Our last stop in the Marquesas was Ua Poa. We left in daylight and arrived that same day, an easy and uneventful passage. When we got there we went to explore the island. We dinghied up to the jetty: the most bizarre dinghy dock I have seen to date. It was a good eight feet higher than the water level with a ladder embedded into the concrete. I did not have much time to wonder how I was going to manage the tricky assent, however. There was a young man there who offered his hand when we pulled up and when I went to offer my dinghy line he grabbed me by the wrist and hauled me up like I was a sack of flour. I was not expecting the help so I was less than graceful and ended up tossed onto the dock laughing and looking up into the youth’s smiling eyes. Hollar, as we learned his name was, invited us to come to his house and Brett and I agreed that we would love to come and visit with him. We had had a few opportunities to have dinner with a local family and had not done it due to the expense but had decided that we would make Ua Poa the place where we would make the effort to have the “local” experience, even if it was a little expensive.

We walked through the picturesque village, so similar to the Marquesan norm: beautifully manicured lawns, flowers everywhere and no island would be complete without the wild proliferation of beautiful cocks and their less spectacular, but still nicely appointed female companions. Hogs were tied to steaks and, as usual, there was a quiet peace to the village that left you wondering where is everyone?! Hollar could speak some English, so we muddled through with his broken English and he would throw in some French if he did not have the word in English and we could usually figure out what he was saying by comparing his French to our Spanish. This was a painstaking process but communication was possible, though strained and difficult. The path was steep to his house and when we came to a break in the trees and he led us onto a trail through the woods and told us this was his land and he was growing things here. Then he showed us a sample from his garden. All along the steep slope, here and there in no apparent order where his plants. Green and lush, he was very proud of his garden and he told us in detail about the different cultivation processes and strains he was growing and how he had learned all about growing in High Times magazine. We sampled from his garden and then he asked if we would like to buy some and we did buy a little sample out of politeness, though due to the extravagant prices we kept our shopping to a minimum.

In the course of the broken conversation he mentioned a bridge and Brett was tired of the garden and asked to see the bridge. Hollar led the way up the mountain slope, grabbing thin saplings to make purchase up the steep slope and with the loamy soil crumbling beneath our feet. There was no path. Hollar was in way better condition than us and he surged ahead. When we caught up with him he asked if we were all right and we assured him that we were and he then said, in a moment that is both poignant and inconsequential: “It is an adventure, no?” What is it with French accents? Adorable. All I could do was smile and push on. When we reached the ridge, not bridge as we had thought, he pointed out his land and the boundaries of it. He showed us a hunting trail and told us that he was the only one who knew about this trail and not to tell anyone. Okay, Hollar, I wont tell, promise! He showed us his brothers lands and then he told us that he is related, in some way, to 60% of the people who live in his town. He has lived in Papeete, he even has a wife (recently divorced he tells us with obvious glee) who still lives there and a son. He is only 28 and yet he has a 12 year old child. Such a different world.

During the day we are not sure what to make of Hollar. He was kind and seemed fun, but all the conversations seem to come back to him wanting something from us (i-pod was high on the list but anything that we had in our possession was asked for), in the end we decided to have the local lunch with him for one thousand francs each ($13), he told us we would help to prepare it. We were getting ready to leave when his father, the mayor, drove up and asked us if we would do him a favor. Would we go around to the other boats and ask if any of the other yachts would like to come in for a Pot Luck tomorrow night? And would we please let him know how many people said yes so that he could prepare properly? Would we tell them to bring an instrument or other prop, as each boat would be asked to perform in the honor of their country. Of course we were happy to do his bidding and so we then became “ambassadors” and did the dinghy ride from boat to boat and got a head count for the mayor.

Of the ten boats that were anchored in the bay eight said yes (the other two already had plans to leave). We forgot to tell anyone about the impromptu talent show, Oh well. That night I stayed up and made some mixed CDs for Hollar. Some Crystal Method, UB40, Blue October…. the next day we went to Hollar’s house and had the local meal. It was not exactly what I had bargained for. The kitchen was an outdoor affair with a roof and no walls. There was a bed, a sink and a two burner stove in the corner and the chickens and kittens roamed freely. Hollar put on the boom-box and had my mixed tape playing, he was so excited about the new music. the food was already laid out and there was no opportunity to help prepare the food with him, no worries since I can’t imagine there was much preparation. Most of the food presented was raw seafood. One item, that the grandmother showed me how to eat by scraping the flesh away from the small shell and then separating the intestines and munching on the small carcass seemed particularly similar to eating snail. As I tentatively consumed the raw snail-like item Hollar looked at me and pronounced: “Fruit of the sea, very good!” But when I asked him if he ate it he looked at me like I was crazy and said “No, I don’t eat that!” I didn’t feel so bad when I avoided the raw fish after that. He seemed to be more interested in the lamb and breadfruit (of course that was all Brett ate), which was very good. During the preparation of the meal Hollar made a pompamouse-lemondade type of drink (Pompamouse is a fruit that is similar to grapefruit, but with a slightly sweeter and less tart flavor) It was delicious. As he spoke to us he was peeling the skin away from the fruit and when he had a handful he would simply toss it over the sink and the chickens and cats would go nuts to get to the rind. This casual “littering” was hysterical in a way that it is hard to describe. Imagine if you will: a good friend talking to you and then just casually whipping their food trimmings out the window. After our gifts of CDs and the bottle of tequila we brought to go with lunch Hollar became more generous and offered us some gifts from his garden. We got pompamouse, oranges, avocados, limes and chiles. And he threw in some of the green stuff that he loved so much.

We went back to the boat and got ready for the Pot Luck. During the meal many of the locals came out and there was all the food that the cruisers brought as well as a pig that had been slaughtered that day as part of a hunting excursion. We ate and then Atien, the mayor and Hollar’s father, asked everyone to perform. One person from each boat. Only one person was talented (had a guitar and could play it) the rest of us struggled for something to do. I recited a poem, some sang drinking songs, some did bizarre little dances. It was very funny. Thankfully I remembered the poem or I would have been sunk. We then invited Hollar and his brother to come to the boat for an American meal. I would make hamburgers and chips. In a show of hospitality and equality Hollar offered to bring the beer, we thought that maybe we were making ground and not just representing a money making opportunity. He gave us a mango and a fruit that looked like a big, green hairy testicle and we agreed on a time to pick him up at the dinghy dock for dinner.

The burgers were okay but I was also trying to make chips which I had never done before. They came out a little greasy. We ate the burgers and when I came up with the rest of the chips (slightly burnt and a little on the grease side of things) there was a look of horror on Hollar’s face and he said, “Not for me, I am full!” I had my revenge for the “fruit of the sea” that much is certain!

Talking to a person when the language is not shared is a little bit of a drag. The conversation gets a little limited and you end up repeating yourself or keeping things simple: I like, I don’t like, what do you like? how many? are the limits of conversation and so we talked in this vain while Brett attempted to fix Hollar’s “I-pod” (an MP3 player that seemed older than he was and in much worse condition). I was going on and telling him how lucky he is to live in a place where he can walk out his back door and pick fruit right off the tree, how this place was truly paradise and basically going on about the beauty of his island and the providence that had put him here. How lucky he was to have so many family around, etc.

Maybe I was a little too complimentary but as I gazed out of our cockpit at his home and espoused its beauty and charm he told me I was welcome here any time, then he leaned over and tried to kiss me. What a shocker. I do not think I have had a legitimate pass made at me for years. So I smiled, backed out of kissing distance and made sure that when Brett came back up he was seated between us. Torn between flattery and insult I passed the night and let sleeping dogs lie (but lets face it: what 35 year old woman does not like the idea of a 28 year old having the hots for her?). Inside I was laughing: I wonder how often he does this? Does it ever work? Can you really come on to a married woman with her husband not more than 15 feet away (though out of site) and get results? I imagined the hypothetical universe in which I would succumb to his island boy charms and run away to live in harmony among the pot plants and pompamouse trees. I tried to think that maybe there was a cultural difference: they do greet each other with kisses on the cheek here, maybe it was all innocent? Doubt it. When I told Brett about what happened in the morning we had a good laugh about it but there was no desire to go and hang out with Hollar. He had shown a lack of respect, and while it was by no means a reason to pursue an ugly encounter it was not exactly an olive branch, either. The next few days were spent getting the boat ready for the crossing to the Tuamotus. The boat was cleaned, laundry was done and we were ready to be on our way. I made a frozen desert out of the hairy ball fruit. I blended it and added a little honey and then covered that with whipped cream and froze it. It was delicious. So delicious, in fact, that I ate the entire plate of it. Brett was not interested in sampling a fruit that reminded him of certain body parts so he passed. It may have been because of the shear volume of the fruit I ate, or maybe I prepared it incorrectly but to make a long story short the crossing was punctuated with stomach cramps and nausea. Thanks Hollar.

The crossing to the Tuamotus was about a four day affair. We decided to head to Kauahi, a motu that is in the center of the Tuamotus and less visited by the yearly parade of yachts. When reading up on the Tuamotus our blood ran cold and by the time we reached the islands out stomachs where in our mouths. Every book says the same thing: these are dangerous waters. You have to be a competent sailor to navigate here and you have to be very sure of the tidal flux so as to enter at slack water: that magical time between low and high tide where the water is placid and calm.

While on the crossing to the Tuamotus we saw a boat off of the stern and decided to turn on our radio to speak to them. Apparently they had been trying to hail us for four hours and we had not seen them. Little Wing is a 28 foot boat that is very well appointed and Kay and Craig ended up being a very nice couple who’s company we really enjoyed. We got to the pass and it was still not time to enter so we waited off shore for slack water but when Little Wing got there they just sailed right in and told us it was a piece of cake so we followed. Once inside we anchored in 15 feet of water with white sand under the keel. We were there with three other boats: Don Pedro, who we had met in Mexico and were an uncle (John) and his nephew (Pat) and their eye-candy 19 year old crew: Alana; Little Wing, who had been buddy boating with Don Pedro; and Moonduster, a single hander named Wayne who had also been part of the three boat caravan. As we entered the motu we heard Chinook who also (without any planning) had ended up here at Kauahi on the South side. Chinook anchored a safe distance away and the rest of us stayed pretty close.

What can I say about Kauahi? The town is on the North side and we were anchored in the South so there were no people to speak of. The sand was white, the anchorage was as smooth as glass and the visibility was superb. We jumped off the boat as soon as we were anchored and found giant shells littering the sand under our keel. It was so shallow that Brett could stretch his hands from the bottom of the boat and touch the sandy bottom with the tips of his fins. We gathered the troops and went on a quick snorkel on the living coral that was close to the boat and then we had a coconut/ rum party on the beach. Wandering the beach for appropriate coconuts we would then hack them open and fill the remainder (that was not filled with coconut juice) with rum: there you go! There was a dilapidated shack that graced the abandoned beach and we named it the yacht club: the center for all of our entertainment.

A note on coconut collection, if you care. There are many stages of a coconut’s life and all are good, though for different things. To drink: If you want to drink the coconut milk you want a green coconut, preferably picked from the tree. If you want the coconut meat you want a brown coconut from the ground, and if you want the fermented cotton candy that can be found in the coconut you need to find a coconut that is sprouting a green tree that is no more than 18 inches high and not rooted to the ground. So since we wanted the juice we all wanted the green coconuts, but none of us wanted to climb the trees so we were making due with the nuts on the ground that had not turned completely brown. The juice at this point is a little salty, but add enough rum and who cares?

The next day Moonduster had planned to sail up to the village to (about 15 miles away) to explore and do some provisioning so we ended up tagging along with them. So many things out here strike me as unique and sailing to the grocery store is one of those moments that I know I could never have envisioned until the moment when it is upon me. It is not very spectacular, but a unique experience that leaves a certain flavor in your mouth and lets you know that this is a different life, this is outside anything that I have experienced before or would have envisioned. It was very interesting to be on another boat as each boat has her own personality. I have experience with Fearless and feel like I can handle her well and I know all of her parts. But to be on Moonduster, which is a little more bare bones: a racer that was converted to cruising, was a totally different experience and I was impressed with the speed with which we cut through the water. I would not trade Fearless, though. Moonduster was fast but there was no where near the comfort that we have on our boat. We looked into doing a tour of the pearl farm but there was a holiday so we decided that we would come back to the village after the holiday and do the tour then. Wayne spoke limited French so he was able to translate for us and set up the tour for when we returned to the town.

Don Pedro had already been here for a few days when we arrived so after the sail up to the village they left the next day. The rest of us planned a snorkel trip to a coral mound that was inside the motu and all three dinghies (Chinook, Moonduster and Fearless) pushed out and explored the clear water. There were sharks everywhere! The tropical fish were spectacular and the water was perfect. I had the impression of swimming in an aquarium, all the fish were right there, so close we could have touched them, and the water was as clear as the water in a fish tank: almost nonexistent. We decided to go for a walk after the snorkel, Don Pedro had told us that there was a reef on the outside edge of the motu and we decided to go over and check it out. We walked over shallow tidal pools that were teaming with eels and other little shelled animals, the eels would hide under rocks in the three inch deep water and we were merciless in overturning rocks to discover their hiding places. Brett found a puffer fish that must have gotten stranded in the shallows during the last high tide and the little thing got so freaked out it puffed itself up in a two inch deep pool and was so inflated that it trapped itself. Man, those are some goofy looking fish when they puff up! What a silly defense! After the walk it was time to do some “spinnaker flying” on Moonduster. This is a process where you get the boat anchored off of the stern and then put up a spinnaker that has a line running from the both corners that are not attached to the mast (with the top corner of the triangle attached to the mast), on this line there is a chair hanging from a metal shackle and you can let the power of the wind lift you up as you swing from this careening chair. It is a little scary when the wind picks up and you are being flung around like so much flotsam on a gushing current. It was exhilarating to fly at the capricious will of the wind and see the boat spinning below. But make no mistake: you have no control up there and are at the mercy of any small gust.

There was still a little provisioning to do and we wanted to check out the pearl farm so the next day we all headed up to the town and anchored outside of the little village. It was clean and open and had the same eerie quality of spaciousness that is found with the complete lack of people. Wayne arranged the pearl farm tour (with the mayor, who is also the owner of the pearl farm). The tour was interesting and we learned how they make pearls: they actually seed the pearls using shell that has been machined into the shape of a ball, the clam then covers that seed with the pearl essence until it is smooth and shining. The size of the pearl is determined by the size of the seed used and the same clams are used over and over again with the clam being graduated to larger and larger seeds as the cavity where the seed is placed grows (kind of like how people expand their ear holes by graduating to larger and larger studs…). Finally it was time to get down to business: Can we see some pearls, please? He got out a giant suitcase that was locked and very heavy. Then he pulled out a giant zip lock bag that was full of pearls and dumped them all on a towel. I sifted through his pearls like a kid in a candy store. These were not store quality. Rejects, they were destined to remain in his bag forever unless rescued by us. There were tons of pearls that had a few flaws but had one side that was perfect but those were not the ones that I was interested in. I wanted the ones that had an interesting shape, the ones that still had the stamp of nature on them and would not be confused with the perfection that comes with industrialization. Everyone was picking their pearls and looking for the most round, the least flawed and I was picking the wonky oblong ones with the irregular shapes that had beauty to me alone. He was charging one thousand francs per pearl but he was being generous, giving a few extra here and there. But when her got to me he gave me almost double what I had chosen, maybe since my selection was so eclectic. For five thousand francs I received ten pearls, most of them with a unique shape, and am really looking forward to the special piece of jewelry I will make with them when I can get them drilled.

With the pearl farm out of the way there was no reason to stay anchored outside the village and we pushed on to Fakarava. This was an easy sail that we could accomplish in one day if we left early enough and so we pushed out with the sunrise and did our second shot at the pass on Kauahi, it was a synch. We were slowly gaining confidence with these passes and after doing this one once it was no problem going through a second time. Entering Fakarava was also very easy though when we arrived the town seemed very touristy to me. (Amendment: okay, I am getting a little warped by my own travels and my idea of touristy is this: when we walked down the street no one said hi. This is a “big city” attitude since everywhere we had been since our arrival in the Pacific we were treated as a interesting diversion from the norm. People have gawked at us and wanted to talk to us, have looked shyly out from their huts or come out to trade. Not here on Fakarava. Here there are two resorts and they are so used to tourists that we were no novelty, hence no hello, no island hospitality. It felt strange.) We tried snorkeling but there was no living coral and the visibility was not very good and the town seemed to shelter the anchorage from all the wind making for one stuffy boat. So after just a day on the North side of Fakarava we headed South where we were told there was excellent snorkeling. There was no wind but I needed to get away from the town so we turned on the motor and (for shame) motored the entire distance from one end of the motu to the other.

Chinook was already south so when we got down there we arranged to snorkel the pass with them. You wait for the incoming or “flood” tide, then you take the dinghy to the outside of the pass and let the current pull you back into the motu. We did it three times that day. The coral was breathtaking: porcelain trees that grew in profusion on the sea floor in all manner of colors and shapes. There were white and lavender and brown, there were shapes like brains, shrubs and tall trees, and among the coral there were so many types of fish that the mind boggled at the abundance and the variety. The visibility was over one hundred feet and we could see nurse sharks resting on the sandy bottom, so close that they seemed like you could touch them, though we knew that they were over 60 feet away. I probably doubled the amount of fish I have seen in my life in this one day. With all the multi-colored coral and the proliferation of tropical fish swimming about we also had gray and black tip reef sharks swimming all around us. The current rushed us along and sometimes it was impossible to stop and appreciate the amazing fish that were speeding past. At the end the current got very strong (the current took us from the outside of the pass right back to Fearless) and when I swam down to get a better look at the coral rug that covered the ocean floor beneath me it was like I was flying, speeding through the water like Superman over mini mountains of coral. After snorkeling we explored the pink sand beach (it was barely pink) and then we scouted the place where we were going to do our night snorkel. The spot for the night snorkel was protected from current and there were many coral mounds in the ten to twenty foot deep water but we wanted to scout it out so that we would have some reference points for the night snorkel. As our scout was coming to an end Dave from Chinook dinghied up to us and told us that while swimming back to his dinghy he had been “bumped” by a large (eight plus feet) gray shark. He was a little freaked out and let us know that he would not be doing the night snorkel. We understood his concerns but decided to go anyway. After all, we have swam with tons of sharks and are not freaked out by them at all.

We went on the night snorkel as dusk was just releasing her pink fingers on the sky and acquiescing to night. We tied the dinghy to a stick that was protruding from the water, got our lights out and plunged into the dark water with the coral mounds surrounding us on all sides. I saw one shark, a black tip, come up from behind me and then disappear behind a mound and then a gray came out from behind another mound and disappeared behind another in a game of hide and seek that was making me none too comfortable. With the mounds all around us our line of sight only penetrated about twenty feet and the sharks seemed to appear and disappear with startling rapidity. I looked at Brett to see him looking at me and we both had the same thought: do we really want to be out here where the sharks are not afraid of humans and are hunting? The answer was no. After a scant three minutes in the water we were out and headed back to the boat to watch movies. I can hear the Fearless jokes now, but as Shakespeare says: discretion is the better part of valor.

The next day Chinook had gotten some weather files that predicted a change in wind direction so our anchorage which was protected from the prevailing West wind was now transformed into a lee shore, an anchorage where the wind was pushing us into land. This is not a good situation when you are anchored in some sand that is dotted with coral heads. When the wind shifts your chain wraps the heads and while this may make for good holding you can get “short scoped” a very bad situation where the anchor line is hooked to a piece of coral right beneath you and if there is swell you are yanking on that chain with all the weight of your boat. This can be very dangerous and also makes getting out of the anchorage very difficult. Chinook bugged out and searched for some sand to put their anchor in but we stayed since the weather was not predicted to come for another day and we wanted to do the pass drift snorkel again. With the anchorage all to ourselves we had another day of the best snorkeling I have ever had in my life. The water was so clear and there was no need for a wet suit, on the second day we saw spotted eagle rays as well as the wild proliferation of sharks.

We had to move on, though. Despite the fact that the snorkeling was ideal and this was a beautiful place it was no good to be on a lee shore with the wind picking up so we had to turn on the motor and head back to the North side of the island, for although the wind was predicted to come by the time it came it would be coming the wrong way for a sail and we needed to get to the protected anchorage before it got nasty. With one day in the village we decided that we wanted to move on and find a better anchorage as the town was not very well protected from the North wind that was coming, though the anchorage at Apataki looked like it would be good. this would be our final destination in the Tuamotus chain of islands. We left in the morning with the plan of arriving the next day despite the fact that it was only seventy miles away we were anticipating very low wind and knew we would be headed directly into it, so at a snails pace of 3 knots we would be able to make landfall in the morning after a day and a night at sea. Unfortunately the wind did not decide to do what was expected of it. As soon as we got out of Fakarava the wind started to build and we were propelled at a brisk pace of 6-7 knots: we arrived at dusk. We could not navigate the pass at dusk so we hove to about three miles off shore and waited for sunrise. As the night wore on the wind built and we were bobbing around with gales of wind and rain whipping over us at 30 knots. This is no big deal, just not what we expected and so it was a rough night for us both. Our nerves were frayed and the wind was showing no signs of letting up. With the wind and the waves lashing us we looked at the Southern entrance to Apataki: it had a sharp bend in it, there was a counter current that ran continually and we were having a hard time deciphering the tidal schedule. We were not 100% sure when slack water was. This is no way to enter an unknown pass and we decided that we would sail up to the Northern pass, which was wider and straight forward with no counter-current. We pushed up and beat into the wind for another few hours until we reached the North pass. As soon as we entered the pass the swell, that had been beating the crap out of us for the last few hours, disappeared within a span of 20 feet. Oh, sweet anchorage! There are few feelings that compare with coming in from rough seas into a calm anchorage and setting down the anchor. All of the sudden the world is calm and sleep is possible, frayed nerves cease their jangling and all of the sudden coherent thought is again possible.

The North side of Apataki was secluded, we shared the anchorage with Don Pedro who had been on the South side but had moved up to the North for the wind change and with two other boats who kept to themselves. We had a ton to do, though. The boat needed attention in a big way. Brett needed to work on the drive motor and fix the heads and I had a ton of cleaning and laundry to do. We snorkeled, but the water was full of some sort of particulate so we kept it to snorkeling for the sake of staying cool and getting some exercise but for the most part we worked on the boat and got her ready for the crossing from the Tuamotus to Tahiti: a 180 mile crossing. Don Pedro came over to ask for some coffee and when they asked if we needed anything I jokingly said we needed Liquid Propane. Of course I did not expect them to have any, but they had a spare bottle and they lent it to us for the crossing to Tahiti, a real help since we had no idea how much fuel we had left and the thought of running out of fuel and hence being unable to cook was not a good thought.

We finally went to the South end of Apataki after three days. We met up with Chinook and a boat named Morning Star, we did the drift snorkel into the pass and the water was clear and the visibility was great. It was a nice way to say goodbye to the Tuamotus, which we ended up leaving very unexpectedly the next day after looking at the weather files and realizing that we had one day of wind predicted before our last chance to leave the Tuamotus and still get to Tahiti in time to get all our stuff done before the arrival of Brett’s dad. The crossings now are so easy it is funny to think of our first passage to the channel islands, we were gone for one week and spent over one thousand dollars on groceries. We were so stressed out and needed an extra hand on board. I don’t think we would have considered the passage if it were just the two of us. And now a five day or a three day passage seem like child’s play. I do not bother checking the provisions: after all, a week is no time at all to get by on what ever I have on hand. I am now an expert in the art of defining the different shades of blue. There is the blue of the boundless ocean that is reflecting a cloudless sky. There is, of course, the slate gray which is the blue of deep ocean water that is reflecting angry skies. Both are over 100 feet deep. The darker shades of blue which reflect that there is only sixty feet of depth and the lighter shades of teal that tell you you are in 30-40 feet. The tan/ teal that is sand in 20 feet and the brown with only the suggestion of blue that is too close to mention and should never be seen from the bow of a boat, though we did see it while trying to anchor in a field of coral heads. A very stressful 5 minutes as we scurried out of the danger zone. So much blue, tucked into my mind for later examination, that I have taken from the Tuamotus.

We had great wind for the first day and we flew the asymmetrical. Finally the curse has been lifted and we flew her all day with no mishaps and no injuries. On the second day the wind died and faced with NO wind (I mean, no wind as in .8 knots of wind and the sea not showing a ripple on her surface) we turned on the motor and got to Tahiti with the “iron sail.” When we were 70 miles away we could see the outline of Tahiti, barely distinguishable from the clouds, at night for the first time since we left Mexico I saw the glow of civilization and could make out the moving lights of cars on a highway.

Tahiti is like the Marquesas and the Tuamotus put together. A large mountainous center rises up and is surrounded by the coral motu. When you come into the pass you have to pass the airport to get to the anchorage and apparently our mast is tall enough to interfere with the planes. You have to radio air traffic control to get permission to enter and leave the water on either side of the runway. Once anchored we went into town and started our provisioning. All of our tanks need to be filled: liquid propane, dive tanks, dinghy fuel, diesel for the motor. We are also in need of a big provision. After two months without a proper store I have dwindled my stores down considerably and needed to get such staples as sugar, milk, coffee and cereal. Our first stop was a McDonalds, after so long of eating nothing but food I had prepared myself anything that was prepared by someone else was gourmet. It was delicious.

Then we went to the Mobil to find out about getting our LP filled and when we walked in I saw bags of oranges and apples and a proliferation of chips and sodas that made my mouth water. This was the best provisioned store I had seen since Mexico and I had to remind myself not to go crazy: I was in a Mobil station and there was a proper grocery store for provisioning close at hand. I exercised some restraint and we moved on to the grocery where I found Valencia oranges and Washington apples, Betty Crocker ready made pizza dough and all manner of fun foods. The taste of home. The oranges and apples were so good and flooded me with memories of the sweet foods of Southern California. It reminded me that I miss spinach something fierce! But there were not only familiar tastes but familiar smells and the smell of automobiles was a familiar smell I could have lived without. This is a proper city with cars and stop lights, planes and stores and I am a little saddened by the trampling of her natural beauty, though it is still very pretty here it is pretty in an urban kind of way and if I thought Fakarava was industrial, this is futuristic!

There are all kinds of stores here and I have taken the opportunity to get a few things that we will not have access to while in the islands: a new bikini and a few nick knacks for the kitchen. I went shopping and came home with $300 worth of stuff. It seemed expensive but I figured I had purchased all the things so it must be fine, then I looked at the receipt and realized that the skillet I had purchased, which I thought was $30, was actually $90 and some small plastic cups I had purchased where actually $20. Luckily the returns were not a problem, I certainly do not need a $90 skillet! We have most of the chores done and have filled almost all of our bottles, except the LP which is a long walk into town carrying the LP tanks in a bag. We did it once and got there at 2:30pm only to discover that they close at 2pm. Today the wind is so strong it is not advisable to leave the boat so we are hunkered down and waiting for the wind to pass so that we can get our last little errand done before Brett’s dad arrives.