was far and away the most ruinous of the season's cyclones. The damage it inflicted to Tahiti and Moorea was horrendous. According to the local newspaper, four thousand homes were destroyed, most of the agrarian interests were decimated, all roads were severed, many bridges were carried away by the torrential rains, and the electrical network was largely razed. The yachts anchored at Tahiti had fared far worse than those of us at Moorea. Twenty-six were driven onto beaches or reefs. Most of these had not been equipped with all-chain rode, so their anchor ropes had merely chafed through at the bows. Additionally, 39 pleasure boats and 6 bonito skiffs had foundered.

During the night of the cyclone, when Jenny and I had been hanging on to our wildly rebounding home, Jenny's parents were roused by the hotel staff, and with the other guests were shown to the main kitchen - the hotel's strongest room. There, they remained safely throughout the night, sipping coffee, eating sandwiches, and chatting nervously. As it happened, the hotel was situated more in the island's lee, so it did not sustain the full brunt of the tempest. Late in the afternoon, Jenny's Dad set out to determine whether we were safe. He reported climbing over and under the tremendous downfall, and eventually reaching the bay where he could see Suka lying securely.

Windjob in Distress

The next day Jenny and I monitored the VHF radio, listening to the salvage operations taking place on Tahiti's beaches and reefs. Then in a tired, quivering voice, a yachtsman identifying himself as Dirk Winters issued a call for help. It seems that Dirk had been single-handing his 34-foot sloop Windjob, and was nearing Tahiti when hurricane Veena struck. Now in the aftermath, his sails were in shreds, his engine was inoperable - having seized years ago - and in the persistent cloud cover he was unable to navigate. Windjob was dead in the water, and her captain was exhausted and rather lost. The French harbor authorities were deluged with other projects, so the captain of a nearby oil tanker offered to search for Windjob. Six hours later the tanker's crew found Windjob, and by then the yacht had drifted within a few miles of Tahiti. The tanker's maneuverability was of course extremely limited, and because her captain could no longer lend his assistance he steered away. Later that night, closing with the reef and about to meet his demise, Dirk put out another call. This time the yachtsman-interpreter Stefan managed to summon the French Navy. A ship was dispatched and three specialists bedecked in the latest counterinsurgency outfits (as Dirk reported later) zoomed to Windjob in an inflatable, and climbed aboard.

Dirk learned that the tow back to the harbor would cost him the equivalent of $3,000. He replied, "Forget it. My boat isn't worth that much." So the three agents volunteered to sail Windjob back to port. All night they worked on saving Windjob from the reef, but with no engine and no sails they could do little but tow her a short distance away. In so doing, at least they prevented Windjob from foundering on the coral reef and thereby meeting a most untimely end to her circumnavigation. Yes, it seems that at the age of 79, the ol' shellback was completing his sail around the world, having had departed Tahiti eight years previously.

Next morning, a yacht generously set out from the Papeete harbor and towed Windjob into port. To everyone's amazement, Dirk related that he had endured, not one, but three cyclones while at sea.

. . .

A week later, yet another cyclone warning came over the airwaves - "William". At poignant times like this the VHF radio would come alive with interesting chatter among the yachtees. One woman was heard to say, "We're not going to do this one." This reflected our sentiments precisely. And to everyone's relief, the cyclone dissipated.

The Infamous Cyclone Season

The 1982-1983 cyclone season will long be remembered by all who were present in French Polynesia that season. And the catastrophe was not confined to the eastern South Pacific; the devastation was world-wide. The overall phenomenon is dubbed El Niño, a name derived from an Ecuadorian off-shore current that occurs at Christmas time. El Niños happen sporadically, on the average of once each four or five years; rarely, though, with such intensity. In fact, National Geographic magazine characterized this particular El Niño as, "one of the most destructive climactic events in modern history."

Cyclones in our vicinity Lisa Dec 10-18, 1982. Category 2 Nano Jan 20-29, 1983. Category 3. Nisha-Orama Feb 20-27, 1983 Prema Feb 27-Mar 2 Reva (Rewa) Mar 7-15, 1983. Category 4. Tomasi Mar 27-Apr 2 1983. Category 4 Veena Apr 7-14, 1983. Category 4. William Apr 15-23, 1983. Category 3 Good ref: The cyclones of 1982-1983 in French Polynesia

Experiences with El Niño, by Ray Jardine

Good Weather in Papeete

The ensuing weeks distinguished themselves by light airs and sunny skies. Jenny's parents had returned to the states, and my parents came for a visit that was subsequently blessed with pleasant weather. Then Jenny and I moved back to Papeete where we labored intensively on Suka's brightwork - showing the scourge of several months exposure to the tropical sun. After bringing Suka once again to shipshape and bristol fashion, we ordered a sat-nav from Southern California to be air-freighted to Tahiti. We then set to work fortifying Suka's lockers, drawers, cupboards and floorboards with stout latches.

Huahine

A full month after the final cyclone, we thought it safe to move on. We were eager to visit the Iles Sous les Vent, Tahiti's cousin islands "under the wind" (those in her lee). So after installing the sat-nav, we effected the necessary paperwork with the harbor officials, and visited the outdoor market and shops to replenish Suka's goodies larder.

With a northerly 15-knot wind, Suka gurgled along at a comfortable 5-1/2 knots under full press of canvas. Moving once again felt wonderful, even though the jaunt was but a single night's journey.

I had removed the self-steering auxiliary rudder soon after our arrival in Tahiti, in order to protect it from cyclone damage. The 100 mile excursion to the Leeward Islands did not warrant reassembling the devise onto Suka's transom, so we stood tyranny to the tiller. This soon put us in remembrance of our seagoing predecessors who had circumnavigated the globe prior to the advent of the self-steering mechanism or the autopilot. Those were the days when designers and builders placed far more emphasis on helm balance, seaworthiness, and seakindliness; and when the yachtsmen and yachtswomen knew how to trim those vessels. These days, the short-handed owner is expected to bolt on a self-steering apparatus as something of an afterthought, in an attempt to camouflage any deficiencies on both accounts.

In fact, Suka carried so much weather helm that we rarely flew her mizzen sail - it only exacerbated the problem. Additionally, she was fitted with hydraulic steering, so her rudder would not hold a trim setting for more than a few minutes. The hydraulic fluid, under the rudder's back pressure, would slowly seep back through the seals of the helm pump (despite my having it rebuilt). As the vessel lacked a big genoa, the only means we could balance her was by flying a loosely sheeted, deep reefed main, and a jib hardened well in. But this configuration provided minimal sail drive in normal trade wind conditions, so we seldom reverted to it. Instead, we normally flew the full mainsail, and left the self-steering gear to grapple with the induced weather helm.

Avaamoa

We reached the island of Huahine (who-ah-he'-knee) and rounded it to its north, and entered Passe Avaamoa. Inside we found placid and emerald-green water, white sand beaches, and the thatched bungalows of the Bali Hai Hotel. We set anchor into the sand, where subsequently it was to remain ensconced for two weeks.

Cyclonic desecration was in little evidence here. For some reason the fierce blasts had not ravaged this island as hard as they had the others.

Touring the Island by Motorbikes

As we had on Moorea, we toured the island riding rented motorbikes. Our first impression was how fecund the lush verdure covering the island. The Society Islands are a botanical wonderland, and Huahine was certainly no exception. The air was redolent of rich, earthy odors and of plants growing robust. The flora was larger than life.

Small, corrugated-iron roofed houses were surrounded by small, open plots and by gardens. As was the case in a few of the villages in the Marquesas, the yards here were impeccably well kept. Where there was grass, it was mowed neatly - despite what must have been a voracity of weeds encouraged by the warm, moist, and sunny tropical clime. Where the yard was bare ground, it was raked meticulously. Huahine was so well groomed, in fact, that rarely in our travels about the island did we find the smallest piece of litter.

The people, though, where what impressed us the most. Wherever we found them, they treated us cheerfully and amiably. They lived comparatively simple lives, without much avarice - although economically they were ages ahead of the Marquesans.

In short, we found the island a delight.

But the mood's insouciance was shattered one afternoon. In the company of a few other yachtees, Jenny and I were strolling along a dirt road leading through the village of Fare, there being no sidewalk to speak of, when a jeep skidded to a halt. "Off the street!" a gendarme ordered, in a tone so atypically unremitting that we only stood there, taken aback. At that, the Gestapo-like cop stepped from his jeep, (parked in the middle of the street), approached us most threateningly, and repeated his command, which was beginning to sink in. After we had complied, the fulminating, one-person task force withdrew into his jeep and sped away.

Our next encounter, or rather a near miss, with this diabolical character occurred a few days later. After riding motorbikes about the island most of the afternoon, we had returned to the hotel for refreshments. The friendly bartender, who by then knew us reasonably well, related that the SWAT team of one, (not his exact words) had been out scouring the island in search of our whereabouts. It seems that we had been riding motorbikes illegally, by not wearing helmets. Why the fellow renting the motorbikes had not supplied helmets, and why he had not so much as mentioned that helmets were required - remains a mystery. Perhaps he was also oblivious to this newly fabricated law. And conversely, how the polizei knew that we were in violation of his law was another question, and one that might have suggested a collusion there somewhere. Nevertheless, as if acting a scene in the furthering episodes of the keystone cops, in our many side trips to explore roads leading into the jungle we had unknowingly eluded the nemesis.

Raiatea

Sailing the twenty-five miles to the island of Raiatea (rye-eh'-tay'-ah), we entered Passe Teavapiti, and after traversing the expansive lagoon, moored the ketch alongside the town wharf. Uturoa, the principle village on Raiatea and the second largest city in eastern Polynesia, oddly sits on the windward side of the island. So despite the presence of the offlying barrier reef, the brisk trade winds were kicking a chop and sending Suka reeling and lurching torturously against her pneumatic fenders, bearing against the wharf.

We ran a long hose ashore and connected it to a spigot, which trickled water of questionable potability. A few locals assured us the water was drinkable, but first we fed the hose into an open bucket for visual inspection before siphoning it into Suka's fresh water tanks. Then we added a dollop of chlorine bleach as a purifying agent. While preparing the ketch for the voyage we had equipped her with a ceramic water filter. This was purportedly capable of removing impurities to one micron, defying any parasites such as giardia, amoebae, tapeworm eggs, and so on. But it would not protect against bacteria or viruses.

The town of Uturoa was characterized by red roofed and white painted wooden buildings, and was bustling with activity. It soon proved itself yet another culturally fascinating place. The air was saturated with the rich aroma of vanilla beans, grown locally and sold at inflated prices at the quaint Chinese shops.

Emanating a bouquet of vanilla redolence, Suka motored around the northern perimeter of the island, her crew ever watchful for shoals within the lagoon, unsuspecting of the adventure that soon lay in store.

Mishaps in the Marina

Making way to the marina, we could see a dozen yachts within the quiet pocket harbor. As we reached the entrance, the water shallowed from 70 to seven feet; leaving Suka with a mere six inches of water beneath her keel. With trepidation, we crept in.

If you can imagine the absurdity of building a marina into which flowed a creek that disgorged its sediment, then you will have pondered the logic behind this one. The central portion of the basin proved shallower than its periphery by about a foot; and there Suka skidded to an abrupt halt, aground on the soft sediment. The wind blew vigorously, but having inadvertently deployed our "keel anchor" we stood in little danger of being driven onto the windward concrete wall. Nevertheless, we dispatched the dinghy, from which Jenny then motored a kedge laterally to windward. Then with a bracing wind in the sails heeling the brig well over, and with her engine assisting at full throttle, her crew managed to winch her toward their intended berthing, while her keel plowed a lengthening furrow in the favorably compliant seabed.

While we were thus engaged, an impatient skipper of one of the vessels lying to the wall, stern-to, cast his moorings and set out. Never mind that Suka was presently occupying the lion's share of the basin's maneuvering space. And as if this was not sufficient complication, a third sailboat was at that moment entering the marina. While rounding Suka, outbound vessel A inadvertently snagged her self-steering gear in another yacht's bow rode. And inbound vessel B skidded aground on the above-mentioned hump. At vocal levels no doubt audible to half the population of Raiatea, directives, demands, recriminations, ultimatums and a few unprintable expletives were exchanged amongst the various factions, which now included a growing number of onlookers. Vessel A squeezed past Suka, nearly colliding with her and in the process compressing our inflatable in torment between the two hulls. This was a considerable test of the dinghy's integrity. Skipper A's confusion was partially offset by the adroitness of his woman-crew, who frantically fended-off the nearby moored yachts, their mooring lines, and the marina's concrete walls. And in this way these folks eventually scraped and clawed their way out. The crew of vessel B, after finally winching their ship's keel free of the shoals, had obviously grown discouraged by the marina's lack of aesthetics and overall gray ambiance, for they turned tail and moved out to the lagoon and anchored there.

With suitable elbow room restored, Jenny and I continued kedging Suka ever onward; and finally Med-moored her leeward of the concrete wall. Peace returned to the normally peaceful Polynesian setting, and the onlookers quickly lost interest and moved on.

Secret Sharer soon came steaming into the marina, her crew oblivious of the lurking underwater snare. Before we could warn Larry and Mollie of the pernicious shoal, they somehow cruised right over it; their vessel being of lesser draft. Utterly oblivious, they casually tossed us their mooring lines, and rafted alongside Suka. Considering the chaos we had endured, their easy entrance was dumbfounding. However, the incongruity was to be reversed a few days later:

As Larry and Mollie were leaving for Bora Bora, waving us farewell, their cutter's keel suddenly embraced the hump, and the yacht shuddered to an abrupt halt. To free Secret Sharer, Larry instructed Mollie to perch at the end of the boom, which after she had climbed on, he then swung far out and guyed it to starboard. Coming to their assistance, I stood in Suka's dinghy and grabbed the end of the same boom, and pulled with all my weight. Still Secret Sharer refused to budge. A neighboring yachtee, Jim Carlyle from aboard his yacht Sybaris, came to help. Grasping a long line attached to Secret Sharer's masthead via its halyard, Jim motored his tender away full tilt, and this heeled the ship far enough to lift her keel free of the bottom. Seizing the moment, Larry gunned the engine; Jim released the line; and I dropped off. And thus, Secret Sharer sped out of the marina - with Mollie still straddling the boom end, angled far out and high over the water.

During our stay, Jenny and I rode Le Truck - as the public buses there are called - into Uturoa, and there we rented motorbikes. This time we were careful to inquire whether helmets were mandatory. That they were not, furthered my suspicion that Huahine's mad henchman was in the habit of fabricating personal ordinances to suit.

From the outskirts of the township, and outward, Raiatea resembled her comely neighbor. The islanders were friendly, their yards were well kept, and the countryside was lush. We spent most of the day touring as far around the island's periphery as the road extended, in both directions.

As time passed, our favorite morning haunt became a nondescript little café known as Ramy's Place, cowered at the outskirts of Uturoa. Locals congregated here. They liked to sit at wooden tables while Chinese waiters scurried about, serving plates of savory, freshly baked baguettes and wide-mouthed cups of steaming coffee. Curiously, at 8:30 a.m. the place would practically empty, as customers would leave to get on with their days.

We also spent a few glorious days hiking into the mountains. These were not so thickly vegetated, and were laced with a few, seldom-used dirt roads, presumably as fire-breaks. While trekking in the higher regions, we found spices, fruits, and semi-wild vanilla beans. Once we climbed to a vista atop a hillside overlooking the western seaboard. The fringing reef clearly extended away to the north, and also encompassed Raiatea's Siamese-twin island, Tahaa. Beyond that, Bora Bora squatted in the distance. What a good location, we mused idly, for someone to build a home.

Tahaa

Anxious to explore nearby Tahaa, we reluctantly decided to press on. So with the benefit of high tide, and with an impromptu contingent of rescue personnel standing at the ready, Jenny untied our dock lines and I gunned the engine. Suka's keel planed across a few high spots and slowed momentary, but without further mishap she carried her jubilant crew into the lagoon's deeper water.

Sailing within the fringing reef to Tahaa (tah-ha'-ah), we entered a placid bay called Hurepiti, and anchored near its head in 5 fathoms, close to a steep-to coral reef.

The following morning we paddled ashore and went for a long walk, following a dirt road that surmounted a mountain pass and descended the far slope to Baie Haamene. Here was a small village, suitably removed from the tourist's well-trounced expressways. Thoroughly enjoying the day, we retraced our steps and returned aboard.

The anchorage was deep and fringed with dangerous coral reefs that would genuinely threaten Suka's hull in the event of a blow. So we weighed and exited the Passe Papei, discernible only as a narrow gap in the wall of enormous surf otherwise crashing headlong onto the barrier reef. Outside the lagoon the swell was considerable. So ours was a wild ride until we had negotiated the confused seas rebounding from the reefs.

Bora Bora would be our final Polynesian stopover, and we motor-sailed all afternoon in light airs to reach it.

Racing the setting sun, we entered Passe Teavanui and joined half a dozen yachts anchored before the yacht club. Belaying the chain around our padded foredeck bitt, I eased Suka's Danforth and 200 feet of chain into 80 feet of water. This was by far the deepest anchorage of the voyage.

We rented bicycles and peddled around the island, and we lunched among the tourists at the larger hotels. Mainly, though, we enjoyed plying the encompassing waters of the immense lagoon, to snorkel about the outer motus, and to fossick for sea shells. It was there that we found great beauty and serenity.

Even so, there was one curios phenomena. Any private yacht found lying quietly - her crew enjoying the solitude - the bareboat charter clientele considered fair game. Based on weeks of experience, I could only surmise that the charter companies must advise their customers that to be safe they need only anchor near other yachts, and the nearer the better. To whit, these neophyte skippers would come flying down on us, two or three in formation with full sails billowing gallantly. Then once in our immediate proximity they would panic. Crews would scurry about, desperately dropping sails into piles on the decks as their helmsmen would roar close around under full power. Anchors were dropped while under way, and the feluccas of the flamboyant flotilla would commence barely missing us and not always missing each other. Oddly, as familiar with this routine as we eventually became, Jenny and I never did grow accustomed to their infernal dragging under-scoped anchors and colliding into each other, and to their hollering at the tops of their panicked and frustrated voices. And I wondered if they considered us unsociable when invariably we weighed and moved elsewhere.

Having been in French Polynesia six and a half months, and now after lingering in Bora Bora for two glorious weeks, we were eager to move on. So when El Niño had spent itself, and a favorable wind had resumed, we presented our paperwork to the Gendarmerie and collected the bond money deposited in Hiva Oa.

June 25th we weighed and set sail to the south-west, bound for Rarotonga, the principle isle of the Cook Islands. The trade winds? They returned with unexpected vigor.