One FB friend recently remarked in response to our landing in the Marquesas that; “You’re not even half way over my friend”. And he’s right. If I was to draw a straight line from Panama to New Zealand, the distance would be 6250 nautical miles, the equivalent of driving to and from Lands End and John o’ Groats twelve times. Our voyage to Marquesas was indeed less than half of that; the Pacific really is vast. The good news is that the western half of the Pacific is peppered by a succession of archipelagos and the first such scattering of tropical islands after the Marquesas were the Tuamotus.
The Tuamotus is the biggest chain of coral atolls in the world covering an area larger than Europe and with over eighty to choose from, we were only ever going to scratch the surface. I was slightly terrified of the Tuamotu and their fearsome reputation as a graveyard for ships. They are low lying and you more often than not you hear them before you see them with the surf crashing onto the semi submerged reefs. Navigation between each atoll is fraught with risk as currents are squeezed through the bottle necks resulting in ferocious currents. And as Lucy explained in her last post, to enter an atoll one has to navigate a narrow pass, the timing of which is both critical and a lottery. You can calculate and aim for slack water but if there has been a few days of a wind and swell, the atoll fills up from all sides and the pass can be constantly discharging with a fast outflow all day every day for several days. If there is a wind against that outflow, then your faced with dangerous standing waves and the dilemma of whether to go for it or not! Really, not for the feint hearted.
Heading out to the pass for our first drift dive. Clothilide, behind is the GP from New Caledonia
We chose Fakarava as our first atoll as we were told that it was easer than most to get into with a wide north pass affording some protection from the prevailing south westerly wind. But the main reason that Fakarava appealed was for its reputation as one of the best dive spots in the world. David Attenborough’s Blue Planet featured the south pass where on a particular full moon, some 10,000 groupers gather to spawn attracting hundreds of sharks. Because the dive would be in the pass with the sea flowing into the atoll, it would be a “drift” dive. Lucy was appalled at this prospect having just recently read about the tragic death of a Dutch teenager dying in drift dive in Malaysia. The idea is that you go out to beyond the entrance to the pass in the dive boat, jump in the water, sink to twenty meters and then just hang in suspended animation as the current carries you back into and through the pass and beyond. What could possibly go wrong? As you can imagine, safety is fairly high on our agenda and there is not a lot of room for error when you go diving. If something goes wrong, it can be catastrophic. Our already high anxiety levels were knocked up into orbit when the dive boat came to pick us up with a cavalier, bandana clad, French womanising instructor who did nothing for already wafer-thin confidence by not checking our certificate, giving scant regard to a briefing and being afforded no time for the customary buddy check. Before we knew it, we were rolling of the back of the boat and into a fast descent down to the abys below. My god, I don’t think Lucy will ever watch the Big Blue again.
Nothing like a quick selfie to record the moment
I had my GoPro out clicking away, determined to record every waking moment of this incredible experience. In Michael Cain style, I said to myself: “Sharks, thousands of em”. We were surrounded by too many to count, every where you looked, and close, sometimes just two or three meters away. This was the Piccadilly Circus at rush hour in shark world. We emerged from our first dive pretty pleased with ourselves and welcoming a small break ashore before our second dive and a good opportunity to review my National Geographic standard pictures. To my utter horror, there were none, not a single snap, I say again, nothing. Like a complete, tool, muppet and imbecile that I am, I forgot to put the memory card in the GoPro. You could probably hear the echo of my scream from Britain.
The so called wall of sharks
Our second dive was no less eventful. One of the critical disciplines of diving is to relax and breath slowly and evenly to conserve air. You have an air gauge and you start with 200 bar in your tank. If it reaches 50 bar, that’s in the red and really not very good. Its a bit like Apollo 13 when they start running out of air, the key difference being you could see the beads of sweat running down Tom Hank’s cheeks whereas underwater you don’t tend to sweat, or if you do, you can’t see it. Does that need further explanation? So, you can imagine my alarm when less than half way through the dive I seemed to have just 70 bar left, knocking on the door of that perilous red death zone. I eventually get the attention of our dive master, remember, you cant shout “Oi, I’m out of air”, but wait and inordinate amount of time for him to look at me so I can offer the required hand signal, then expecting him to do the right thing and abort the dive escorting me to the safety of the gloriously oxygen rich surface. But no, he gives the equivalent of an underwater shrug. Fair enough, I think, I’ll wait a bit before I hit the panic button, 60 bar passes, I get to 50 bar and throw him another cheery wave and signal the 50 bar level with the unofficial signal of a pair of upturned palms. This time, I get a more robust response but rather than taking me up, he takes me aback with the “share air” signal, presenting me which his back up regulator. You train for this in your diving course but you honestly never think you’ll ever have to do it for real. I swim over, take a deep breath, take my regulator out, accept his regulator, put in my mouth, purge the air and take a nice deep breath. So far so good. For the next ten minutes, I held onto his BCD (the waist coat thingy) and we swam along like Siamese twins sharing a single set of lungs.
Lucy gives a wee wave
After a week in the gorgeous embrace of Fakarava we headed north to Rangiroa, the world’s largest atoll stopping on route at the Toau atoll to break the journey up and help time our entry through the Rangiroa pass. After a very pleasant 48 hour stop over, we left Toau in the afternoon and sailed overnight to arrive at dawn for that bottom clenching moment of getting the timing right for entering the pass. We stand off about a mile out and observe the pass through the Rommels and it looks okay so we go for it, the tide should have turned just when we arrive and give us a gentle one or two knot nudge into the atoll. But, no, its never that simple! Were in the pass and the speedo says were doing six knots but the GPS says two knots. This is where it can get interesting as you could loose steerage and be pushed by a side current into the rocks that are close enough to hurl a life ring onto. I shout down to the engine room, “give me more power Lucy” and as the boat violently vibrates threatening disintegration, Lucy shouts back “I’m giving you all I’ve got captain”. With huge relief, we make it through, in tact but out of sorts.
A fisherman fires up his engine on Toau
Rangiroa, like all the atolls, is low lying and sparsely populated. The windward side of the atolls have long narrow islands called motu’s from which the locals get by through coconut plantations, a bit of fishing, tourism and black pearl farming. Lucy was keen to visit a pearl farm so we booked in and full of excited anticipation, off we went. There were around fifteen in the group and we all sat on benches in front of Jacques, our French guide. Along with one other couple we were the only English speakers looking forward to this bi lingual presentation. Jacques kicks off in French and ten minutes in, I’m beginning to wonder if he’s forgotten about us. But no, he switches to English, for about ninety seconds. Then back to French for another ten minutes, then a minute of English. You get the idea. An hour and half in we had one hundred and twenty one minutes of French and exactly nine minutes of English. Jaques detected that all was not tickityboo by my dark exasperated expression and offered a half humorous: “You know, sis stra-ange, I say exactly thi sam in Ingleesh, but fur som reeeson, it tak longeur in Fronch”.
The oyster is inseminated with a seed pearl around which the layers of mother of pearl accumulate.
Rangiroa’s reputation lies on its unique position as one of the few places you can dive and interact with dolphins. This was a massive bucket list item for Lucy so we booked up and this time, the dive centre wanted to check our PADI certificates. This was a good sign. We also had a thorough briefing with charts and diagrams and it was explained in no uncertain terms that an encounter with a dolphin was by no means guaranteed and we should all manage our expectations down. We loaded into the boat, and zoomed round to the pass. This would be another drift dive but by now we were old hands at the old “drifting” and full of bravado and confidence, passing our pro like wisdom onto the newbies on board that they should manage their air carefully so they don’t run out.
Lucy descends in cloud of bubbles
Ready? Three, two, one, over we went. All okay? Thumb down, descend; bubbles…breathing…blue. We are on the wall, where the coral drops sharply into the dark depths below and where the abundance of sea life gathers and thrives. The variety is bewildering and just like on land there are the hunters and there are the gathers. The gathers graze at the coral and are sharply aware they are in the sights of the predators; moray eel, barracuda, rays and lots of sharks; white tipped, black tipped, lemon, reef, all eyeing up lunch options like a leopard leisurely wondering which springbok to have a go at. “Today I think I’ll have a Maori Wrasse, or perhaps that Humpback Unicorn over there”. Sorry, the mind wonders when you have no one to talk to. Then out of absolutely nowhere, I am face to face with a dolphin. I mean, its RIGHT THERE. I reach out to stroke it and it rolls onto its back presenting its pale underside for a tickle. Its skin is hard and taught but beautifully smooth, the sensation of running my fingers over for that briefest of moments was utterly thrilling, an extraordinary interaction, and then enough. It turned and returned to the darkness beyond. I look for Lucy and our eyes meet and in silence we say “Holy shit, did that just happen?”.
A close encounter. It does not get much closer.
Interspersed with these moments of euphoria is the drudgery of living on a boat. Yesterday Lucy announced that it was Operation Market Garden Day. I started thinking about A Bridge Too Far and the sky filled with parachutes as she disappears into the loo clutching a razor to attend to some personal hygiene. Washing clothes can be a challenge as this requires fresh water and power, both of which are in limited supply and need to be used sparingly. Therefore, I endeavour to make my clothes last a little longer. Lucy loves Ewan McGreggor (actually, I think “in love”) but even she thinks I’ve gone to far making boxer shorts last four days as dhaling Ewan did in the Long Way Round. It is logical though: front, back to front, inside out front, inside out back to front. Four days.
Julian, Mayor of Matakea and one time dance instructor and entertainer.
Time marches on and we had decided to continue west to Tahiti. But we wanted to visit one last island on the way; Makatea. Makatea is the only Toamotu island that is not a hollowed-out atoll. It was an atoll, but driven from below the ocean by tectonic action, it now juts out proud of sea level defended all around by vertical 200 foot sea cliffs. For some fifty years from 1917 it was a phosphate mine employing over 3000 people. Today remains a small community of just sixty living cheek by jowl to the extensive ghost town and rusting infrastructure. The mayor offered to provide a tour of the island for a small consideration and we arranged to meet him at the pier the next morning at 0915. Cometh the hour, the only person on the pier was this very large seventy-year-old with a huge belly wearing nothing more than a pair of baggy shorts and long black socks. This was Julian the mayor. It was a full day tour and we loved every minute of it. The history was extraordinary, how a small tropical island was turned into a factory on an industrial scale with all the infrastructure built to make life tolerable; a school, a hospital, tennis courts, cinema, shops, bars, clubs, gendarmerie. Think of the amenities of any given town and Makatea had this installed for the sole purpose of extracting phosphate.
The rusting locomotives remain to this day, a legacy of an industrialised western past.
The tour culminated in a dip in the fresh water subterranean grotto. Lucy + dark + underground + deep water + creepy crawlies = utter terror. But, to be fair, she had a good go of it. Until I shrieked that is. I was swimming along with my head torch and I swear I saw a leg at the bottom, complete with foot and toes.
Lucy gets us back to Broadsword in Danny Buoy
It was time to continue west and onto the Society Islands but Makatea would have the last laugh. After a lovely long lunch in Julian’s house, he drives us back down to the pier. There is a big swell running though the harbour entrance and you have to wait for the “set” of waves to run and then go for it, full throttle in the short lull. I’m climbing down into the tender from the harbour wall when one of the waves takes it and I do a less than elegant backward spiral with a three-quarter twist complete with windmill arms into the boiling sea. And yes, my phone was in my pocket.
It could be a sheet of wall paper
The Tuamotus, known as the 'Dangerous Archipelago,' are famed for their stunning coral atolls, crystal-clear lagoons, and challenging navigation due to strong currents and hidden reefs—rewarding skilled sailors with unparalleled beauty. Boor Verleih Cannobio