In a slick downtown Chicago H-D dealership, Joe Jacobs sat at his highly polished antique desk, desperate and disillusioned. The 45-year-old service manager had just been dumped by the love of his life. He couldn't focus on his work, his ever-increasing workload, on his uptown lifestyle, or on the frozen streets of Chicago. He hurt to the bone.
The wind whistled off Lake Michigan and stacked the snow against the concrete buildings, driving an icy chill through the streets. He thought Margarite, the statuesque brunette, was happy as he escorted her to shows, to the opera, and to all the mucky- muck events in town. He hadn't anticipated the level of her longing for the open ocean and the tropical wanderlust growing deep within her.
They'd spoke casually of sailing the Caribbean, Polynesia, and the Hawaiian Islands, but he was unaware of her simmering passion for the South Seas. All he could see were those baby blue eyes as she gazed up at him, her smile, and a small crooked grin that wrinkled her nose and melted his heart. He loved to hold her close and feel her body mold against his, even in public. She had the mojo on him, and as soon as she was gone, he twisted in emotional hell like a heroin addict lying in an alley without a fix to ease the pain.
He picked up the Dear John off his desk and read it again. It was almost 7 p.m. and he was still shuffling through the unrelenting mounds of paperwork on his oak-tooled desk. He had been at it since 5:30 that morning, and the whole process of ambition, work ethic, and his fleeting life abruptly wore on him.
The cutting words of the lengthy letter tore at his skin like a multitude of unending paper cuts: “We discussed this, yet you don't seem to have the balls to act. To reach out for what the world has to offer us. I'm tired of the miserable cold in the winter, the devastating humidity in the summer, and the lack of nature in our life. I want to be in touch with something real. I need to turn this bleak existence into something adventuresome. We've only got so much time on this planet. I've got to go…”
He crumpled the letter and threw it in the gold-embossed trash can; then just as impulsively, retrieved and unraveled it, ironing it's ruffled surface with the palm of his hand, and read it once more. He knewin the depths of his gut that she was the one, that she loved him as madly as he loved her. The way they walked, talked, and made love. He couldn't let her get away.
He dialed numbers in rapid succession. She wasn't home. Her friends didn't know anything. Her roommate said she had packed her things and left. He read the letter again, hoping to decipher her intentions, her whereabouts, or destination.
He was in great physical shape, but with three painful marriages under his belt, Other than working out, his life was spent behind a desk, in conference rooms and at four-star restaurants. He was tentative, she was direct; he was trying to wrap things up, she was impetuous.
He suddenly remembered a lengthy conversation they had about a sailing charter company in Papeete. He called her mother. Sure enough, she had picked up a suitcase and told her she was going sailing. So was he.
He snapped the phone off its cradle and hurriedly called Corsair, a French airline that flew exclusively to Polynesia. He knew of Toni Barone through discussions with his girl. Toni, a bubbly Corsair travel agent who placed charters, bare boat cruises, and crewed for a global agency called VPM, returned the call.
“What is it, Joe?” she asked tentatively, as if she anticipated his call.
“Margarite left me,” Joe sputtered. “Do you know anything? Where'd she go? I've got to find her.”
“There's a plane leaving from L.A. tonight at midnight. It's a Corsair flight that originates in Paris, stops in L.A., and lands in Papeete. I'll call Sandrine with VPM and get something rolling for you. Maybe there's a group going, maybe Margarite's on it.”
Toni didn't cough up any direct information. In fact, her obvious ambiguity was driving Joe nuts. He sensed that there was more to the story than she'd revealed. He pulled at his bushy mustache and muttered into the phone.
“What the hell do you know?”
“I'll make the arrangements,” Toni said, avoiding his question, “Don't forget your passport. Go home and pack. Take sunscreen. We'll talk in L.A.”
She hung up as abruptly as he'd called.
Joe hit his downtown loft, threw skivvies, shirts, shorts, and sandals into a suitcase, threw on sweats, and raced to the airport. He grabbed the first Delta flight to L.A., ran from the Delta terminal to Bradley International, a quarter mile gauntlet of excited and drawn travelers from all points on the globe. Darting through the automatic glass doors breathlessly, he questioned the first security officer he spotted for the location of the Corsair desk.
The two guards eyed his panting nature suspiciously and glanced at their long list of foreign airlines to no avail. He ran up and down the congested isles until the Corsair air station jumped out at him. Relieved, he jammed to the counter where Toni met him with the tickets.
She was every bit of what his imagination conjured. Her nature and exuberance matched her bright smile and bouncy form. He wanted to question her, but other passengers constantly arrived and she efficiently took care of their luggage and tickets, giving them information on the flight, gate, arrival time, etc. The flight to Polynesia took seven hours with a two-hour, to the good, time difference. He chose a bulkhead seat next to a restroom so he would have space to stretch his 6'4″ frame.
For the first time in his life, he was entering into a spontaneous undertaking. This newfound exuberance had its costs… anxiety. Beads of sweat coated his furrowed brow in the air-conditioned 747 jet as it rolled from the terminal and out onto the tarmac. Although his nerves were as jangled as his luggage, after a couple of hours in the air, a new intoxication of adventure swept over him.
As he sat tentatively, waiting for the massive double-level aircraft to get departure clearance from the tower, he reminisced about Margarite. He pulled the Dear John out of his Patagonia all-weather jacket and reread each word as the Corsair Jet thundered past the line of lights flickering in the window. He'd known this girl and felt her constant presence around him for a couple of years. He couldn't wait to be with her each day. He couldn't wait to hear her voice on the phone.
They were inseparable, incorrigible, laughable, and collaborates. He fought his scrambled memory to discover the exact time he began to lose her. What was it that he said? When was she finally convinced that she was forever stuck in the concrete and stone world of Chicago, forced to shovel snow for the rest of her life? He pounded the arm of his chair in frustration so loud he attracted the attention of one of the French attendants.
“Sir, can we help you?” she asked as the plane reached a comfortable cruising altitude of 28,000 feet.
“A double Jack Daniels,” Joe said, his piercing blue gaze indicating to the stewardess that he wasn't kidding.
“Right away, sir,” she said, stepping back from the big man sitting bolt upright in his chair. The muscles in both arms twitched as if he was a condemned man strapped into an electric chair. The plane pushed 514 mph and leveled out to begin its 7.5-hour 4,025-miletrek to the French Polynesian Islands.
A constant barrage of French announcements pierced his head incomprehensively, with no English translations to follow. This babble was interrupted with the delivery of hisbrimming whiskey, then dinner, followed by a movie that couldn't hold his attention if it was a play being acted out in the aisles by the crew. Nothing could.
They completed the service with another snack of breads, cheese, and yogurt shortly before landing. Joe tried to stretch out and sleep, but his proximity to the head was precarious and his feet fell in front of the doorway. As each passenger departed the restroom, he or she either stepped on or stumbled over Joe's ankles or feet. He quickly learned to never sit there again.
As the sun crested the horizon and the vast openness of the ocean unfolded below them, Joe looked out one of the small portholes on the bulkhead and gazed over the vast Tuamotu ridge adjacent to the rope of paradise islands below.
The Society Isles were broken into two groups: the leeward and the windward. The windward group includes the islands of Tahiti and Moorea. The leeward team is made up of Huahine, Tahaa, Raiatea, and Bora Bora, the most romantic of them all, through the western world portrayal of the mountainous island paradise in the book South Pacific. James Michener proclaimed Bora Bora as one of the most enchanting places on earth, and forever, it has carried that idyllic legacy.
As the plane crested the edge of Tahiti and banked for a landing, they popped through island turbulence at 20,000 feet, then smoothed out for the final approach. For several minutes, frightened passengers were squirming in their seats, squealing at the bumps and swerves.
Joe's blues returned as the wings dipped and the wheels clunked down. He could see the lush green vegetation along the soggy runway after a recent summer rain. The sky was still dark, scattered with heavy clouds, and a gray hue hung over the area with an ominous air. A moment of deja vu took him back to the Philippines as his troop carrier landed at the mountain-high Clark Air Force Base during the unrelenting rains of the monsoons. It was his first foray into the Vietnam battlefield toward the end of the war, and the dark hues, white-capped sea below, and dense forest gave him the chills.
For the first time in his young life, he had witnessed the stark dichotomies and realities of Third World countries. He again saw the contradiction of this world in the pristine detail of a precision runway with its running lights and navigational indicators alongside bending palms, dense jungle, and haphazard shacks built of bits and pieces of discarded lumber and tin. He felt the dense humidity and momentarily thought he was once again in Indochina.
He was yanked back to his wandering girlfriend as the shapely female next to him to the flowery Tahitian fragrance that filled the plane, quickly replacing the stale interior.
Leaving the jet, Joe realized that he had little notion of where he was going. He stumbled off the plane and into the bright sunlight of the lobby. A colorfully dressed girl in a flowing Pareo stepped up to him, kissed him lightly on his unshaven cheek, and offered a lei of flowers, which he ducked his head into. Suddenly his nostrils were permeated with the smell of theTiare buds that Tahitians everywhere use as a welcome greeting.
The girl blinked her dark eyes and said, “Ia orana,” which means hello, good morning, good afternoon, and good evening in Polynesian.
Flanking her were three women. : Toni, the short, bubbly employee from the Corsair ranks, Sandrine, a thin blonde with a thoughtful gaze and a crooked smile who was a VPM charter broker, and Laurence, a tall, dark-haired woman with a haunting gaze, the French representative of VPM responsible for the American sales effort.
VPM is a small entity in the shadow of two other vast corporate business groups working synergistically together in the travel industry. They include Corsair, which encompasses Nouvelle Frontieres, a very large French travel agency, and Dufour Yachts (the builder of the 82-foot cats the group was scheduled to sail on).
Toni was off duty once they arrived and she and her husband, Anthony, were on their way to join their hosts, Sandrine and Laurence, on a broker familiarization trip. Suddenly Joe found himself among a group of seasoned professional charter brokers from both coasts seeking knowledge of Polynesia and the VPM charter experience.
After a short air-conditioned bus ride, Joe and the group of 15 checked into the spacious Outrigger hotel overlooking the Papeete Pass Bay on the northwest coast of Tahiti in the city of Papeete. The architecture of the sprawling buildings overlooking the clear water lagoon enhanced the tropical atmosphere. The lobby was virtually wide open. No windows or doors encircle it. Suddenly Joe was assaulted with a fresh ocean breeze wafting through the bamboo lobby, the rich teak woods of the counters, and the vast panoramic painting of a rich red sunset on the water with native fishermen drawing in their outriggers after a hard day on the sea, hung neatly behind the smiling receptionist. Bellboys whisked the luggage away while a hostess offered Polynesian cocktails.
Joe, unaccustomed to the friendly atmosphere and the openness, was mesmerized by the majestic tropical vision. He longed for his girl. No wonder she came here.
It was just 8 a.m. when they arrived at the hotel. They had two hours to rest before taking a small shuttle to Moorea for lunch at the famous Beachcomber hotel, and to review the VPM base. The Beachcomber is one of the finest hotels in the Windward Islands. VPM has an ongoing thrust to build a substantial fleet of bareboat and crewedsailing vessels throughout Polynesia. The Moorea base consisted of a reception area and repair shop with docks for 25 boats, many Dufour-built yachts.
VPM hosts 120 boats in the Caribbean, including the islands of St. Martin, Tortola, Martinique, and Guadeloupe. They have 25 boats moored in the Indian Ocean adjacent to the Seychelles islands, two in Madagascar, and a test yacht in Cuba.
Moorea is 26 kilometers in circumference and survives through tourism and plantations of bananas, breadfruit, pineapple, papaya, and mangoes. There are no towns, only five villages, of which Paopao is the largest. It's known for its fresh catch of mahi mahi, tuna, and bonito.
He scratched through his English/French vocabulary, trying to ask the smiling couple at the VPM base for information, but could only find that their sailing vessels had just returned from a regatta and they currently had no boats out on charter. For a brief moment, he was relieved, but how could he cajole every hotel clerk to check the guest log for his girl? How could he find her?
As Joe bounced along in the tour bus, he wondered if Margarite was on a charter or perhaps in the Club Bali High Hotel in Cook's Bay. They drove on new, smooth, asphalt roads past shrimp plantations, coconut groves, and vanilla farms. At one point, the bus turned inland and took them to a famous Belvedere, or lookout, for a breathtaking view of Bali with Cook’s Bay on one side and Opunohu Bay on the other.
Joe discovered the word for “thank you,” Maururu, after inquiring of the robust tour guide as to the whereabouts of his girl. A woman with an immense family, she glowed with heartfelt concern, but couldn't help. She remembered no such girl. But she told him a story about Captain Cook who discovered the volcanic islands and fell in love, but couldn't stay. The terrible fact of life in the 18th century was that these men would never know if they could ever return to these islands once they left. Now a man can find his love anywhere in the world, and return to her at a moment's notice. It wasn't the case inCaptain Cook's time. Once he set sail, he might never make it back. Joe's confidence was bolstered momentarily, by her story.
After cocktails with the couple who managed the Moorea base, the group returned to the small prop-driven plane for another 10-minute flight back to Papeete for dinner at the beautiful Outrigger Hotel.
Joe excused himself from the ornate wicker table and returned to his vast room with a 160-degree view of the bay. He was exhausted and lonely. He was intrigued and stimulated by only a few hours in an island paradise. He now knew instinctively why she had come and her reasoning.
Part II
Tuesday morning, he awoke with a start, rejuvenated, but anxious. Suddenly, he realized she could be on any island. He didn't know enough about each atoll to find her or even how to search, but he was determined to find a way.
His group mustered in the lobby after breakfast and was transported to the airport to jump on a BN-2B twin prop, which took off for another quick blast to Moorea. Joe paced the picturesque Moorea airport, its lobby redolent with tropical scents, waiting for the rest of the group, a lively bunch of young women who championed charters from various locations in the States, including Newport Beach, Ft. Lauderdale, Cambridge, and Sausalito. There was one other couple from Florida, Tom and Sylvie, a sharp, hardworking charter-sales team.
The new day was awash with brilliant sunlight that made every blooming flower, sparkling bay, lush cove, and glistening reef more inviting. The airport lobby was also an open building with a large bamboo vaulted ceiling, affording the sea breeze a clear path to waft through the structure unhampered by doors. An atrium stood in the center, bristling with dense shrubbery and palms. Joe walked around it from the arrivals side to the departure area and gazed out to sea, waiting. The next flight to Huahine wasn't for a couple of hours.
One of the local girls explained that one Tiare bud placed over the left ear signifies a married person, over the right single, and over both could mean married but looking for more. Joe grimaced and kept pacing.
He found out that Sandrine, the French blonde who smoke incessantly and paced as much as Joe, between trying to make the phones work (phone cards), had recently married. Suddenly, she was whisked away to take this tour. Her new husband, Pierre, didn't understand as she desperately tried to reach him to explain. Initially the tour was booked. At the last minute, two brokers canceled and he could have attended,but it was too late to book a flight and he was stuck in Florida.
Another woman on the trip was new to the charter yacht business. She was tall, single, and waiting for her boyfriend to divorce his wife so they could be together. Joe looked at her in wonderment. Her bright smile belied the anguish in her eyes.
Sandrine touched Joe's elbow with a tender caress.
“There is no sense to worry or fret. Nothing is according to plan, we must just go with the flow,” she said with a light French accent that seemed to turn the words to song.
Joe nodded and noticed that her tender touch slowed his rapid breathing and pounding heart.
“That's better,” she said and walked away.
The group boarded the 80-passenger prop-jet whisking passengers on a flexible schedule from Moorea to Huahine, Raiatea, and Bora Bora daily. Within a half hour, they hovered over Huahine, an island of a thousand bays and inlets. Suddenly, Joe was frustrated; Margarite's boat could be in anybay. He wanted a powerful Scarab speedboat, fast and lean, to enhance his search. Then he remembered Sandrine's soft words: “Go with theflow…” and he tried to calm his frazzled nerves.
Surrounded and protected by wide coral reefs forming natural jetties against the open ocean, Huahine was a knockout. As if shaped by the power of Neptune's mighty gracious hand, natural inlets allowed sailors into the inner circle and passage to the multitude of calm bays and harbors. In many cases, these natural inlets were formed by the fresh water runoff that prevented the coral from growing in those areas.
The landing was abrupt and efficient. The group's luggage was piled carefully into one bus while the group departed in another for a short ride to the harbor, where three new brilliant white, well-formed catamarans were moored in waters so clear that Joe could have easily walked off the pier directly into the inviting 85-degree crystal blanket of freshness.
Two of the boats were Nemo 82-foot cats. One was the Tuamotu, named after the many tuamotus that surround the islands. The other was appropriately named after the region it was based in, Polynesia. The final cat was a 57-foot Lagoon named Vave'a.
Papeete, on the island of Tahiti, is the only cosmopolitan city housing exclusive shops. The rest of the islands are generally remote, such as Huahine, which is made up of two islands with fishing the main income-producing business on one, while farming runs the show on the big island. Two small but well-kept bridges separate the two atolls.
There are only four hotels on the island and only 17,000 tourists visit annually, compared to 120,000 a year who visit Moorea. Polynesia means many islands in Latin. There are only 13 letters in the Polynesian alphabet, so many words have five or six meanings. There are a total of 118 islands in Polynesia. French Polynesia is actually as big as Europe, yet has a diminutive population of 220,000.
After settling on the boats, the group took a tour of the islands of Huahine to get a feel for the remote nirvana. The scarcity of hotels dismayed Joe, and as they cruised on the newly paved road circumnavigating the islands, he wanted to check out every sailing vessel anchored in every inlet. Still, he remembered Sandrine's words and sat back in his seat as they passed one picturesque bay after another while the guide pointed out a hotel built by Diana Ross, then the 800-year-old fish traps built in a shallow region between the islands to capture fish on the tide.
Just as Joe's mind wandered to the shapely form of his girl, the guide mentioned that the last human sacrifice was in 1915. Joe abruptly shuddered, although he was warm in the 90-degree humid atmosphere. It was the first time foul play entered his mind. Before Christianity was thrust on the natives,they worshipped Tiki gods and gods of nature. Tattoos were prevalent in ancient times, with a man's family origin tattooed on his right side and his victories or awards tattooed on his left.
Generally, Polynesian people came from Malaysia and Asia. Nothing originated on the islands. They were strictly volcanic masses that erupted under the sea to form the islands, atolls, and motus. Man broughtvegetation, animals, insects, trees, and tyranny. Initially, the natives used ironwood trees that look like pine trees for fish hooks. The smaller limbs are needle-sharp and hard as steel. The panda leaves were used for roofing material, which lasts eight years before needing to be replaced. Coconut trees last 100 years and produce 50-60 coconuts a year. Almost every element of the coconut is of some use, including the fibrous exterior thatis used to make rope. The coconut shells were used for bowls and art forms.
At one point, the guide stopped on a small rock bridge over a creek and fed the massive eels that lived under an old banyon tree hanging precariously over the clear water. These eels are not the notorious moray eels, but just as big. The natives consider them sacred, and the group huddled around in dismay as one of the guides stood knee-deep in the clear water and fed the eels as they surrounded his legs and nibbled at his calves.
The vegetation on the island is so spectacular that it's hard to believe that it came from anywhere else on Earth. The volcanic islands weren't always conducive to plant growth, but now, vegation grows with wild abandon. Hundreds of years ago, men brought pine trees to the islands for the soil grabbing roots capable of penetrating tough lava rock. The trees flourished and held the soil in place, but the needles killed anything attempting to grow beneath the sprawling limbs. So, with every positive attribute, there comes a negative element. Ultimately, Acacia trees were used in lieu of pines to hold precious soil, yet allow underbrush to grow under its large flowing limbs. Croton plants, a big leafy bush, are held in high regard by the locals. They are planted in front of businesses and homes to ward off evil and thieves. The notion of intentional harm returned to Joe's conscience as the guide mentioned that there were only five police officers on the island, and that they had a tendency to party as much as the local men.
Another interesting tree, the ylang, is used for making perfume. Several times, the discussion of seasons came up, and each time there was some disagreement as to the length and months of the rainy season, but generally it's known to fall somewhere between November and February. Another tree, the tamanu, is acclaimed as containing healing oil in the fruit. Joe noticed a variety of products containing this precious oil, but no cures for a breaking heart. There were no seagulls on the island, only green herons, doves, yellow beaked black birds, and hawks.
As they rounded the island in the bouncing 4X4, the group was told that there are five natural coral inlets into the Huahine fold. In Bora Bora, man had to dynamite through the coral to find a way to the romantic island.
Returning to the cats, one of the captains briefed the passengers on the sail ahead. The stern of the Tuamotu was wide and held two tables surrounded by bench seats that easily held seating room for 15, much like a broad banquet table. They sat comfortably as he pointed out the relationship between the various islands. It is generally recommended not to sail northeast from the Leeward Islands to the Windward group of Moorea and Tahiti. It's an uphill battle all the way and takes close to 24 hours. It's best to sail southwest or fly to the Leeward Islands and pick up a VPM yacht at any of the islands for a most enjoyable cruise.
Not a problem to glide across the channel heading blissfully south/west with the seas at your back and the wind coming from the northeast. In addition, the VPM representative pointed out the proximity between the islands, and the easy, comfortable cruising from cove to majestic cove, to new adventures at the next island. It was also pointed out that another paradise or two lie beyond Bora Bora. Maupiti is an acclaimed island, with only one inlet available to the cruiser. The trouble is that once you're inside, it can be very difficult to return to sea and sometimes forces sailors to remain within the coral reefs until the seas permit safe passage.
The indoctrination familiarized the travelers with the crew. One of the crew, Ludo, was a dive master and instructor, certified in two sanctioning bodies. He could train any passenger to dive anywhere in the world in four days, if they chose to do so.
The 82-foot Dufour was sloop-rigged with a jib and staysail on the bow. Both were equipped with roller-furlings. It had eight double cabins, a sizable galley, and a settee bigger than most living rooms. Each cabin had its own head with shower. The VPM charter vessel carried kayaks, windsurfers, dive gear, and water skiing equipment. The crew consisted of a captain, first mate, hostess /cook, and dive master.
The sun became a bonfire on the horizon, streaking the clouds with the colors of the inside of an oyster shell, and the sea calmed. Joe sat on the stern swim step and watched a quiet come over the island, the sea, and himself, a relaxing respite from his anxious day. He gazed at the beauty surrounding him and wondered why he had never visited before, why he didn't listen to Margarite.
The chef on board was trained in France, and as darkness enveloped their vessel, the smells of French cuisine wafted from the galley. Lights in and around the stern dining area came on, as did the island music. Mathilde, a beautiful young French maiden, scurried around the table, setting it with colorful place mats, wine glasses, and tasteful panache.
Before long, guests who showered and dressed for the evening returned from their cabins glowing with their first day's sun tan. Mathilde was in her early 20s and carried her tan naturally, while her blond, sun-streaked mass of hair was bobbed a couple of inches off her shoulders and bounced gracefully as she darted around the ship.
Joe was assaulted by myriad images and feelings. As the sun set, he watched in wonder while consumed by the blues. He knew already how wrong he had been and wanted to find his girl even more.
Then, a transformation occurred and the festive nighttime atmosphere took over. Mathilde reminded him of his girl as she moved buoyantly and efficiently around the deck. He had to look away, and went below to clean up for dinner.
Silver buckets of red and white French wine were carefully hung from the sides of the tables as guests from the other boats arrived and drank Polynesian cocktails and munched on delicate cheeses. The dinner began with French pate, followed by the main course of mahi mahi wrapped in bacon. And dessert consisted of a piping hot apple tart with whipped cream and chocolate crumbles. Joe ate in blissful remembrance of his lost woman. Nothing could be more perfect than if she had been with him at that moment. His emotions cresting, Joe excused himself and went to his cabin in an attempt to sleep.
Part III
Mornings in Tahiti are explosions of sun and color. Suddenly there's a whole world of new adventures laid out on a platter of baby blue-green seas, calm, warm and beckoning.
A light breakfast awaited the passengers as they exited their cozy cabins into the light of another alluring day. They took a brief dingy ride after breakfast of fruit, cereal, toast, and coffee, to the Hotel Te Tiare for a quick tour. Joe immediately hit the reception desk and inquired of Margarite. Vaea, a tall Polynesian girl in a turquoise dress, guided them along narrow piers to rooms stationed over the clear water.
For the first time, they sailed as the crew hoisted the anchor and the Dufour silently crept out of the harbor. It was a four-hour passage across to Tahaa from Huahine. The Dufour cat was solid, stable, and sprawling enough to allow the girls to lounge in the sun while the crew scurried around hoisting sails, serving fruit drinks to the passengers while other members of the crew deep sea fished off the stern.
A large dinghy sporting a 40-hp Yamaha hung securely from stainless steel davits off the stern. Ten diving bottles lined the stern railing and the cat was equipped with a compressor to recharge them.
As soon as the three graceful yachts anchored, passengers swam from sailboat to sailboat, and around various clusters of coral searching for underwater delights. Later, the dive master took the group to a small one-acre island to snorkel in the shallow waters clustered with coral and a magnificent array of colorful fish. Joe found that each time he spotted the most beautiful fish he had ever seen, another would appear and knock the previous one out of the ballpark.
While they snorkeled, Joe discovered moray eels poking out from cracks and crevices in the rocks. They also discovered a most beautiful but poisonous lionfish floating above a small cluster ofcoral. Neither the eels nor Mr. Lion seemed the least bit disturbed by the human presence. The guide warned of a small deceptive stone fish that like achameleon can disguise itself to match the terrain color and texture of rocks, the sandy bottom or surrounding coral. This fish is particularly poisonous if stepped on, so fins or booties are a must, but none of the crew or passengers ever encountered the spiny demons as they snorkeled in bliss around the small island.
They were guided into the oncoming currents and around a large 30-foot-deep chicken-wire cage built into the sand. They swam around it expecting it to contain giant sea monsters, and angry sharks. The water was uncharacteristically murky and they couldn't see across to the other side of the cage. Suddenly a gang of beautiful fish crowded the chicken wire. They were the size of Joe's hand, pearly white with yellow, brick-road colored fins and three small stripes of an indescribable deep purple. They were gracious and flowing and if Joe was carrying a set of side cutters, he would have freed them. The small seemingly helpless fish were chaperoned byequally majestic Angelfish also adorned in striking colors.
That night, tired and sunburned, the group motored the dingy ashore to the Hibiscus restaurant in Bay Haamane, where Joe met the French owner, Leo, a tall gray-haired older man with narrow shoulders and an assortment of tattoos, and dressed in a tank top and shorts. He was a seasoned master of ceremonies to thousands of cruisers over the years. His dining room was hung with a collection of flags from all over the world.
He laid out a massive guest book for people to sign and Joe immediately discussed his search with the tanned gentleman with the deep caring eyes.
Leo took him aside and said, “I have looked all my life for one I lost. I still dream she will appear one night.” Then he took Joe by the arm and walked him back out to the small pier on the bay in the dark.
“Look,” he began, “Some things are just meant to be free.”
Joe looked into a walled pond next to the pier and saw two green turtles swimming back and forth.
“I have one that needs to be set free tomorrow. Can you do this for me? I don't have a boat.”
Joe looked into the man's deep-set eyes. “I'd be honored,” Joe said and the two men, who knew the distinct sense of loss, shook hands.
Leo collected turtles from the native fishermens' nets for years, nursing them back to health and setting them free into the open ocean. He tagged them, and occasionally if one is spotted in Australia or New Zealand, he'll get a call.
They returned to the restaurant where Leo and native girls laid out a buffet spread of Mahi Mahi, lamb, chicken, Taro and raw fish for 100 tanned and smiling sailors. An entire family of entertainers played congas and handmade instruments while Polynesian girls danced seductively.
Thursday morning, tired and sunburnt to the bone, so bad was the blistering pain that he couldn't sleep, because every time he rolled over the sting was too much and would wake him up. Joe strained to his feet. He quickly discovered that the sun is not to be trifled with. Even with a solid coat of sun block, the first day was the worst. He quickly discovered it's best to stay semi-clear of the sun the first day. He should have let his body adjust to its magnificence and gradually accepted its scorching drug. Next time, he would barely taste the sun on the first day and a try more the second. By the third, he'd created a small barrier to the harmful rays and could block-up and face it more directly. This group tried to get some sun the first day and languished in it only an hour, but it was an hour too much for their virgin skin.
Tahaa is another island Paradise containing a number of deep bays surrounded by steep mountains that create a protected region to farm pearls. On dinghies, the group motored back into the Haamane bay to visit a pearl farm. The oysters are originally grown on reefs near the Tupai motu, since the water in the bay is diluted with fresh water, which is not conducive to the growth of the young oyster. After a year, they are brought into the bay and attached to a line in 11 meters of water.
An oyster can be harvested three times. In nature, pearls develop when the oyster picks up an irritating grain of sand, which it covered with successive thin layers of pearl. This process is uncertain and a one in a million proposition. Now a shell in the Mississippi river is used to form the nucleus for each pearl. This white ball is inserted into the oyster's pearl sack, along with a thin sliver of another oyster's muscle, whichcreates the color. If the oyster doesn't reject the nucleus, a pearl results in 18 months. If the oyster does spit out the nucleus, it will form a natural, irregularly shaped pearl from the muscle, much like fresh water pearls. Again, the oyster can be impregnated with another nucleus and leftfor another 12 months. This process can take place one more time before the oyster is retired.
After the fascinating tour of the pearl farm and pearl purchasing, they returned to Leo's restaurant and pier to retrieve the four-year-old green turtle, almost 3 feet in diameter. Joe met Leo's knowing gaze and they shook hands heartily. Leo explained that the turtle needed to be kept upside down and covered in a wet towel for the trip to sea. If the turtle became anxious, Joe was to petthe underside of his chin and it would calm him.
Joe named the turtle after the VPM catamaran Tuamotu and filled out Leo's log giving the information on how Leo could contact him if the turtle was ever spotted. Joe knew that if Leo ever saw his girl, Leo knew how to reach him. Knowing that one man bolstered little comfort in the middle of the Pacific looking for one lost woman, but Joe understood how his troubled heart felt and would do anything is his power tocure the situation.
The two men said goodbye as Joe took the big turtle in his arms and headed to the end of the pier for the short dinghy ride back to the Tuamotu where he sat with the turtle on the fantail while the women huddled around, dripping water on the turtle's neck to keep him cool and wet. A half mile past the reef, the big cat turned and drifted, and Joe stepped onto the swim step with the turtle in tow.
He bent down and unwrapped Tuamotu, the turtle, from the towel. The turtle turned and looked up at the strange man who had comforted it for the last hour, then looked out to sea. Joe nudged Tuamotu and the turtle clamored off the swim step and into the water. Every 25 feet the turtle would reemerge and look back, then dive again. Joe looked on as if he was watching the spirit of his girl escaping human confines forthe open ocean. He wondered if he would ever hear from his love or the turtle again. More and more, he was beginning to think that the chances could have similar odds. He shook off the bleak notion and returned to thesettee where the girls bantered about the turtle and the release to the crew.
Each meal surpassed the previous. All the lunches and dinners were three-and four-course meals. Only breakfast was light; all the rest were wonderful feasts of hearty fish and spice. This day’s lunch began with delightful bok-chow vegetables and white rice. The entree was braised rare ahi-tuna coated with rosemary and spices, and a spicey soy sauce gravy. Breads and an assortment of cheeses with wine followed the entree. But that wasn't the end. A delicious desert of mint sauce with chopped watermelon followed.
From the bay of the pearl farm, they motored to Raiatea and the firstreal town they encountered since Papeete. Raiatea was a small harbor village with lots of construction taking place. The women wandered off in the warm rain to shop along the muddy streets. The harbor was lined with small rusting island-to-island cargo ships. Cars bustled through the town, veterans of many fender benders. They were generally rusting hulks sporting dents and corroding holes from the incessant salty air.
From the shopping visit, they returned to Tahaa to check the VPM base. Again, the base manager explained the cruising scene in Polynesia and pointed out the murderous trip back to Moorea from Huahine. They were in the process of developing a charter where customers could sail from Papeete to Moorea onto to Huahine (18 hours) to Tahaa, Raiatea and to Bora Bora and fly back to Papeete from Bora Bora, which was the group's plan. VPM then returns the boat to Papeete or Moorea.
Friday morning, they pulled anchor and headed to Bora Bora, a four-hour crossing in gentle winds while the crew hoisted the spinnaker and the cat moved through the sea as smooth as oil on a woman's body.
It was Friday, and Joe had heard nothing. He checked in at home–no messages. He felt empty and lost. Every woman he saw reminded him of Margarite in some small way. Every day, he encountered new reason why she was right to leave and he was wrong. Now that it was Friday, he became very aware that his time in this island paradise was running out. He had searched every dock, airport, hotel and yacht he could, to no avail. He was in heaven, yet his heart felt like hell.
Bora Bora, is the most romantic of all the islands, yet it is mostly remote. It contains little habitation, but the motus hold the enchanting Meridian Hotel, the most beautiful of all the hotels they toured and the most costly. The island is formed from one mountain of thick vegetation astride a massive barren rock that juts from the sea like a lonely soul reaching for the heavens. The stone is called Otemanu.
They anchored in a bay near Motu Piti Aau close to the Meridien Bora Bora. After a tour of yet another majestic Polynesian resort, Joe found himself more and more comfortable with these wonderful surroundings and the notion that high-rise buildings and 12 hour-a-day jobs were not his heart's desire.
The group snorkeled in the shallow warm water around a motu where the coral was abundant and watched some of the most beautiful fish in the world meander from one coral cluster to another. The fish seemed unaffected by the humans invading their space, and often they would swim alongside Joe and peer at him before scooting through the water to the next cove.
In the evening, the group took dinghies to the Meridian to watch the Polynesian review and have drinks on the terrace bar. A full moon graced the sky and the night was near perfect. The Meridian has a large number of rooms over the water with 1-inch Plexiglas floors for viewing the clear water and colorful fish below. As Joe and the group headed back to the dinghy dock, he noticed a couple of dinghies pulling away. The dock was tiered, so it took a couple of steps to be alongside his boat. As Joestepped down to assist the other ladies he heard a female voice calling: “Joe, Joe.”
He spun to face the sea as the two dinghies disappeared into the night. He called out, “Margarite,” but never heard a reply. He helped the others onto the inflatable and they returned to the Tuamotu. Could it have been her? He thought it was her voice, but the roar of the small engines drowned out the sound.
When the group arrived at the cat, Joe wanted to take the dinghy out to look for the voice on the water, but the captain warned that there were too many shallow reefs to run aground on, and at night, they're impossible to spot. He would just have to wait until morning.
He slept little, waiting for the dawn, and as the sun replaced the darkness, he scrambled onto deck, only to discover that there were no other boats in the harbor. If she was on a sailboat, it must have made an early morning departure. He drank his coffee is silence until the dive master reminded him that this was the day he was going to learn to scuba.
Ludovic, originally from Albertville, France, was six feet tall with curly hair and a lean swimmer’s body. He was a PADI and European certified dive instructor who, with the assistance of another sailboat captain, took the two passengers to a dense diving region a mile away, where they would experience scuba diving for the first time in the cavern of Manarays.
Joe wasn't in the best mood for a new experience, but this had been a trip of a lifetime and he wasn't going to pass up the chance for another new adventure. Mark, a seasoned charter salesman who knew his way around the islands well, accompanied Joe. Mark was in his fifties and unaccustomed to diving. After the two men got into the warm water, Ludo and his assistant put the equipment into the water and asked if Joe and Mark would use the mouth piece regulator to breathe while floating in a snorkeling position on the top of the water. Joe tried and a myriad of phobias shot through his brain. Breathing seemed strange, and he felt claustrophobic and terrified that something might go wrong. He tried to clear his ears but one wouldn't cooperate. He also had the sensation that with the equipment strapped into place, he might sink immediately to the bottom. Actually, human body is very buoyant in salt water, and varies, depending on one’s body fat content. After strapping the vest to his torso, Joe soon experienced difficulty staying under the water. The vest, the tank, regulator, and gauges enabled the divers to monitor their depth and air supply. The vest acted as a buoyancy device, and could be quickly inflated with a CO2 cartridge in an emergency.
Joe was able to dive to 15 feet, but had some problems with his ears, due to the guns firing off the coast of Vietnam, so he remained at that depth. While concentrating on his ears, he discovered that he quit fighting the breathing concerns. He also discovered that if he breathed out forcibly, the intake seemed relaxed. Soon, he was gliding under the surface effortlessly. He tried to remind himself that millions of people do this annually.
Sunday morning came way too soon, and the group headed across the bay to the Lagoonarium for a brief swim with a family of fish trapped inside a caged area. Joe and his group worked their way into the water and began a 100-yard trek through waters inhabited by sharks, blowfish, stingrays and thousands of smaller fish. It was a fascinating experience to be swimming with a dozen sharks at once.
Eric, one of the captains, fed the fish, and it was interesting to watch the hundreds of small fish surround the bait, grabbing anything they could get before a winged ray glided over the chunk of bait twice the size of a softball. It seemed to consume the meat and gradually drifted to the bottom until a shark cruised by and snap the bait from under the ray.
Sharks are fascinating as they swim from one end of the caged area to the other, gliding along effortlessly. Then without warning, they would snap at a chunk of meat with enormous strength and agility.
In the afternoon, the group took one final snorkeling trip to the coral gardens on the other side of the motu. The area is treacherously shallow for dinghies, but the veteran guides piloted passengers into the region effortlessly. They found a large open area and the group slipped into the water. Joe then glided with the tide along and through the most beautiful snorkeling waters the group had encountered.
They enjoyed one final meal on one of the cats and Jessica, a native girl and delightful crew member, put on her grass skirt and danced for the staff and passengers as a farewell gift. Suddenly the VPM experience was fleeting, as if the sands of the hourglass were slipping faster. They packed and flew back to Papeete in the afternoon.
Joe's anxiety returned as they enjoyed one final dinner together at the Outrigger Hotel. Monday would mean a quick trip to the Market in Papeete, then boarding the Corsair flight back to Chicago's bleak concrete civilization.
Joe made up his mind to retire from the dealership and go find Margarite wherever she was. If it meant a thousand cruises, he would find her and heaven in some island paradise.
