Maupiti

 Since we wanted to reach the intimidating pass into Maupiti under ideal conditions, we left Bora Bora on a completely windless day and motored the whole way — about six hours. At least the entrance was super calm, not a single wave. We dropped anchor in a spot that’s totally exposed to the wind (which, luckily, there wasn’t any of at the time). As promised to myself, I immediately lowered our red kayak into the water and paddled for an hour toward the beach of one of the little islets around us. These islets are called motu — they’re part of the coral ring that encircles the main islands here (or makes up the entire island, in the case of the Tuamotu group). Some parts of the ring are just a reef a few centimeters above water, and other parts rise higher, usually covered with trees — mainly coconuts. Many of the fancy resorts here sit on their own “private island,” which is actually just one of these motu.

The red arrow points at the threatening pass, and the blue circle is where the Mantas are

Speaking of the red kayak: we never planned to have one at all. When we started our voyage in Greece, we came across a kayak just floating in the water — so we picked it up. We thought we’d find a nice kid somewhere along the way to give it to, but meanwhile, it’s crossed half the world with us and turned out to be quite fun to use. When Tomer was with us in the Caribbean, it was basically his private car to go ashore and meet friends.

The next morning, Ayelet and I swam a few hundred meters to a spot marked on the map as a “manta ray cleaning station” — a place where mantas tend to come, usually in the morning, to be cleaned by little reef fish. We swam around in circles for almost an hour, visibility wasn’t great, and we didn’t see anything. We started swimming back, and then Ayelet spotted two of them right below us — huge, with wingspans of two or three meters, gliding so gracefully with slow wingbeats. Amazing! We stayed to watch them for a while, saw a few more in the distance, then returned to the boat. We weighed anchor and moved to a more protected spot in front of the island’s main village — the wind was forecast to pick up to about 15 knots overnight, with some rain on the way.

The following day was still beautiful. Ayelet took advantage of the weather to fix a leak around the windows — an annoying issue that’s followed us ever since we replaced the windows in Greece, in a job done by a drunk and irritating Dutch guy who did a terrible job. So Ayelet sealed around them again with black Sikaflex — it really helps, but the sun eats it away over time, so it needs refreshing every now and then.

While she was working, a dinghy pulled up with a Dutch couple around our age — our anchorage neighbors — who came by to say hi. That’s a lovely and common thing to do among sailors, and we’ve met lots of nice people that way. We invited them aboard for a beer, and ended up having a two-hour “sailors’ chat” — which usually means stories from all over the world, some nerdy technical talk that would bore anyone who’s not a sailor but fascinates us, and plenty of comparing boats (with emphasis on our own boat’s supposed advantages, of course). They’ve been full-time sailors for 14 years and love long passages — they’ve sailed from New Zealand to Alaska and back, among other remote destinations. Their boat is a big 50-foot catamaran, but they pointed out that unlike many cats, theirs is built for long-distance sailing, not just comfort. Lots of potential for interesting stories, and he’s clearly technically skilled — but somehow the vibe wasn’t so pleasant; it felt like they were busy trying to impress, which is not so common among the serious cruisers we usually meet.

After they left, we took our dinghy about three kilometers to a snorkeling spot recommended by Tali and Sinai. Driving the dinghy inside the lagoon can be a bit stressful — there are quite a few bommies (coral heads, for those who forgot) that rise almost to the surface and you can easily hit them, even with the dinghy. So we go slowly, keeping an eye out for suspicious patches in the blue water. It’s best to go when the sun is high, so it lights up the reef and doesn’t blind you. The snorkeling was great: colorful coral, one blacktip reef shark, and a big eagle ray that only Ayelet saw.

Snorkeling, by the way, is one of those relationship challenges for us: Ayelet absolutely loves it and can stay in the water for hours, while I enjoy it but lose interest after an hour max. If she can get to a reef nearby on her own, she goes and stays as long as she likes, while I stay on the boat doing my own things — and after a couple of hours I start worrying and imagining she’s drowned. To ease my anxiety, she ties a red-and-white diver’s buoy to herself — important both so passing boats don’t run her over and so I can spot her from afar and know she’s alive. When we go together on longer dinghy trips, like this time, we compromise: I hold back from leaving too early, and Ayelet holds back her frustration at having her snorkel time cut short. Classic marriage trade-offs.

The next morning brought steady rain — perfect time to bake and restock our supply of Abadi cookies on the boat. By noon the rain stopped and, according to the forecast, wouldn’t return until night, so we set out for a walk around the island — about ten kilometers in total. The tropical vegetation was gorgeous: masses of colorful flowers, huge mango trees heavy with fruit, jackfruit trees, and more. We’ve learned here that even trees that seem to grow outside anyone’s yard actually belong to someone, so you’re not allowed to pick the fruit — frustrating! Once again, I was struck by how spotless everything is — the road, the gardens, the trimmed lawns, flowering bushes, and fruit trees. Just lovely. Unfortunately, the forecast was a bit off and we walked much of the way in a light drizzle.

Along the way we met a young French couple on their honeymoon and ended up chatting with them at a small local stand selling mostly ice cream. I find that I’m much more open and willing to start conversations with strangers than I am back home — it’s really nice, and it leads to so many pleasant and interesting encounters. People almost always respond warmly; you can tell they enjoy it too but usually don’t dare to make the first move. Something to think about…

On Sunday, as we love doing when we’re in Polynesia, we went to church for mass. Most of the time the congregation sings in harmony, accompanied by ukuleles and guitars. The people are dressed in colorful floral clothes; many of the women wear beautiful flower crowns, and some of the men wear fragrant white flower necklaces. I suddenly realized how deeply flowers are woven into their culture, and is a significant value of theirs: their gardens are lush and diverse, they wear flowers on every occasion, and their festive clothes are made of floral fabrics. Beautiful!

A brief “philosophical moment”: I often define a person’s values as the things they spend a lot of time or money on. I like that definition because it reflects what people actually do, not just what they say they value. I was reminded of that while thinking about the role of flowers in Polynesian culture. Anyway…

Back to the church — it’s built right on the shoreline (like all the houses here, since beyond the narrow coastal strip it’s just steep mountains where nothing can be built). Sitting inside during the service, I looked out the windows at the lagoon — all those shades of blue — with a sea breeze flowing in.

After mass, we continued with our planned hike — climbing the island’s only mountain, about 370 meters high, for the view from the top. The trail leads through dense jungle and gets quite steep toward the end. We’d waited for a clear, dry day to do it, because otherwise the path turns muddy and slippery. The climb was tough but the reward huge — a 360-degree panorama of the lagoon in fifty shades of blue.

 As soon as we reached the summit, a heavy shower hit us for about fifteen minutes. We got soaked, but it didn’t really matter since we were already drenched in sweat. The rain, though, made the descent muddy and slick — luckily there were ropes fixed along the steep parts to help us down. We finished exhausted, but it was worth every step.

Rain!

All in all, we spent about ten days here without moving the boat, enjoying the relaxed pace. Not that it was all leisure — there were also the usual boat-work days. As I’ve complained before, some of these “quick little jobs” that should take a few minutes somehow turn into full-day sagas of me fixing what I just broke.

Tomorrow we plan to leave Maupiti and head back to Bora Bora. We hadn’t planned to return, but we just found out there’s a closing ceremony for a traditional three-day inter-island canoe race — sounds like something we shouldn’t miss.