Having enjoyed morning coffee with baguette, butter and jam in the cockpit, it’s now time to recount a memorable day trip we took while still on Hiva Oa, about 3 or 4 days after landfall. But first, a brief word about our current anchorage. We sailed from Fatuhiva Island back here to Tahuata yesterday; a great 40 mile romp of a beam reach with 10-12 knots apparent. That brought to a close an amazing 6 day visit at Fatuhiva – incredibly rich and wonderful experiences that we will describe soon. The anchorage here is stunning. Only two boats, plus us. It faces due west, is lined with a volcanic rock shore and a narrow band of coconut trees. Then the cliffs soar up and up and up, at least 1,500 feet about us. The steep walls are covered in verdant green shrubs and grasses. The most vertical walls are almost without vegetation. Recent rains feed several waterfalls that one can spot while gazing overhead, and hear as they enter the sea a stone’s throw from our boat. It’s one of those “pinch me, is this real?” moments.
But my purpose now is to share a unique day trip that is already receding into memory. We had heard of an impressive archeological site on the north side of Hiva Oa (Atuona, the small town where we were anchored, is on the south side of the island). After confirming there was no bus service there, we arranged through Sandra (the Tahiti Crew agent who helped us clear into Polynesia) to rent a mid-size four wheel drive truck. She made a call and a short while later, there it was, at dockside, with a full tank and key in the ignition. No paperwork, deposit, etc. needed, just climb in and go. We took off at 11:30, knowing it was a 2 hour drive each way and not sure how much of a walk/hike it was to get to the site, known as Ipona. What a drive. We climbed up, out of Atuona, past banana/mango/guava/coconut plantations and other large trees. Recent heavy rains (of the last two months) had triggered small landslides here and there, which large scrapers were clearing. We wondered what landslides, as yet uncleared, might lie ahead. We climbed out of the valley and along a ridge, along a paved, well maintained road. It was like that until we got to the airport (about 15 minutes). Then, soon after, the pavement ended. We continued climbing and traversing the main portion of the island. We drove past rows of huge mango trees, dense groves of conifer-like trees (casurina?), pandanus, guava, and hibiscus and many more trees, grasses and shrubs that I could not identify. We had the road to ourselves; fortunately there were no intersections as there was no one to ask the way along this stretch. Next began the descent to the north side of the island. We were shrouded in mist and clouds, so missed what must have been spectacular views. The first portion of the descent made the famed “crookedest street” in San Francisco seem like a regular road. It was concrete, not much wider then single lane, extremely steep (braking needed even in low gear), and carved one figure eight after another as we dropped down this steep mountain. Once through this section it became deeply rutted dirt again. We dropped elevation following a ridgeline. <> The road worked its way steeply down the ridge, at times straddling the ridge with vertical drops either side, winding and curving, until we finally made it to the beach at the mouth of a narrow valley, backed by extremely steep cliffs. Was this valley Ipona? Turns out we had to traverse three or four of these small valleys, until we reached Puamau Village, where Iipona is located. Each of these valleys opens to the ocean and is not more than ¼ mile wide, with no beach, and crashing surf on volcanic boulders. The flat portion of each valley (not more than 15-25 acres in area) is planted with coconut groves; a few homesteads and copra drying racks dotted here and there complete the picture. On the beach one or two larger (25 long with 4 foot beam) fishing boats with outriggers were stored under sheds. We climbed up the steep ridge from one valley and down to the next several times before reaching Puamau. Several times I got out and approached a homestead to confirm the route. Each interaction was quite friendly and included a brief conversation about the day, the outing, etc. These small valleys are intensely isolated, bounded by the crashing surf on rocks and ocean swells at their mouth and ringed by almost impassable cliffs and ridges on their sides and back. And the only road was an, at times, barely passable dirt track. At Puamau we turned away from the coast and headed to the back of the valley; Ipono was less than a mile from the ocean. Just before reaching it, we passed the forebay of a community-scale hydroelectric facility and then around a muddy bend we passed a young Marquesan man riding a horse bareback. He had several large machetes slung over his shoulder, a jaunty hat and a big smile. We stopped and exchange friendly pleasantries (in French of course). What a unique historical juxtaposition this all represented.
Turns out we could drive to the archeological site at Ipono, so my slight sense of urgency (due to the need to return before dark) behind the wheel was unnecessary. Unfortunately, both Kim and Anson had been pretty tense throughout the drive – given the precipitous terrain, our ever so slightly greater-than-slow pace and the very bumpy ride, and arrived slightly headachy. The site was amazing. It consisted of several (six?) large tikis (sculptures of ancestors and dieties), one of which, at over eight feet, is reportedly the largest in French Polynesia. They are carved from single blocks of volcanic rock. The site included a variety of stone platforms, for greeting, meeting, cooking and offering sacrifices. Other stone carvings, including petroglyphs, were also present. Apart from one group of tourists who left when we arrived, we were the only people there. Large, stately breadfruit and mango trees graced the location, which was tucked at the base of the cliffs at the back of the valley. The site had an excellent interpretative kiosk and the largest tikis and platforms were all protected by thatch roofed structures whose wooden posts and beamswere carved in Marquesan motifs. This work was part of a 1991 restoration effort, which coincided with one of the arts festivities held every few years and which represent a strong and vital cultural revitalization movement. We spent over an hour wandering, imagining, and experiencing the place. It was a religious, ceremonial, not domestic, site, commemorating victories of one group (identified by valley of residence) over other, adjacent groups, combined with ancestor/diety worship. The survivors of the vanquished group had fled across the island to Atuona. It was a source of wonder to imagine how groups in such small, confined valleys could mobilize the labor and resources necessary to construct such large monuments.
After a refreshing snack of peanut butter and jelly on baguette we set off on the return trip. With just over two hours before dark, we could proceed at a leisurely pace. It had been raining off and on all day, so our four wheel drive capability was put to good use, especially on one, steep, rutted, wet and muddy incline. Fortunately, the road was graded toward the inboard side, away from the nearly vertical cliff on the other, ocean facing side. As we passed the homestead of a gentlemen who had confirmed the route on our way in, we slowed and waved good-bye. He was combing his long hair, which he had let down; with a cheerful wave back he acknowledged our prior interaction and return trip. Later, I read that some of Gauguin’s descendents now live on the north coast of Hiva Oa. Was he one of them?
We arrived back at Atuona just as the coming darkness required headlights. That night it stormed and rained. As usual, I got up with each squall to close the hatches. The squalls were coming from the north side of the island. Several times that side of the island was illuminated by large flashes of lightning. One particular brilliant flash included several simultaneous bolts that lit up the sky to the north. I thought about those isolated homesteads and their inhabitants, weathering the stormy squalls in those narrow, isolated valleys, hemmed in by ocean and cliffs, so far from stores, clinics and places of employment, where people have lived for thousands of years. I also thought about the current residents of those valleys, and of how they are descended from those few who survived the horrific death and depopulation and cultural turmoil of the late 1800s. We were so privileged and fortunate to be able to visit the restored archeological site of Iipona, which is one example among many of current efforts to revitalize/decolonize Marquesan culture, history, language and identity.

With bodies and boats reclaimed, and as the squalls have abated, we’ve begun the cruising life. We enjoyed two days of beautiful snorkeling at Hauamoenoa Bay on Tauhata Island. A long coral and rock reef on the southern side of the anchorage provided habitat for scores of tropical fish. While much of the coral had died, there were numerous patches of vigorous growth, with stag head coral predominating. We spent hours diving and observing the interactions of brilliantly colored and patterned fish, large and small: parrot fish, Moorish idols, squarespot anthias, sergeant majors, bluebanded surgeonfish, orange striped triggerfish, puffer fish, butterfly fish, sergeant majors, angelfish, and white margin unicorn fish. A lone barracuda and a four-foot blacktip reef shark raised my heart rate, but they were so clearly non-threatening that I was able to observe them, rather than flee for safety. On the second day of snorkeling Anson spotted a large octopus, tucked into a crevice of dead coral, its massive body protruding into open water and its arms suctioned tightly onto the rocky entrance of its lair. It was only three feet below the water, so we hovered nearby, floating on the surface of the water, and watched as it changed its color and texture in fast succession. From smooth whitish grey, to match the bleached coral, its skin became wrinkled and rusty red, mimicking algae, and fluttering back and forth with the wavelets to complete the effect.

On our final morning at Hauamoenoa Bay, while enjoying our morning coffee, Mark and I noticed the distinctive sign of a manta ray: two wing tips gently gliding above the water’s surface. We donned bathing suits, grabbed snorkeling gear, and dinghied towards the rocky outcrop on the northern edge of the anchorage in search of the manta ray. After several failed attempts, we managed to slip into the water just as the giant manta ray was gliding by, mouth open to filter its breakfast from the sea. The ray banked to curve around, heading directly for us, only 20 feet away. Awed and a bit unnerved, I backed up until I was half under the dinghy at its closest approach, only several feet away. It banked again, and delicately stroked its wings to leave us to its port; its eye gazed directly at us, perhaps as curious about us as we were of it.

From the magical, back to the mundane, we ate breakfast and checked the weather, just in time to see a sweet window for beating the 45 nautical miles to the island of Fatu Hiva. The waves were small, the wind from as favorable an angle as likely during this time of year, so we quickly stowed awnings, got the dinghy on board, up anchored and sailed down the island and back out to sea. Once again we were dodging squalls, with ST at the radar, keeping full sail up and a sharp watch on the anemometer, as the light winds and steep chop required all the power we could deliver. It was slow going, with long tacks dictated by squalls on the horizon and the island to make. For dinner, Devon and I became the upstairs/downstairs chef team: I chopped veggies topsides for a stew, then passed the bowl of food down to him to cook on the stove. Dinner was turn by turn, as squall lines finally found us, and the rain washed Anthea once again. The final hour and a half was under motor, as the wind died and the clouds hovered over the island. We entered the anchorage at night; there were no obstructions and a straight approach took us to the center. Several boats were relaying their position through AIS, confirming the accuracy of our electronic chart, as the boats were shown displayed in the center of the anchorage, rather than on land. We motored in at a crawl, search light ready, all hands on deck, with the plan of arriving at the 100 foot line and dropping anchor. We expected we’d be nicely outside the rest of the boats, but found the 100 foot line to be rather crowded. Carefully we picked our spot and set the anchor, with only minimal chaos (Mark: “Anson, come quick!” Anson leapt forward in time to grab the end of the chain with Mark and haul it aboard before finding out whether the line attaching the end of the anchor chain to the boat had weakened with age) and no cursing. Those in the anchorage hoping for a full spectacle were disappointed (for those non-sailors, anchoring is one of the prime spectator sports for cruisers), but we were greatly relieved.
We awoke with a view of views. This anchorage has appeared on more sailing magazine covers than any other in the world. Google Bay of Virgins, Fatu Hiva and you’ll see the view we are feasting upon. Kim

With bodies and boats reclaimed, and as the squalls have abated, we’ve begun the cruising life. We enjoyed two days of beautiful snorkeling at Hauamoenoa Bay on Tauhata Island. A long coral and rock reef on the southern side of the anchorage provided habitat for scores of tropical fish. While much of the coral had died, there were numerous patches of vigorous growth, with stag head coral predominating. We spent hours diving and observing the interactions of brilliantly colored and patterned fish, large and small: parrot fish, Moorish idols, squarespot anthias, sergeant majors, bluebanded surgeonfish, orange striped triggerfish, puffer fish, butterfly fish, sergeant majors, angelfish, and white margin unicorn fish. A lone barracuda and a four-foot blacktip reef shark raised my heart rate, but they were so clearly non-threatening that I was able to observe them, rather than flee for safety. On the second day of snorkeling Anson spotted a large octopus, tucked into a crevice of dead coral, its massive body protruding into open water and its arms suctioned tightly onto the rocky entrance of its lair. It was only three feet below the water, so we hovered nearby, floating on the surface of the water, and watched as it changed its color and texture in fast succession. From smooth whitish grey, to match the bleached coral, its skin became wrinkled and rusty red, mimicking algae, and fluttering back and forth with the wavelets to complete the effect.

On our final morning at Hauamoenoa Bay, while enjoying our morning coffee, Mark and I noticed the distinctive sign of a manta ray: two wing tips gently gliding above the water’s surface. We donned bathing suits, grabbed snorkeling gear, and dinghied towards the rocky outcrop on the northern edge of the anchorage in search of the manta ray. After several failed attempts, we managed to slip into the water just as the giant manta ray was gliding by, mouth open to filter its breakfast from the sea. The ray banked to curve around, heading directly for us, only 20 feet away. Awed and a bit unnerved, I backed up until I was half under the dinghy at its closest approach, only several feet away. It banked again, and delicately stroked its wings to leave us to its port; its eye gazed directly at us, perhaps as curious about us as we were of it.

From the magical, back to the mundane, we ate breakfast and checked the weather, just in time to see a sweet window for beating the 45 nautical miles to the island of Fatu Hiva. The waves were small, the wind from as favorable an angle as likely during this time of year, so we quickly stowed awnings, got the dinghy on board, up anchored and sailed down the island and back out to sea. Once again we were dodging squalls, with ST at the radar, keeping full sail up and a sharp watch on the anemometer, as the light winds and steep chop required all the power we could deliver. It was slow going, with long tacks dictated by squalls on the horizon and the island to make. For dinner, Devon and I became the upstairs/downstairs chef team: I chopped veggies topsides for a stew, then passed the bowl of food down to him to cook on the stove. Dinner was turn by turn, as squall lines finally found us, and the rain washed Anthea once again. The final hour and a half was under motor, as the wind died and the clouds hovered over the island. We entered the anchorage at night; there were no obstructions and a straight approach took us to the center. Several boats were relaying their position through AIS, confirming the accuracy of our electronic chart, as the boats were shown displayed in the center of the anchorage, rather than on land. We motored in at a crawl, search light ready, all hands on deck, with the plan of arriving at the 100 foot line and dropping anchor. We expected we’d be nicely outside the rest of the boats, but found the 100 foot line to be rather crowded. Carefully we picked our spot and set the anchor, with only minimal chaos (Mark: “Anson, come quick!” Anson leapt forward in time to grab the end of the chain with Mark and haul it aboard before finding out whether the line attaching the end of the anchor chain to the boat had weakened with age) and no cursing. Those in the anchorage hoping for a full spectacle were disappointed (for those non-sailors, anchoring is one of the prime spectator sports for cruisers), but we were greatly relieved.
We awoke with a view of views. This anchorage has appeared on more sailing magazine covers than any other in the world. Google Bay of Virgins, Fatu Hiva and you’ll see the view we are feasting upon. Kim

May 1, 2017
After four days in Atuona, Hiva Oa, we sailed nine miles to Hauamoenoa Bay on the island of Tahuata. We were eager for clean, relatively shark free water for the joys of swimming and snorkeling, and to clean the evidence of the passage from our hull. We picked a narrow window between squalls and anchored just as the first gusts of a black cloud rushed down the green mountain slopes framing the anchorage. The golden sand of a beach, fringed by a coconut palm grove that winds its way to the edge of the slopes, and the backdrop of steep green hills rising to the sky, make this one of the most beautiful anchorages in the Marquesas. With no river flowing into the anchorage, the water stays a crystalline turquoise, even after months of monsoonal downpour.

This rainy weather is unseasonable. With each successive squall, our nostrils fill with the rich scent of lush, wet, tropical foliage and we are called to two places at once: the visual of the lush, dramatic beauty of the Marquesas, filtered through the scent-filled memories of monsoonal downpours in Didi’s, Kishwar’s and Maya’s garden compound in Sidhbari (Dist. Kangra, India).

The squalls during our first day in Hauamoenoa Bay (April 29) were continuous until the afternoon, when Mark and Devon leapt in to begin cleaning the hull. Yesterday the sun emerged and the squalls diminished. We cleaned and scrubbed Anthea, removing the green and brown growth on her white hull and the opportunistic goose neck barnacles lining the waterline of her stern, the evidence of the passage slipping away with our effort.

While our bodies have now recovered, and our boat is mostly reclaimed from the strenuous journey, one blog post of the crossing was never written down, although it circled through my mind/heart many times on the journey. The title is, “Of Currents and Gratitude.”

On watch, during times of light wind I would marvel at the ease and speed with which Anthea slid through the water. We were being transported forward by an equatorial current bearing us westward and south, propelling our movement through troughs of waves that could have easily stalled our forward progress and slatted our sails. This current meanders through the ocean, with large patterns predictable, but the exact flow of these rivers in the sea in frequent flux. One could cross the Pacific and spend little time in the current, or even sail into a counter current for a day.

We often found ourselves within the current when we most needed it, those periods of light wind and oversized seas. During my watches in these conditions, my heart would fill with gratitude; I was suffused with the sensation that we were being transported by the thoughts, wishes, prayers and rituals of those who love us. The metaphor of being buoyed by others’ loving intentions was in this case profoundly visceral. With plenty of time to reflect and ponder during my watch, a realist voice would come to the fore and insist that favorable currents are a function of nature, guided by their own forces entirely separate from our lives, and our location within them a matter of circumstance. And then the sensation of gratitude would reply. Ultimately, I found a space beyond the logical question of whether there was any causal connection between loving intention and our location within the current which carried us. I embraced the understanding that both forces – currents and love – are real.

For those of you who hold us in your hearts as we journey across the Pacific, know that we receive your love with profound gratitude. Kim

This morning we dropped anchor at Atuona Harbor on Hiva Oa Island, of the Marquesas Island group. The rattle of the anchor chain punctuated the end of the crossing. Since raising the anchor last, in Cabo San Lucas, we’ve traveled 2,844 nautical miles, at an average speed of 5.9 knots, over 21 days, with no significant gear failure or injury. We only motored a total of 14 hours during the passage. Darn good. Our passage time is also good, though we generally followed a philosophy of not pushing the boat, dropping down to reefed main and jib at night, etc. The last approach to Atuona was interesting. We sighted land yesterday afternoon, (serendipitously enough, while on a satphone call to my mother!). To see rising out of the water the small island of Fatu Huku, after nothing but sea all around us for so many days, was momentous. It was sunset, the island was backlight in the west, and the trade wind clouds obscured the setting sun but in turn were aflame with brilliant golds, reds and other sunset hues. Yet another one of those views reminiscent of a William Blake lithograph, hinting at the mystical wonder of the world, which we’ve been blessed with so often on this crossing.

With nightfall, Anson and Devon took on the first shift, until midnight. They dodged squalls and sailed Anthea 20 more miles to landfall. Kim took over at midnight. I was hailed to come topsides around 1:30. It was pouring rain, squall winds were swirling and all hands were needed on deck to shorten sail, run with the squall, and keep in mind our position relative to the nearby islands, in pitch dark with no visibility. Then from 2:30 to dawn we forereached, slowing Anthea to about 1.5 knots to allow our approach to Atuona to coincide with first light. Wind was consistently 18-20 knots during this time. Morning broke with a line-up of more squalls. We chose to ride out the first couple and hoped a break in the weather would allow us to nip into Atuona and anchor before the next one hit. Fortunately, this strategy worked. The steep, intense green slopes, mountains and cliffs of Hiva Oa, bathed in the early morning light and bright from the recent rain, were spectacular to behold.

It’s now almost 5pm. We’ve been ashore, checked in at the gendarmerie, enjoyed baguette sandwiches and had a good first short visit, replete with a hitchhike return to the boat in an old Land Rover. My French is rusty, but serviceable. We are all exhausted and the boat’s a total mess. Kim fell asleep twice while eating her sandwich on a bench in front of a store and has been asleep in the v-berth since we got back to Anthea 4 hours ago. The boat is littered from bow to stern with wet clothing and damp items. We’re looking forward to the opportunity to get Anthea shipshape again; this will include diving to clean her bottom and removing the unsightly rim of barnacles that grew on her during the passage – but not here, as apparently this is a sharky anchorage.

I’ll close by quoting the last verse of John Mansfield’s Sea Fever, from which Sir Francis Chichester drew the title of his famous book “The Lonely Sea and the Sky”. Thanks to my mother for providing us copy of this great poem, whose last verse is as follows:

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gulls’ way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife. And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

Our long trick is over and we’re all looking forward to quiet sleep and a good dream tonight.

Mark (Atuona, Hiva Oa, Marquesas, French Polynesia)