I was barely into Papeete before I was leaving it again. The list was short, a few spare parts and a propane tank that had finally come back full, and once those were aboard there was no honest reason to stay. The visa is a clock that ticks whether or not you look at it, and mine was running down. Underneath that was the other thing, the one that has nothing to do with paperwork, which is that my body had already decided it was time to move. The Society Islands are kind about this. They sit close enough together that you can go from one safe harbour to the next without ever really committing to an ocean.
SV Incantation and I lined up for another one of those races that nobody will admit to entering. Ten to fifteen knots on the nose across the channel to Morea, with the seas staying politely small, which is the whole difference between an upwind slog and a good day. We arrived into a rainstorm so complete it felt staged. The anchors went down quickly, everyone got below, and the evening turned itself into movie night.
The next day David and I walked a short trail up behind the bay, and had the conversation you have when you both know the boats are pointed in different directions. Until we meet again. Out here that is not a soft phrase. It is a fairly literal forecast, and it usually comes true, just never on a schedule either of us could name.
That night we slipped out under a waxing moon and sailed slowly for Huahine. Once past the exit markers in Cook's Bay it was a straight shot, no cleverness required, only hours of dark water and a boat that knew what to do with them. When the light came up we rounded the corner into the lagoon and the water went from ocean grey to a turquoise that does not photograph honestly. I have seen a good deal of it by now. It still stopped me.
Huahine has been a place of rest. The days have been easy and unremarkable in the best way, spent on a few creative projects that had been waiting a long time for a quiet anchorage. This was the week I launched Watchkeeper, and the first of the videos went up as well, with more scheduled to land on Sundays. The first one is here: Cloud Nine Chronicles, French Polynesia, Vol 1. I am staying until Friday, which is not sentiment. It is a dive I booked and an exit permit I arranged with the Gendarme. The effect, though, is the same.
From here the plan is to keep moving through the islands close by, and then point the bow at Niue and Tonga. There are whales down that way, and I would like very much to be in the water with one, or near enough to count. The lagoon is not going anywhere, and for a few more days, neither are we.
Left: a bow and a slice of cockpit, the treeline of the lagoon standing in for a horizon. Right, top: a sail going out past the marker at last light, which is the right hour to leave and the wrong one to arrive. Right, bottom: the shoreline from the water, one old tree holding the whole hillside together.
Left: the market under its awning, pineapples stacked as though they are not the point. Right, top: a wok, a plate, and a man who has done this several thousand times. Right, bottom: waiting on an order at the roulotte, in the universal posture of it.
Left: the quay at sundown, where the whole village turns out to do nothing in particular. Right, top: two conversations and a candle, held on the concrete until the light goes. Right, bottom: two boys and a flat lagoon, and no apparent need to say anything about it.
Left: fishing off the fuel quay after dark, which appears to be the main event. Right, top: a bike on the road at night, headlights coming up behind and nobody much worried about it. Right, bottom: two up on one bicycle, going by faster than the camera would have liked.
Left: a man, a dog and a pier, at the hour when the island turns gold and takes the credit for it. Right, top: two thumbs up outside the shop, offered without anyone having asked. Right, bottom: pineapple rows on the plateau, with the peaks behind doing their usual work.
