Monthly Archives: May 2015

The Pacific is a thing that’s alive. Like a huge bellows it slowly breathes in and out, and you can mark time by the surge climbing up and down a sandy beach or quay. In these parts, the Marquesas, the famous Pacific tidal range is only four or five feet but its effect on anchoring and dinghy handling is pronounced. With the surge pounding the rocky shore of these small anchorages one finds one’s dinghy surging past the dinghy landing only to get sucked back again a moment later. In and out. More forward and backward than up and down. In Hiva Oa the dinghy landing is slimy, crumbling with spawled concrete and rebar and overcrowded. A stern anchor deployed on approach is essential to try to keep one’s poor dinghy from slamming the rebar and concrete or worse, getting jammed under the whole thing. 

At some point someone had the bright idea to sink chain link fencing near the quay to help the stern anchors hold the dinks off. Our anchor embraced the fencing and for four days it was irretrievable. We just tied the anchor line to the bollard for safekeeping and untied it whenever we came in to the landing. We finally wheedled Tim of Liberty Call to dive in and retrieve it in exchange for dinner. We don’t have a spare dinghy anchor but maybe we should.  

 Every morning we fought off the surging dinghies, all the stern anchors, a dozen or so dinghy painters tied to just two bollards and carefully made our slippery way up the quay to the medium-sized crowd waiting for Sandra the agent to arrive in her black Land Rover Defender to learn if any official word has come down from on high about visas, bond exemptions, duty free fuel papers, customs, or any other requests you may have thought up. Mañana apparently still means “not today” even in French. But if you time it right she’ll give you a ride into town, saving a hot two-mile slog.

The surge not only makes dinghy handling difficult but most yachts also use a stern anchor because of overcrowding and all of that Pacific breathing in and out. After failing miserably at stern anchoring we decided to motor over to the “cat box” where several catamarans were swinging in sync to their primary anchors. Peace at last. Eventually, like most good things, our peace at anchor came to an end when a 55-foot Aussie yacht sidled up right beside us and after being warned that he was right over our anchor, shrugged and dropped his considerable ground tackle regardless, then put out a stern anchor as well which meant much stress and worry for several days of close calls.  

 When we finally got our duty-free fuel permit we stowed our dinghy and began to weigh anchor. We’d had enough of this anchorage but sure enough, with our windlass straining, our anchor broke the surface with the other boat’s anchor chain wrapped around it. With all the weight and tension on the chain I couldn’t budge it. Eventually I tied his chain to Escape Velocity’s bow roller with a bit of line and lowered our anchor, untied his chain which dropped like a stone with our line still attached and we were free. Marce backed us out of there just in the nick of time because we’d been pulled inexorably into his boat by the weight of his chain. I like to think when he sees our bit of line tied to his chain he’ll be reminded of his ungentlemanly behavior…probably not.

Untangling the chain from our anchor was a close thing taking about twenty minutes but at last we were on our way to Tahuata and we’re told Hanamoenoa Bay is one of the best anchorages in the Marquesas. I don’t know. It’ll be tough to beat Fatu Hiva.

It took us four days to check in to French Polynesia. The first day, as we mentioned, was May Day, a holiday. The next day was Saturday and when we arrived at the gendarmerie with our agent the office was closed. Sandra called to inquire and was told they’d had an emergency. What kind we didn’t know. 

Sunday we planned to take an island tour to see the tikis so it was Monday before we filled out our paperwork and got officially stamped into the country. Then we had a wild goose chase back and forth to the Post Office to pay a fee for our temporary residence cards but in the end it all got sorted and we did what all cruisers do when they find themselves in a village of any size with time on their hands: we went grocery shopping. 

There are three or four little stores in tiny Atuona and you have to go to every one to find what you need. One store has carrots, another has plain yogurt. One has leeks, another has cheeses. There is no one stop shopping here in Hiva Oa, and we suspect it’s the same throughout the islands. Some of the stores also sell shoes or clothing or even household items, all about the same space as the living room in our old row house. Finding fresh vegetables is what counts for exercise in these parts, miles of walking and schlepping in extreme heat. 

Our tour on Sunday was a seven-hour bum-breaker of a ride in a beat-up Ford pickup with two bench seats in the bed with a canopy roof. Three lucky people (including Jack) sat on cushy seats in the cab while a couple from Liechtenstein, a man from the Bay Area and I clung to the roof in the back as we lurched and slammed up and down over the mountains to various vista views on a severely switch-backed road.  

 Many times we drove perilously close to a steep precipice and my stomach flipflopped when I peeked over the open side of the pickup. “Don’t look there,” I said to my seatmate Tom, as I shrank back from the edge. Once the switchback was so sharp that our driver John had to do a three-point turn inches from the cliff. My palms were sweaty.  

      Every so often John pulled over so we could all pile out to take photos, and so those of us in the E-ticket seats could work on getting our heart rates back to normal.  

    The main events were stops to see the tikis. The first was a lone “laughing tiki” hidden in the forest, and the second was a reconstructed site with several big tikis, one of which is the largest in the Marquesas. We were interested to learn that the head of one of the big tikis is in a museum in Berlin, so he has someone else’s head on his shoulders. They should give it back.  

      After the main tiki site we drove to a beautiful beach where John laid out a pot of rice, a chicken stew, bananas and lemonade. There was a church and a rectory nearby and we sat on a covered patio eating lunch and watching the sea.  

      The truck-bed sitters were dismayed to learn we’d have to take the same road back over the mountains again, and Jack magnanimously offered to switch places with Tom, who moved into the cab in a hurry before Jack could change his mind.  

 John drove home much faster so we four in the back had to cling to any available hand hold to keep from being flung down the mountain. We could barely take photos because the road bed was rocky and we vibrated and rumbled all the way back to Atuona.  

 The tikis are the main attraction on Hiva Oa and having seen them we were ready to leave the crappy anchorage and move on, but we have to wait for the paperwork that will allow us to buy fuel at duty free prices all through French Polynesia. So we’re stuck in this rolly, crowded harbor, trying to avoid being hit by a boat named Miss Behavin’ that came in after us and dropped his ground tackle right on top of ours, despite our pointing out exactly where our anchor lies. 

Wednesday, says Sandra. We can’t wait.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but timing is everything. We cruisers live in a world of scuttlebutt! Really. Rumor, third hand information, and I read it somewhere, are our currency. After all we’re trying to get accurate information about a local bureaucracy in a foreign country who applies rules as capriciously as Putin follows election laws. You ask why? Like we all knew in the 60s the truth is silly putty, and getting hard true information is nearly impossible, so in lieu of anything concrete we make it up, more or less.

For years we heard the rumors flying around about large fines levied on cruisers that fetch up at Fatu Hiva without first clearing in at Hiva Oha. Beautiful Fatu Hiva is a little closer and easier to see first in French Poylniasa because of prevailing winds. Last year’s scuttlebutt seemed to indicate that the authorities weren’t really checking for or at least fining, what anyone would say was a small indiscretion. We spent six days there recovering after sailing forty two days just to get there, and it would be hard to find a more beautiful, quiet, or less officious place on earth. Still, there were rumors that they had someone writing down boat names for the Gendarmes in Hiva Oa!

So, as I was saying, after a boisterous forty two mile sail up to Hiva Oa we were asked to anchor outside the harbor because a French “warship” was coming in for a few days. Sure enough a big gray thing shoe-horned itself into the quay and we waited outside for awhile but eventually snuck into the anchorage and hid. The next day their customs boat approached and the usual half dozen beefy French uniforms were poking into every nook and cranny on Escape Velocity while two guys filled out sheets and sheets of forms. When asked, we answered truthfully about arriving first into Fatu Hiva, and they didn’t seem to care. That completed, they smiled and with a cheerful au revoir they left. Later that day the big gray thing smoked it’s way out of the harbor and out of our minds as well.

Soon harbor neighbors from Fatu Hiva started arriving with stories of a rare harbor sweep out of a large gray thing, the morning after we’d left. The sweep featured $200 fines but apparently they’d take whatever cash you had. Pure luck on our part but when the dead pig floats past your boat, you gotta go.

Timing is everything.

The navy ship, a small beat up looking thing, arrived as promised at five pm, entered the inner anchorage and tied up to the dock.  

At 6 am Thursday we weighed anchor reluctantly and sailed the 42 miles northwest to Atuona, the port of entry on the island of Hiva Oa. As we rounded the tip of Fatu Hiva we caught a perfect breeze of 12-15 kts and raised sail.   

 About two hours later a nasty squall appeared out of nowhere and we were suddenly in 30-35 kts, the highest wind we’d seen since we left El Salvador. We hung on for the better part of an hour while EV just cooked along, and true to form, when the squall passed it took the wind with it. We motored for a while until the breeze built back up to about 10 kts, then motored when it dropped again. The whole day went like this, motoring for 1/2 hour, sailing for an hour, motoring again, sailing again.  

 We approached the island at about 3 pm and were looking forward to getting the hook down, walking into town to get some cash and spending the evening eating pizza on shore. But it was not to be. Just as we were dropping the sails and preparing to enter the harbor the coast guard piped up on the radio and announced that a French warship would be arriving in Atuona about 5 pm and until that time all boats were requested to remain outside. Thank you for your cooperation.

Rats. Atuona lies in a small bay that faces the prevailing wind and swell. There’s a breakwater that mitigates the motion somewhat but we were being asked to stay outside the breakwater in an extremely rolly patch of water with waves breaking over the rocks behind. As we motored in we saw there were already 5 or 6 boats crammed into the space. We picked our spot and were discussing our strategy for securing the boat when a big funky ketch zoomed up behind us and ran right for the only open space we could see. Jerk.

We found another spot and while I maneuvered EV into position Jack ran forward to drop the anchor. I’ve never seen him work so fast. We had to get hooked quickly before the swell knocked us sideways, and as always when anchoring, we have to judge the complicated geometry of water depth, chain length, other boats’ anchors, wind direction and possible shifts in direction. After three years we’ve gotten pretty good at it and EV came to rest perfectly spaced between two large monohulls. Two more boats came in behind us and both of them made multiple attempts before getting settled safely.  

 Jack and I think this is the most violently rolly anchorage we’ve been in since the Hudson River at Nyack, NY, back in 2012. Even Santa Cruz in the Galapagos wasn’t nearly as crazy as this. Suffice it to say by the time we got settled there was no way we were leaving the boat, so it was another “can night” where I’m challenged to make dinner using what we have on the pantry shelves. Soup, I figure, with the last of our potatoes and carrots, corn and chard from the freezer and broth and canned tomatoes from the pantry, along with fresh-baked cheese biscuits. Not exactly pizza but adequate. We really need to get some groceries.

It rained most of the night and we both slept fitfully as the swell from the ocean bounced back and forth between the rocky shores of the anchorage. This morning we’re watching the monohulls roll gunnel to gunnel, while we and the other catamarans bob and bounce but only about 5 degrees (there’s an app for that.)

In about an hour we’ll have the fun of launching the dinghy and bounding through the waves to shore to begin the check-in process. Then we can hit the ATM and buy some groceries. Yay!