First days

The Society Islands, where we are now, are the main island group of French Polynesia. They include Tahiti, the “capital island,” Bora Bora—famous for its exotic name and luxury resorts—Raiatea, where we’re anchored at the moment, and several other islands. They all share a similar geological pattern: a volcanic island with steep, jungle-covered mountains, surrounded by a coral ring that rises just above sea level. Between the coral ring and the island lies a lagoon, a few hundred meters wide and 30–40 meters deep—like an ancient fortress with a moat around it.

Speaking of geology, another group of islands in French Polynesia is the Tuamotu Archipelago. These islands are much older, and the central volcanic peaks have long since sunk below the sea, while the coral rings kept growing upward. The result is atolls—rings of land only a few meters above sea level, encircling a central lagoon. There are around 80 such atolls, ranging from a few kilometers to several dozen kilometers across, spread over roughly 1,500 kilometers.

Then there are the Marquesas, the youngest islands geologically and the opposite of atolls: about eight tall, volcanic islands with no surrounding coral ring. They form the northeasternmost group of French Polynesia and are often the first landfall for sailors crossing the Pacific from Panama or the Galápagos—us included. They’re wonderfully remote and among our favorite places.

All this geology isn’t just interesting—it really affects how you anchor. In the Society Islands, the coral ring breaks the ocean swell, making the lagoons calm even when strong winds blow outside the reef. That means you can anchor in open water without needing a bay for protection, and boats often lie surprisingly far from shore—a sight quite unlike anywhere else. The downside is that both the island’s shoreline and the coral ring drop quickly into deep water—too deep to anchor (30–40 meters). And even if you find a spot of the right depth, there’s the problem of “bommies,” coral heads rising from the bottom. If your anchor chain wraps around one, you might have a hard time getting it back up.

Which brings us to our story. We’d just been lowered into the water from the boatyard and anchored along the coral ring opposite it—a relief after endless flights on the way here and then days of hard work preparing the boat. But half an hour later, the wind picked up to 20–25 knots (multiply by 1.8 for km/h). Not much to do but worry—was the anchor holding? Maybe it was just snagged on coral instead of buried in sand?. In strong winds you usually let out more chain, but too much and you might drift into the shallows nearby—and the risk of snagging a bommie rises. We let out another 10 meters of chain, but it was hard to relax.

All night the wind howled, the boat swinging around the anchor, and I was sure the chain would snag. In the morning we decided to move to a more sheltered, prettier bay. As expected—the anchor was stuck. For nearly an hour, Ayelet patiently directed me as I maneuvered the boat in different directions. Eventually, I put on fins and a mask, dove down to inspect it, came back up for more maneuvering, then dove again. Finally, the chain came free—but the anchor itself was wedged under a coral slab. Luckily, it wasn’t deep, and with a free dive and a rope, we managed to release it. Two hours of effort!

We motored to the town dock, but it was also exposed to the wind, and tying up there was tricky. I didn’t feel comfortable leaving the boat, so Ayelet went to the supermarket alone. Later, I joined her, and after shopping we treated ourselves to burgers and fries from a food truck—very popular here, maybe even more than restaurants.

Then we sailed an hour and a half to a deep, calm, beautiful bay. The water was muddy from a river outlet, but the good news: no bommies—just mud, perfect holding for the anchor. This time, we could truly relax.

I have to admit, those first few days—with the travel, the anchoring drama, and all—left me a bit discouraged. Maybe I’m getting tired of this lifestyle? Maybe it’s enough? But we stayed in that lovely bay for a week, just us most of the time, slowly settling back into boat life and the peaceful rhythm of nature around us—and the doubts faded.

What do you do during such a week? Some days we simply lazed on the boat. Ayelet made granola; I baked brownies and later Abadi-style biscuits. I even managed to start and finish a book within a few days. Of course, we also read too much news—these were the days of the hostage-release negotiations back home.

A small river flows into the bay, and you can take the dinghy a couple of kilometers upstream through dense, beautiful jungle. 

At the end, there’s a tiny dock and a botanical garden. The sound you hear everywhere in these islands—the buzz of a mechanical weed cutter—is ever-present. It’s used in every garden, orchard, and roadside, giving everything a neatly kept feel. The botanical garden itself is pleasant but not particularly special—after all, everything here grows lushly anyway.

Something not so special..

Across the river lives a local man named André, about whom we’d read on the app “NoForeignLand.” He speaks French, not English, but proudly shows us his orchard full of tropical fruits, many we’d never seen before. He lets us taste everything, insists we take some, and refuses payment—so it’s lucky we’d brought him a six-pack of beer. That app, by the way, is an amazing resource for sailors—anchoring spots, fuel stations, restaurants, hikes, and more, all shared by other cruisers.

After visiting André, we went a bit further upstream for a swim in the cool, pleasant water. We’d done river dinghy trips before—in Panama—but never dared swim there because of crocodiles!

Another day we started a hike from the botanical garden—lush, steep volcanic terrain. And, just so things wouldn’t get too boring, a new boat problem: one morning we suddenly heard the anchor chain running out by itself! We cut the power, then I climbed into the forward locker where the windlass system sits and started taking it apart. ChatGPT tried to help—confidently but, as it turned out, completely wrong. Six hours later, I had fixed the fault (the chain no longer dropped by itself) but the system was still partly broken—you couldn’t lower the anchor electrically anymore. A new part had to be ordered.

That mix of tranquility, beauty, and constant technical challenges—that’s really the essence of our boat life.

We’re careful with fresh water here. Normally, our watermaker lets us use water quite freely, but since we’re anchored in muddy water, we haven’t run it yet—it’s not ideal for desalination. So we’re conserving water and quietly hoping that when we finally restart the system, everything still works.

After a week, it was time to move on. The anchor came up reluctantly, caked with mud after holding fast all week. We sailed back to town for errands and then headed to the neighboring island, Taha’a. On the way, while we were sailing leisurely, we picked up a “hitchhiker”—a local guy paddling a traditional outrigger canoe who tucked into our wake. The flow pulled him along for nearly half an hour. A young, handsome, muscular paddler gliding beside us… let’s just say he caught Ayelet’s eye.

Moments after we picked up a mooring buoy, a dinghy arrived with a couple and a small child. The woman called out excitedly, in Hebrew: “You speak Hebrew, right?”