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Update 8
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Update 8 - Monday October 16, 2000
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Malo e lelei from Tonga,
The last Condesa update was from Tahiti. Since then
we’ve been off the grid. Just when you think the
whole world is wired, you find a rather large slice of
it that doesn’t have the Internet or even phones.
Here are the highlights of the last few months on
Condesa:
I had a relaxing time in the Society Islands with lazy
island hopping, daily surfing and socializing with
other cruisers and friends I met along the way. My
favorite island in the Societies was Moorea. After
weeks in the beautiful Cook’s and Opanohu Bays in the
north, I moved to an idyllic anchorage in the south,
just a stone’s throw from the legendary surf spot
Haapiti. I surfed every day and met a mess of people,
one of whom was Denny Childs, a friend of my cousin
Joe from Stanford. Denny is now a fruit farmer and
has a Tahitian wife and four kids. He extended me the
traditional Polynesian welcome and kept me thick in
fresh fruit. One day he took me to his farm and
showed me the legendary Tikis, the Tikis that are
described in every travel book about French Polynesia,
the Tikis that were stolen and taken to Hawaii, then
recovered, the Tikis that have claimed lives with
their powerful mana. Expecting something in the vein
of Stonehenge, I was a little let down when Denny cut
some knee-high grass away to reveal two
eighteen-inch-high stone blobs. I had to be careful
not to crush them with my sandal. Nonetheless, I got
to be the first white man other than Denny to see them
in the last few years. He lets them get covered by
the undergrowth so they won’t be stolen again.
Then there was the weird, which always makes itself
present on my travels. I befriended a Tahitian guy,
Toa, who invited me to his house for dinner and videos
one night. He said he had an American wife who would
love to talk to me. When I arrived for dinner, so
began an adventure in bizarre, the likes I haven’t
seen since the jungles of Ecuador. First I met deaf,
dumb, crazy old Auntie who gets right in your face and
insists on kisses on both cheeks and conversation
despite her obvious shortcomings in that department.
Even if she could speak, it would have been Tahitian.
We finally connected on some level when she made a
rocking motion with her hands to show that she knew I
was from a boat. Then I met the little woman, a Texan
15 years Toa’s senior. It took me about three minutes
to figure out that she was crazy. I don’t mean
barking at the moon crazy, but definitely professional
care, special education and medication crazy; only she
has escaped the US and found this Tahitian husband. I
figure that language and cultural barriers have kept
the Tahitians from figuring out that she’s bonkers.
The only family member to speak English is Toa, and
his English is pretty shaky. Auntie obviously poses
no threat of finding her out. The only other resident
of the manor was an uncle who only spoke Tahitian, but
didn’t speak much anyway since he seldom pulled the
glass pipe from his mouth.
The Texan, Angelina, went on to tell me that she was a
writer; she had written 12 books in four years
following the advice of the 14 inch tall angel that
had appeared in her desk in high school. No Computer,
no word processor, just stacks and stacks of raving
handwritten scrawl. She said she was off to the US in
the next few months to get published. The sad thing
was that this poor Tahitian family had supported her
all this time probably thinking she was a brilliant
American writer. I asked her what she wrote about and
she said she was going to tell the world ‘what it’s
all about.’ A peak at her material confirmed my worst
fears: Basically 4000 pages of ‘all work and no play
makes Jack a dull boy.’
They said they had saved me a plate for dinner. After
what I had seen I was expecting a dinner of Play-Dough
and human ears, but it was a perfectly normal chicken
dinner that I ate by myself at the head of the table
as the cast of Texas Chainsaw Massacre stared on and
chewed each bite with me.
After dinner Angelina told me under her breath, “My
husband had an accident,” making the universal
swirling index finger around the ear sign to say that
he was crazy. I made it clear that I thought he was
perfectly fine and had befriended me. This seemed to
relieve her. I asked what kind of accident and she
said, “A water accident.”
So Angelina thought her husband Toa was crazy.
Angelina was crazy. And of course both Toa and
Angelina thought Auntie was crazy. So there was this
triangle of lunacy, but the real crazy person seemed
to be above suspicion.
You meet all kinds on the road.
Surfing in Haapiti I met a few other surfers, namely
Luke the Australian and the three Maui boys; Rod, Dave
and John. We surfed all day every day together and
got to know each other pretty well. One day on shore
I overheard one of the Maui boys talking about
chartering a boat to Raiatea. I asked him, “Are you
thinking about chartering a boat?” To which he
replied, “Wait, you have a boat.” “Yeah.” So began my
first surf charter - sort of. When it came to talk
about money I told them just to buy all the food a
booze and pay me whatever they felt comfortable with
at the end of the week. We had a great time, ate like
kings since they had brought tons of food with them
from Maui, and surfed like mad dogs. In fact, I would
not have surfed at all that week had they not been
with me. All of the breaks on Raiatea are at least a
half mile from the island on outlying reefs with the
operative phase being 'on outlying reefs.' The guys
were all about 40 and had wives and kids at home but
were hard-charging surfers and took major surf trips
like this every year. Everywhere we surfed we were
the only people for miles and had to figure out the
break for ourselves. Sometimes it was 20 feet off dry
reef in full metal: Helmets, gloves, booties, and
spring suits. Reef bounces were commonplace, but my
surfing improved a lot.
Then we hooked up again with Luke the Australian, now
camping out on Raiatea with his American girlfriend,
Jennifer from UCSB. Luke and Jennifer hung out on the
boat and after the Maui boys left, sailed with me to
Bora-Bora. They were both horribly seasick. We
dropped anchor in idyllic Bora-Bora and had a nice
dinner. We crashed out early since we’d had a
full-day passage and Seymour was arriving the next
morning. About a half hour after going to bed I was
awakened to Luke yelling, “Ah! Something bit me!” By
the time I got out of bed Luke was in the cockpit with
Jennifer shining a flashlight where the sun don’t
shine. Apparently whatever it was bit him right
between the cheeks. At this point Luke was feeling
dizzy and nauseated - not a good sign after being
bitten by an unidentified critter. He told me to look
for whatever it was in his bed - he thought he had
seen a wasp earlier. I fruitlessly looked through
their bedding, saw nothing and gave up. We didn’t
know what to do for the poor boy. He was obviously in
a lot of pain. He kept insisting that I look for the
culprit. With flashlight in hand I searched and
finally found an EIGHT INCH CENTIPEDE. I screamed
like a giddy school girl. It was the ugliest insect I
had ever seen in my life - big, mean, fast. It darted
around into nooks and crannies, putting me in mortal
fear that it would disappear into the bowels of the
boat - after which I would have to burn Condesa to the
waterline a just buy a new boat. Finally it came into
the open and Luke insisted on revenge. He cut it in
two with a large knife, creating TWO centipedes that
ran in opposite directions. It suddenly flashed on me
where the idea for the video game came from. We
finally managed to get the two parts overboard and I
began checking my Merck Manual. It said that while
centipedes could inflict a nasty bite, they were not
dangerous or fatal. It occurred to me later that the
Merck Manual was probably only accounting for American
centipedes, not exotic tropical ones. Luke is a
hearty Australian boy, but he described it as the
worst pain he had ever experienced in his life and was
up all night writhing in pain. I could have shot him
up with goodies from the ship’s medical kit, but he
chose to be quiet in his misery while I slept.
Seymour arrived the next morning laden with boat
parts. I hadn’t seen him since his visit to Costa
Rica over a year before. We spent four days on
Bora-Bora preparing for our passage. The weather was
stinky. Our main feat was to climb the second highest
mountain on Bora-Bora. The highest is unclimbable,
they say. It was pretty tough going - a lot of
clambering up exposed roots and brush. We didn’t
bring enough water and became dangerously dehydrated,
but the view was stellar.
Our first day’s hop was to Maupiti, just 26 miles
away. Maupiti has a reputation for a dangerous pass -
completely undeserved as we coasted into the lagoon of
one of the less-frequently visited islands of French
Polynesia and spent two days.
Then began the Baton Death March. I had never done a
long passage with just two people- all these cruising
couples seem to make out all right. I knew Seymour
was the man for the job. I fooled myself into
thinking that most of the Pacific is behind you when
you get to French Polynesia - ha! You are only half
way across the Pacific at that point, with many long
passages ahead of you. And as Seymour points out, you
look at a map of the Pacific and get this idea of it
being lots of islands to hop among: No, in reality
there are very few islands and lots of water in
between. It’s a mapmakers trick.
Seymour and I intended to head to Mopelia, another 150
miles down the road. After hearing about all these
dangerous passes, only to find them completely
pass-able, I was finally cowed. The pass at Mopelia
was really narrow and the tide was ripping out at
about ten knots, creating big rapids and whirlpools.
I checked the tide table. We would have had to wait
until the next morning for a slack tide in daylight.
We were pretty tired and needed a good night at
anchor, but decided to press on another three days and
280 miles to Aitutaki. Strike one.
We experienced all varieties of weather on the way to
Aitutaki and got little sleep. We neared the atoll
and planned landfall for about 1:00AM. Since we would
be at anchor in a few hours we both just stayed up
rather than keep up the normal watch schedule - a big
mistake. We got to Aitutaki in 25 knots of wind to
find the anchorage to be an open roadstead occupied by
one giant rusty freighter. Anchoring was an
impossibility. Just checking out the anchorage was
incredibly dangerous and had Seymour insisting
vehemently that we get the hell outa there. At this
point we were both hallucinating from sleep
deprivation - I mean seeing things that were not there
- but no respite. We would have to stand off for the
night.
Some of the hallucinations were fun. They kind of
kept me company. Sometimes I would hallucinate rocks
and reefs, but I was so tired I didn’t care. We
pulled in in the morning - once again to see the tide
ripping out of the narrowest pass, not even a pass, a
crack in the reef - and tried to drop anchor. We
dragged. The electric windlass is one of the many
things that has cashed it in thus far in the Pacific
crossing so Seymour had to bring in 150 feet of chain
by hand on the bucking bow. Once again we would have
to wait hours for high tide. This pass was so narrow
that it required you to stand on the reef while you
push your boat through - Don’t touch the sides! - with
dinghies acting as little tug boats. Once you got in,
you stayed a while. We decided to press on: Sleep be
damned. Strike two.
The next island would be Palmerston Atoll, another
three days and 250 miles away. Again we had a variety
of weather. We got a little more rest but still
arrived in need of some real REM sleep.
We arrived in paradise to me met by our host in a
skiff with a mooring waiting. Yes, a mooring. Total
security. Our host was Jed Marsters, a piece of
living history. You see, everyone who lives on
Palmerston, everyone who has ever lived on Palmerston
and everyone in the cemetary is a Marsters. The first
inhabitants, starting in 1863, were William Marsters,
an Englishman, and his three wives. So began the
three basic Marsters family divisions who still
inhabit the island.
Today Palmerston is one of the most unique and
friendly places on earth. It is one of the most
isolated places you could ever imagine; smack dab in
the middle of the lonely Pacific. It is part of the
Cook Islands, but the language is English. Their
English has evolved from 1863 seafarers English, so
they speak a little differently and use some words
that most English-speaking societies haven’t used in a
century: “Set down and have a yarn!” They are
Pacific Islanders but still hold a connection to
England, more because William Marsters was an
Englishman than because the Cook Islands were an
English/New Zealand colony. Many have pictures of the
royal family in their houses. They are somewhat
English in their housekeeping too. It was the
cleanest, most pristine island I have ever seen. All
paths, yards and beaches are groomed and lined with
brilliant flowers.
Total population: 60.
The most striking thing about Palmerston is the
amazing hospitality. They bring you to shore in their
skiffs. They feed you - not just once but every meal.
Everywhere you go you are escorted by children who
always hold your hand. You don’t ever read about
Palmerston in cruising guides. I’m convinced it’s
because everyone who discovers it wants to keep it a
secret unto themselves. The most amazing thing about
their legendary hospitality is that they do it not
just with no expectation of reciprocation but with no
hope of reciprocation. Every boat is passing through
with no chance of ever coming back almost without
exception.
At first blush it seems like paradise, but after a day
you get a sense that things aren’t all utopia. There
are tensions between the different wings of the family
that I’m sure run back generations and are too complex
to understand as a passerby. Our hosts got jealous
when we did our laundry at someone else’s house
because they wanted to do it themselves! Aka the
matriarch explained to me that the custom of the
island was that your host, the person who greets you
outside the reef, is your host for everything for your
entire stay; food, laundry, touring, everything.
Also, the island school mysteriously burned down
recently. Somebody torched it. I’m sure it’s no
secret with only 60 on the island. So there are
strange politics going on and shiftless kids with
nothing to do all day without a school.
Well fed and well rested we reluctantly said goodbye.
We pressed on another 380 miles to the island nation
of Niue. During this passage the wind howled - as
much as Condesa has ever seen only for days on end.
It blew between 25 and 35 for our whole passage to
Niue and then after Niue for our whole trip to Tonga.
We had the smallest jib up, double-reefed main and
mizzen the whole time. Waves occasionally swept the
deck while spray buffeted us day and night. Sleep was
fitful and difficult while cooking was impossible.
Yet once you get in the groove it’s kind of fun, a
challenge if you will. The boat doesn’t care. At
first you think it’s taking a beating, but it plows
along day after day. Just the contents and occupants
get shaken up.
We arrived at Niue with just a day to spend there
before heading on to Tonga. The Niueans, while
hospitable and generous - I guess - are not too
organized. They couldn’t get anyone - customs,
immigrations and the like - out to our boat in due
time. So we spent our big day at Niue quarantined at
our mooring looking wistfully at land. Other cruisers
were whooping it up watching the Olympics in the bar.
We had a nice dinner on our friends Mick and
Christine’s boat, but never got that terra firma we
had so anticipated after our battering on the high
seas. We headed back into the blast for another 300
miles to the Vavau Group in northern Tonga.
We had already shredded one sail. On the last day
before making landfall in Tonga the windvane cashed it
in: Great rents in deformed stainless steel and
splintered fiberglass. I got up from attempted sleep
to see Seymour steering the boat. He said, “You
better go adjust the windvane. It’s not steering us
quite right.” I went aft to see the windvane rudder
skipping behind us like a water-ski. I blame - and
it’s always important to assign blame - the Panamanian
who welded it and probably misidentified the metal.
Do you know the scene in the movie The Blues Brothers
where they finally pull up in front of the county
assessor’s office after the longest car chase in movie
history and 300 crashed police cars?…. When they take
a few steps then look back at the car and it falls to
pieces? That’s how I looked at Condesa as she sat at
the quarantine dock in Vavau with the broken vindvane
sticking out like a broken wing. 1400 miles in three
weeks. Even though it was only half the distance, it
made the crossing from the Galapagos seem easy.
The whole impetus for getting to Vavau at this
particular date was so that I could take the ham radio
test and get my general class license. I couldn’t
even celebrate our landfall properly. I still had to
study 350 FCC questions since it had been too rough to
study on the high seas. But I passed and have now
infiltrated the ranks of those with whom I have done
battle for so long.
Dad and I were just getting relaxed when we spoke with
my little brother on the phone to find out that he was
arriving in southern Tonga in two days. Back on the
road - another 150 to Tongatapu. We blew out yet
another headsail, reducing the headsail population to
one. Does this sound familiar? We blew out two
headsails crossing from the Galapagos too. Luckily I
bought that sewing machine in Panama. It’s seen some
heavy use.
My little brother Jim and Chris Rosskopf arrived on
the same plane. Jamie Kiskis arrived later that
night. What a reunion. Two of my best friends, my
dad and my little brother all in Tonga.
We headed out the next morning to seek out the
legendary island of (name omitted to protect the
secret). My friend Dominic had told be about it clear
back in Panama as a perfect island with a surf break.
It was everything we hoped. We had a perfect tropical
island all to ourselves for four days. The only
island residents were three goats. While most of the
islands in this area are low-lying atolls, island X
has some sandstone cliffs and promontories. We picked
coconuts from the trees at will and frolicked in the
clear water. It was a great sendoff for Seymour and a
great welcome for the Dream Team.
We sailed back to Tongatapu, Seymour flew out and
Chris, Jamie, Jim and I began drinking ridiculous
amounts of Tongan beer. We’ve gotta get out of here!
We patched up the sails and finally found the one guy
who sometimes visits the island who can weld stainless
steel, then lost him. One way or another we will soon
be making our final sweep of Tonga before heading to
Fiji.
The plan was always to spend cyclone season in New
Zealand. Strike that. We’re bound for Sydney where
we’ll be spending the holidays and having the New
Years party.
So there ya go. Until next time….
-Clark
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