Of Foreign Build (31 page)

The following day, as friends approached Moorea, three adult whales were spotted together with a baby. The scars matched descriptions of the whale we’d seen, so we were sure that our friend found his mum. That’s our hope anyway.

We bade farewell to Mel and the small life in her tummy that would be called Matilda Jade at birth – which she had revealed to us during her stay. With a new life in our thoughts, the marvels of nature, and another parting, we left Moorea. Huahine was our next destination.

For five days, anchored within a quiet bay at Huahine, we enjoyed the solitude and caught up with paint jobs on
Mariah
. We ventured into the tiny village just twice. During our second visit, Noel’s sandals that were left in the dinghy were stolen.

I was relaxed on board and by now it had been about eight years since Martin had left this world. The scars had healed; I could feel them though, and it was around this time that I had a vivid dream I would never forget. It was about Martin telling me that it was time to let him go. I had kept him too long, and it wasn’t fair. I was selfish and I couldn’t let him go. The second was a dream in which I felt I wasn’t entirely asleep throughout its duration. I was in a small, square room. The walls and door painted beige. I was sitting on a plain, brown timber chair. It was covered with black, cracking leather, spilling crumbling foam, facing the door. Martin was in the doorway, holding the round door handle. The door was partly open, partly closed. Without saying anything, he would slowly back away, looking at me, pulling the door closed, separating us. As the door almost shut, I said, ‘No, not yet. I’m not ready.’ He slowly opened the door and came back into the room, partway. His hand never left the door handle. This scenario repeated several times, his lips never moved, but I could hear him say, so softly, ‘It is time to let go, let me go, I want to go.’ Eventually, with an empty, dull ache, I accepted and let him close the door. I found myself lying in bed crying – fully awake. The next day, I felt lighter and told Noel the whole story.

‘Whether it was real or not, whether it was your body telling you to let him go – it doesn’t matter,’ he said gently, ‘it was time to let him go completely.’

We briefly stopped at Tahaa before heading to Bora Bora. Green, lush, and exquisitely beautiful and expensive, we renamed Bora Bora ‘Boring Bora’ – only because we couldn’t afford the costly activities on offer. Instead, we enjoyed a couple of beers at a bar named Bloody Mary’s with good cruising buddies from
My Chance
,
Theta
,
and
Adverse Conditions
. The time at the bar was not all fun and games, as we had important decisions to make, like, could we all fit into the anchorage at Aitutaki? The entrance was quite shallow, at only five feet we knew we’d just make it.
Theta
was too deep, but
My Chance
was a catamaran and
Adverse Conditions
would just follow us all in and hope for the best.

Night watches had become easy. I enjoyed the cool nights and their clarity. I could see other vessels from a long way off, their navigation lights showing their course. But there were still tough nights. We kept watch for the lottery of squalls under the cover of darkness, sometimes watching as the lightning cut the atmosphere in two. As foreboding shadows crept nearer, I could feel the taut anticipation. At times, the clouds seemed to rub out the stars. When doing sail changes at night, the fake stability of the inverted cone of deck lights provided comfort. At dawn, where any horrors would vanish, the air would become so crisp, it felt as though it would shatter with words.

Noel’s briny brain had forgotten that goats smell.

‘Can you kill the goat a few days earlier?’ Noel asked, while I couldn’t help but search the sun-dappled garden, hoping the goat was not in ear shot while we discussed its demise.

For twenty-five New Zealand dollars Noel could have a fresh skin (goat skin, that is). He planned to dry it and replace the split skin that was currently on his homemade drum. The fact that our ten metre boat would stink like a fetid abattoir and that goat hair would plague us for eternity was nothing compared to the pink fit customs would have when we sailed back into Australia.

We had made it to Aitutaki, which was described as one of the most heavenly places on Earth and considered one of the most magnificent lagoons in the world. It was comprised of a triangular shaped reef encircling a vivid clear lagoon where three volcanic islands rest within twelve coral atolls. Located directly 140 nautical miles north of Rarotonga (220 kilometres), Aitutaki is one of the southern Cook Islands visited little by sailors. Captain Bligh was the first European to discover Aitutaki in 1789 and locals hold him responsible for introducing the sweet pawpaw fruit that now grows in abundance.

The tiny bay was as calm as being moored on concrete and as beautiful as a perfect pearl. However, puttering into the bay was not for the faint-hearted. A narrow channel, buoyed with sticks on one side only, was shallow and winding. Where the sticks were leaning at an angle, we had to decide whether they had been knocked over, or more usually, it indicated to give the twig a wider berth in the slender channel! If we had a deeper draft than one-and-a-half metres, we would carve our way through the sand. Certainly over one-point-eight metres would mean a probable grounding. Mercifully, the water was clear, which made my position on the bow a whole lot easier.

The first morning within the secluded anchorage at Aitutaki, the angelic voice tickled my ears before my eyes peeled open. The soft baritone that was carried along the gentle breeze met and partnered with my intrigue and gave good reason for me to rise from my cosy pit, a challenging feat for me, most days. With a dishevelled sarong quickly wrapped around my body, I peered out from our cluttered cockpit. The angel stood on a deserted concrete peer, apparently working his smooth lungs just for us. Sadly, he spotted his mesmerised audience and my wing-less cherub strolled away and left the silent air still and my ears empty, yearning for more.

Song entered our lives daily whilst in Aitutaki. Donning our finest wear, the usual grotty cruisers smartened up for the church service. Bursting lungs, boisterous harmony, and energised eurhythmics left us breathless and wanting to applaud the show-like performance.

After our church attendance, the locals provided lunch. A little embarrassed to be guests of honour, we lingered outside the awaiting hall of food, enjoying the view.

‘Did you retrieve my dinghy?’ a gruff voice questioned one of our neighbouring friends, and they were perplexed.

‘That was me, sir,’ Noel jumped in, approaching the unsmiling local, not sure what to expect. The man thrust out his hand and Noel did all he could not to duck or jump back.

‘Let me shake your hand, sir,’ our new friend said. My dinghy is my livelihood, thank you so much. My son,’ (said scathingly), ‘did not tie the dinghy properly. I have something for you; which is your dinghy? I will leave you a gift.’

Seeking us out and shaking Noel’s hand was enough thanks for us, and we carried on with our day, digging into a picnic type lunch with the locals who ensured that all visitors (all four couples on boats) were fed at least twice over before they indulged. About an hour later, as we returned to our dinghy, we found it brimming with pumpkins, several kinds of potatoes, enormous bunches of bananas, and healthy pawpaws. The booty was enjoyed by us all.

Much enjoyment was to be had at every corner. Returning home one star spangled evening, six lightly intoxicated cruisers huddled in a dinghy and, inspired by the welcoming locals, we exercised our own vocal cords. We sang a peculiar ditty, replacing Nagasaki with Aitutaki, ‘
Back in Aitutaki where the fell
as chew tobbacy and the women wicky-
wacky
-
woo
…
’

‘
What do you reckon they wear under their skirts?’ I whispered to my buddy, Ann from
Novia
,
another sailboat that had joined us.

‘I dunno,’ she giggled, ‘but it had better have good support!’

As the guys strutted their aggressive stuff and the girls glided gracefully to the thud of hypnotising drums I recalled our host’s welcoming speech before the local dancing started.

‘Kia Orana – may you live long.’ She added, ‘Enjoy the show and help yourselves.’

‘It’s only polite to do what the host asks,’ I stated, grinning mischievously. The two olive skinned, strapping lads ignored the trickling sweat that coursed down their corrugated abdomens, and I tried to suppress an urge to wipe it away – at least while Noel was looking. They planted soggy kisses on my cheeks and I tried to act demure, not my age, which was too close to twice theirs.

‘Thank you, you were great!’ they laughed.

Partaking in the “get the blobby tourists dancing after the professional show
,
”
I paired up with a lad and copied his moves, totally forgetting that the ladies should be hip swinging with vigour. So, I wasn’t sure if they found me hysterical because I danced like a man or that I just couldn’t dance – maybe both. Still, the workout, fun, and laughter was well worth the comical show I gave the audience. Post performances of the professionals and the unrefined, the beautiful women and handsome men changed from their vivid dress into western shorts and t-shirts. The clothes morphed them from men to boys, their western dress was drab and a startling difference from their woven headdresses, skirts, and vastly rich costumes.

The welcome into Aitutaki surpassed any we had received throughout our journey. The elegant locals were eloquent, embracing their culture with a proud vigour. The tiny island was protected from the ugly glutton of wealth, as land could only be handed on to family.

The ‘Good mornings,’ from grinning grans, as they hurtled past us in their fine flowery dresses, inspired us to hire a moped and explore.

Most of the transport on the island was via a small scooter, keeping pollution, noise, and traffic to a soothing minimum. Acquiring a Cook Island bike license for ten American dollars and twenty dollars for the hire was easy. All they wanted was our first names, and we were free to rampage around the eight square kilometres island, which housed a population of just 1600. There really wasn’t much to see, but the beauty of Maunga Pu, the highest point of the island, offered a fantastic three-hundred-and-sixty degree view where you could look out over the entire landscape. However, tenacious mosquitoes quickly marred the experience. Inland, small patches of houses were dotted here and there. The inhabitants were delighted when we stopped to say hello and offer candy to the shy kids. Visits were short; the battle with the fearsome mozzies was painfully lost.

‘
Heelllooo,’ the grubby, five year old girl waved as we approached after our thirty-minute hike back from the expensive, inordinately slow Internet.

The Main Street included a couple of tiny supermarkets, together with a few basic cafes and bars. Locals serenely sped past on their thrumming two wheelers, and not one person failed to wave or nod a greeting. Our mud-smudged friend stopped practicing wiggling her tiny hips to investigate us, comparatively large, white folk. As we reached the group of kids, I raised my arms and wiggled my hips, trying to mimic her dance. The girls almost fell over, gasping and giggling at my efforts. We kept walking, but they were not prepared to let us go just yet. Spotting the new wooden drum Noel carried that we’d just purchased for a family gift, the sniggering group commanded the drum and demanded us to dance. Noel tried the warrior dance we witnessed the previous night, their crashing knees with straw skirts made a formidable sight, but unfortunately Noel just looked like a chicken with two left legs. My wiggling was not much better and as the kids banged on the drum, they almost expired in fits of laughter.

Chores still had to be done. The tap where I gained permission to hand wash our clothes at was situated right next to a brick wall that was at the perfect height to relieve my back. The string of pine trees behind the neighbouring police station, next to the playing field, was perfect for drying. Noel filled
Mariah
with water, while I scrubbed our clothes. We hung out the washing, humming summer tunes in the warm, gentle breeze; the ambience of the island diluted the normally laborious tasks. As our colourful laundry flapped in the breeze, Noel returned with a small picnic. We sat on the soft, green grass, within the stillness of a Sunday. Our home, boat, and faithful travel companion,
Mariah
sat in sight at the end of the playing field, cooling in the breeze; we shared a quiet lunch, a calm contemplation, and maybe a short snooze.

Our arrival back to Australia was almost put on hold. Our travel bug infested bodies had come across the one place in seven years of circling the planet that we were seriously thinking of stopping at (for six months anyway). Earnest consideration to taking a break, living the Aitutakian way, and enjoying a rest, resonated through our salty minds. Already my body started to unwind. To add foundations to the idea, Noel had the offer of work. His carpentry and building skills attained him job offers all around the globe. Sense prevailed, and we decided that talking to the harbour master about hurricanes was our first step.

‘We have had three hurricanes already this year and the water levels always rise up to our desks in this office.’ Their office was over three metres above sea level. Noel and I backed out of the office and out of our dream. Faced with organising the boat for departure, rolling tummies in time with rolling seas and a collectively agreed “bad year” for the Pacific trades, we decided to bid farewell to Aitutaki.

As we sadly made our farewells to the locals, the goat still breathed the flowery scent that carried over the blossom-strewn garden. The skin we bought was from the island’s drum maker, a second hand, clean, odourless skin, that would leave
Mariah
before we arrived in Australia. The goat’s time, though, was short; a feast was planned…
Kia manuia
(may good fortune shine on you).